# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV.
"It is a dreadful question, when we love, To ask, is love returned?" The Hunchback.
It had been arranged that Francesca was to join Guido at Bournonville's, where he still resided, previous to the visit of the Cardinal and Madame de Mercœur. On her arrival, she was surprised to hear that he had not yet arisen; but on entering his room, she saw at once that he had not been in bed. The apartment looked into the garden, and a large old tree almost darkened the window with the heavy foliage of one huge bough; the casement was open, and there Guido was leaning, his face bowed upon his arm, and so engrossed in his own thoughts, that he did not hear Francesca enter. Softly closing the door, she approached him with a light step, which, however, failed to rouse his attention.
"Dearest Guido," exclaimed she; but his face ​still remained hidden. With gentle force she passed her arm round his neck: "My own brother, are you ill?—you frighten me!"
Half unconsciously, he raised his head; and his cousin was startled to observe his extreme paleness, and the unnatural brightness of his eyes. She was herself shivering with the chill of the open lattice; but his hand, as she took it, was burning. Making a strong effort to appear unconcerned, Guido muttered something about the over-fatigue of the previous day.
"Now shame, dearest Guido! what can be the cause of untruth to me? when have we kept a thought from each other?"
Still he remained silent and confused; when Francesca, placing herself beside him on the window-seat, said, in tones of the most tender affection, "Guido, we are here alone, in a strange place,—orphans, with scarce a friend save each other; where may we place confidence but in ourselves? If we bar our love from our own hearts, where shall we ever find it again? Speak to me—to your own Francesca. What sorrow can you have that will not be a sorrow to me also?"
Hesitatingly and reluctant at first, but warmed into passionate expression as he proceeded, Guido at length detailed his interview with Mademoiselle ​Mancini, interrupted but by Francesca's soothing ejaculations of pity and of anger; for at first she felt too much to say half the rational things she had intended.
"But, dearest Guido," at length she ventured to whisper, "you seem to me to be scarcely aware of the great change which has taken place in the situation of our friends. Adopted children of him who is almost a king in this great country, to what honours may they not aspire?—while we—"
"Ah, Francesca!" he exclaimed, "do you think I do not see my folly—my weak, miserable, extravagant folly, in believing that the deep devotion of one loving heart could reckon for aught in this great chaos? You think that only one dream has vanished—you know not how many sprang out of that one. Marie has ever been the aim of all my hope, the reward of all my ambition. I imagined myself capable of so much, and for her sake! I awaken from the delusion, and ask, Where is there any thing like truth in all the visions which have been to me the prophecies of future life? Deceived in one, shows me how deceived I am in all. Poor, friendless, solitary,—what have I to live for?"
"Friendless and solitary!" replied Francesca, reproachfully; "At this moment, my brother, I ​could lay down my life to spare the pain you are suffering."
"My own sweetest sister!" exclaimed he, drawing her tenderly towards him.
"Marie was never worthy of you. Vain, she sought but for flattery, where you gave affection; selfish, she thought only of her own passing amusement, heedless of the pain which she inflicted on you. In her childish pleasures, herself was ever the first object; and now, ambitious and calculating, she grasps at more glittering toys, to gratify the same vanity in a higher form, and with interest instead of amusement for her object. She is incapable of caring for any one but herself."
"Francesca, you are too severe. She did love me once; but absence, and, as you must own yourself, the temptations by which she is surrounded—"
Francesca was about to contradict him—the next moment she checked the impulse; if it was any consolation, why not let him think that he was once beloved? "It seems to me, dear Guido, that youth has passed away from us both,"—this was the philosophy of eighteen—"for, young as we are, how different every thing appears to what it did! But a few months since, how we looked forward to our arrival in Paris! Now it would be ​our greatest happiness to leave it. But, alas! could we bear returning to our former home with such altered hearts?"
"Yet, why should you feel thus?—you have seen Evelyn, and he is unchanged."
"In words, but not in himself. Holy saints! to think that I should feel his absence a relief, and look forward to his return with dread!"
"I must leave France," said Guido, abruptly; his own feelings yet too fresh to admit of sympathy with those of his cousin's, which, in his heart, he thought somewhat fanciful; "what do I want with the Cardinal's patronage?—the world is before me, and Mademoiselle Mancini shall not see one suing for her favour who once hoped for her love."
"Madame Mercœur," replied Francesca, "was telling me last night, that, aware of her uncle needing some one in whom he could place confidence, as the bearer of letters to the Duchesse of Modena, she had mentioned you, and that his Eminence was pleased to decide upon employing you."
"And so," returned Guido, colouring with mortification, "it was soon decided that I was to be sent out of the way?"
"If there was any intention in Madame de ​Mercœur's plan, it was with the view of sparing, not hurting, your feelings," said Francesca, soothingly.
"Henriette,—Madame de Mercœur," continued he, correcting himself, "was always good and kind."
"And so she is still; the same Henriette who never came without some choice leaf or flower for my poor grandfather. I remain with her till your return, and it will then be time enough to decide on our future plans. But the Cardinal will soon be here; so I shall go, and lend an attentive ear to Mons. Bournonville's raptures about le superbe jeune roi, &c., while you attend to your toilette. Look here!" said she, passing her fingers through the tangled masses of his long dark hair, and parting it on his forehead:—she turned deadly pale—for there was blood upon her hands!
"It is nothing," exclaimed Guido, with a faint smile.
Francesca kissed him in silence, and left the room; but it was some time before she had resolution to join Bournonville.
"Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle," exclaimed the fluttered artist; "his Eminence the Cardinal—and he may be here in five minutes! For the love of all the saints, help me to place his portrait on the ​easel—there, there,"—giving it a touch or two—"I am working at—"
"But," said Francesca, "it is the picture of the King which he comes to see."
"Good, good; I can reach that down when he comes. Madelon, burn some sandal-wood on the stairs; and, Madelon, when I look at the picture of Tragedy, with the dagger and cup, go you, without my telling, into the cellar—here is the key—and bring up a bottle of Burgundy: if his Excellency is in a good humour, I may venture to offer it him; and, Madelon, your best confitures for Madame de Mercœur. Ah, Mademoiselle, you are too good," for Francesca had knelt down to assist in unfastening the cords of a package, which Correggio, in his haste, was rather tightening than loosening. A small but exquisite Madonna was produced,—"Leave the cords about that; his Eminence may observe it is only opened in honour of his arrival."
As Guido entered, a carriage was heard slowly rolling into the court-yard. Bournonville flew down to receive his expected visitors, and almost involuntarily, the cousins drew closer together. Guido grew paler—he only recollected that the Cardinal was the uncle of Marie; while Francesca ​trembled and coloured with anxiety, that he should make a favourable impression.
The door flew open, and Bournonville first appeared, walking backwards, swinging to and fro the cassolette containing the perfumed wood, and followed by the Cardinal, leaning on his niece's arm.
Madame de Mercœur advanced, and, extending both hands to Guido, addressed him with the utmost kindness. "I shall soon," said she, smiling, "be ashamed to confess what very old friends we are;" then, leading the strangers to the Cardinal, presented them to him, adding, "their name will be familiar to you, for the fresco in your oratory once belonged to the Carraras."
Each dropped on a knee before him, while Mazarin looked at them for a moment in silence, evidently struck by their great and peculiar beauty. "You might know them for Romans," he observed, "all the world over; but rise, my children, and the blessing of the saints be upon you!" His eye now rested, as the painter intended it should, on his own likeness: "Holy Madonna! but, Monsieur Bournonville, I owe you some gratitude; pray how many years have you taken off?"
Before Bournonville could give utterance to the flattering assurances that rose in their tens ​of thousands in his mind, the Cardinal's attention was fixed on the Madonna,—seemingly carelessly, but, in reality, most skilfully displayed.
"Raphael! by all that is beautiful!" exclaimed Mazarin, examining the picture with much attention. "How long has it been in your possession?"
"Just arrived—a little speculation of mine, and only hastily opened, from a desire to have its merit appreciated by so admirable a judgment as that of your Excellency."
"What do you think of it?" asked the Cardinal, turning to Guido, who gave a warm and, gradually, an enthusiastic opinion of its beauties.
The conversation now turned entirely on works of art, and the Cardinal evidently took much interest in the fervour with which Guido dwelt on the subject. The love of art, which was with Mazarin a passion, seems to have been the only sign in him of that poetry which is part of the Italian character; but there is no mind, however worldly, without some ideal enjoyment; and his was in his superb collection of paintings. He pointed out the "glorious spoil which hung his storied walls" to a friend on his death-bed, and said, "Is it not hard to leave all these behind?" The enthusiasm and freshness of Guido, too, ​attracted him. There is an inexpressible charm to politic and care-worn age in the hopes which can never more be its own, and the illusions which can never again lend a grace to the beaten path of existence. It is memory that makes the old indulgent to the young. The Cardinal, moreover, deemed Guido's admiration and love the more reasonable, as they were lavished on his own favourite object.
Bournonville was able to look at Tragedy—her cup and dagger—with perfect complacency; the Burgundy was tasted; and, at length, Mazarin departed, leaving them all convinced that he was a very great man, who deservedly filled the high station of France's prime minister. Yet, notwithstanding his present condescension, Mazarin was not popular, neither had he popular manners—they were not what he affected; and he was right. It is the man who is feared—not the man who is loved—that succeeds in the world. Refuse a favour, and all your gracious smiles, your kind words, aye, and even your really kind feelings, are utterly forgotten. But be necessary; let men have aught to hope from you; forward in any way their interests—and it matters not how you do it; be harsh, abrupt, insolent, and it will only be "your way." People would, to be sure, ​rather obtain their object by trampling upon you; but sooner than not obtain it, they will let you trample upon them. Civility is not only troublesome, but it is waste. To vary the old simile, people in general are like sweet herbs—they require crushing, not for their sakes, but for your own.