# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 18

CHAPTER XVIII.
"A new world rises, and new manners reign." Young.
The first week after their arrival at Compeigne, the Duchesse was confined to her room by slight indisposition; and Francesca never left her. It was a constant gratification to perceive, that, but for herself, the Duchesse's sick-room would have been dull and solitary; for Marie was so much occupied with the gaiety of the court, that she had little leisure for the amusement of an invalid.
One morning, the first that Madame de Mercœur had been equal to the task of receiving visitors, the Chevalier de Joinville and Mr. Evelyn arrived together.
"Ah, Madame!" exclaimed the former, "what a pity you were not present to witness Mademoiselle Mancini's triumph last night!—the mere necessity for yielding in such a case was victory."
​ "Let me hear what the triumph was," said their hostess.
"You are aware that the entertainment last night was given in honour of the Queen of England. Few were admitted, as it was quite the household circle, and all ceremony was to be waived. So thought our young King; for when he led his partner to the dance, that partner was not the Princess Henriette, but Mademoiselle Mancini. The Queen rose, snatched away the King's hand, and led him to the pretty little fairy, whose eyes were already filled with tears—the fear of not dancing being before them. Louis turned away, saying, 'He would rather not dance at all than dance with a child.' His mother insisted—the English Queen interfered—Mademoiselle Marie was the very image of triumphant submission—and we all stood round, looking as innocent and indifferent as possible. The King gave way at last, and danced with la petite; but looks and words were alike addressed to your sister. Ay, and our white-handed Queen sees she must conciliate; for, at the close of the evening, she expressed her regret that she had been so hasty, and caressed Mademoiselle Mancini, as if there was something to be made up with her."
​ "Once for all," interrupted Madame de Mercœur, "I wish you would not talk such nonsense; their Majesties are too good; and it was as much my sister's duty to obey the King by standing up to dance, as it was to resign her place, when she understood that such was the Queen's wish."
The Chevalier saw at once that the subject was unpleasing, and immediately changed it.
"You know, I suppose, that our northern Penthesilea arrives to-morrow; she has amazed the good people of Paris, and we are all preparing to be astonished."
"I hope," said Evelyn, "that we shall not exhaust our astonishment en avant—that very common process of anticipation."
"According to my belief," replied the Chevalier, "there is nothing worth anticipating."
"Nothing worth realising, you mean!" exclaimed Francesca.
"Nay," returned the Chevalier; "I do not come from as poetical a country as your fair Italy—to me reality is every thing. Let my pleasure come, and I will enjoy it; but I really cannot afford to waste my time beforehand in a thousand visionary anxieties. No; I hold hope to be a great mistake—life is too short for it."
​ "It is too true that nothing realises your previous idea—and then how bitter is your disappointment!" replied Francesca.
"You seem to have acquired much experience in a brief space; it is somewhat soon to be convinced of the worthlessness of pleasure," answered De Joinville, with an almost imperceptible sneer. Slight as the expression was, it had its effect on the young Italian, who instantly resumed her usual silence.
We talk of youth as our happiest season, because, perhaps, we do not begin to moralise upon it till it has been long past. The present sorrow always exceeds its predecessors—not so the present joy; comparison exaggerates the one, while it diminishes the other; and people talk of their youth as if it had not been a period of feverish sensitiveness, awkward embarrassments, many heart-burnings, and an utter want of that self-reliance which alone can ensure content. It is folly to dwell on any season's peculiar happiness; each might in turn be weighed in the balance, and found wanting.
The week following Madame de Mercœur's recovery was one of great gaiety. Fête succeeded fête in honour of the arrival of Christina of Sweden, who seemed to communicate her own ​reckless love of novelty to the then somewhat staid French court. Claim your privileges as an oddity, and even you yourself will be astonished at their extent. In an atmosphere of ceremony, Christina was free as air; surrounded by forms, she observed none of them; and, equally lax in her moral and religious notions, she yet succeeded with a queen now prude and devotee—and both, it may be, the more strongly pronounced, from their being late assumptions. Anne of Austria was amused, so was Louis; and l'Amazone philosophe had a prodigious run.
There never was mask so gay but some tears were shed behind it; and Francesca, one perhaps among many, found it possible to be very sad, even at a festival. Despite of Madame de Mercœur's kindness, her situation was often painful, and always disagreeable. She could not but contrast her lot with that of others; of course she could only judge of the exterior, which at least seemed so much more brilliant than her own. They had friends, connexions whose credit was mutual, fortune, and a defined place in society; she was an orphan, poor and dependent. Many who hated and yet cringed to the Mancinis took a sort of petty revenge in slights shewn to a favourite without influence; she pined under a ​constant sense of isolation, ever most painful when felt in a crowd. She was a spectator, not a partaker, of the gaiety around; for in truth, gaiety must make some small appeal to our vanity before it is enjoyed. The dance, to be delightful, must have an interest in the partner, or the éclat of display; and both these attractions were wanting to Francesca. In the numbers that surrounded her, there was not one individual for whom she cared, few who even honoured her with passing notice; and she daily heard the beauty and grace extolled to the skies which could not for a moment bear comparison with her own.
One would think that, in society, beauty, instead of lying on the surface, was in the mine, and required discovery; the majority would never discover the loveliness of the Venus de Medici, unless it were pointed out to them. Francesca's feelings were those of all whom a chance circumstance has placed in some brilliant circle without the acknowledged rank or fortune necessary to make their right of entrance; and yet with an innate consciousness of superiority, which makes neglect more bitter, by adding to it a sense of injustice.
There were many who would have felt nothing of all this—who would have made their way by ​little and little—who would either have been useful or agreeable, as might have suited the occasion, till they reached an elevation astonishing even to themselves, when the sneer might be remembered and the scorn retorted, as no advantage was longer to be obtained by endurance. Thus, as usual, ending the career of flattery by insolence.
Francesca was at once too simple and too high-minded, simple as regarded worldly knowledge, but high-minded, as feeling and talent ever are. With her time passed on, divided between disgust and indifference; or an increasing anxiety respecting her connexion with Evelyn. He still urged a secret marriage, but now she no longer found it difficult to refuse. Fidelity to her early vow yet appeared a duty; however, like most proofs of faith, it was to be put off as long as possible.