# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 17

CHAPTER XVII.
"We must make. The heart a grave, and in it bury deep Its young and beautiful feelings." Barry Cornwall.
"I think our young Englishman so much improved," said Madame de Mercœur, the next morning; "And as I take it for granted that you have found out, by this time, that your inconstancy was one of those mistakes which the heart will some times make, I have invited him to Compeigne. Now do allow that there is such a thing as friendship in the world."
"I never denied it," said Francesca, who, however, wished that the friendship had shown its activity in any other shape. She could not deceive herself; neither pique nor flattery could bring back her old feeling for Evelyn. Every hour some sentiment of his, carelessly expressed, jarred upon the inmost chords of her heart. All that she had from infancy revered as high and generous, was ​to him matter of ridicule; he did not even pay virtue the compliment of belief in its existence. Then, his in sincerity perpetually revolted her. The present circle were always flattered—not so much by any set phrase of compliment, but by his desire to please; while the absent, with him, realised the old proverb, "ils avoient toujours tort." Their faults grew suddenly perceptible, and their absurdities an unfailing subject of mimicry. All these, in his hands, became singularly amusing. Francesca, who had little knowledge, and no envy, of the individuals so relentlessly caricatured, could not help being entertained. While their more intimate friends, whose competitors they were, who had a thousand small jealousies to be gratified, and divers little grudges almost unconsciously treasured up, placed no bounds to their encouragement. Still, it was a mirth that left, as sarcasm always does, its doubt and its depression. Human nature avenges itself by suspicion. First, there comes the internal and unerring whisper, As others have been used, so shall we; and, secondly, we are in our hearts a little ashamed of our own enjoyment,—we feel how contemptible it is, thus to revel in and exult over our neighbour's faults, follies, and misfortunes. Our very selfishness rebukes us. And if the many are thus actuated, what must it have ​been with Francesca, whose life had passed in a small and affectionate circle, with all the fresh warm feelings of youth about it? where there might have been angry words to the face, but to the face only. While from their lovely climate, the poets native to their sweet south, the old ruins hallowed with the memories of other days, the lovely paintings, the still diviner statues, which had been their constant companions—the character had imperceptibly caught a tone of romance, calculated long to resist the inroads of worldliness and deceit.
On Marie Mancini the effect had been but slight. There was an innate little selfishness in her, which defied the finer influences. In Madame de Mercœur they were naturalised by a total deficiency of imagination. She was kind, good, and even penetrating, when enlightened by the affections; but head is required for the very highest qualities of the heart, and those were beyond Madame de Mercœur.
In Guido the imagination had taken one peculiar bent, and given one peculiar talent. In Francesca it was more generally diffused; it gave something of poetry—her feeling of beauty was more keen, her reverence for the good more exalted, and her perception of the generous more ​strong, from native sympathy. Evelyn's faults were, therefore, of a kind eminently calculated to disgust one whose mind was so high-toned and so ideal. Still, there were times when she bitterly reproached herself, and thought, "I ought to have seen these faults before, or I ought to be blind to them now;" and by a sort of compromise with her conscience, resolved to make up in fidelity what she wanted in tenderness.
Previous, however, to their following the court to Compeigne, Monsieur de Mercœur having gone to join the army, the Duchesse resolved on passing a week at the Carmelite Convent.
The superstition which once taught us to believe that prayer and penance brought down their blessing on some beloved one, was at least a kindly one. The affections of earth grew at once more tender and more spiritual, thus elevated and purified by an intercourse with heaven. The court was dissipated, worldly, false,—even as human nature has ever been from the beginning, and will be even unto the end; but there, also, human nature asserted its better part, and its deeper feelings and had its higher hopes. Many a young and lovely woman, whose feet knew but the pleasant paths of prosperity, and whose ear was familiar but with the voice of the flatterer, would voluntarily ​offer up a portion of her time, as her holiest sacrifice; and on the straw pallet, and in the serge robe, take a profound lesson of the vanities which made up ordinary existence. To these vanities, it is true, they returned; but surely not without a stronger humility, and some thoughts which even in the world, were God's own.
Madame de Mercœur was at first unwilling that Francesca should share her seclusion; but her young companion was too much in earnest to be refused. Francesca was still depressed by her recent parting with Guido, and clung to Henriette as her only friend,—she would have felt so utterly alone with Marie; besides, she too wished to pray for the absent and the dear.
It was a gloomy evening when they arrived. A small, drizzling rain, chill and damp, seemed to relax the fibres of the body, even as it did their hair, which fell over the face heavy and uncomfortable. The wind howled with a sudden gust, as the gates of the convent swung on their sullen hinges, and sounded almost like a human voice in its agony or in its despair, as it swept through the vaulted corridors.
They were conducted first into the presence of the abbess—a harsh, severe-looking woman, stately and reserved—one who seemed never to ​have known youth or emotion;—a breathing machine, pursuing day after day, a monotonous round of habits rather than duties, and impassive rather than content. They were then conducted to their separate cells, where they were left for the night.
Francesca felt oppressed as she gazed on the bare walls, the wooden pallet, the crucifix at the foot, where the wan light of the ill-supplied lamp gave a strange ghastliness to the dying agony of the Saviour. She turned to the casement on which the moon was shining; for the high wind had driven aside the clouds, whose huge dark masses threatened soon to eclipse the pale and dim circle of passing light. The window opened on a square court-yard, paved, and surrounded by the heavy building, whose high dead walls seemed to repel the gaze.
The imagination of the Italian, accustomed to the picturesque convents of her native land, shrank from the sterile austerity around. "Alas!" thought she, "can the Almighty Benefactor, who delighteth in the work of his hands—who has covered the fair earth with beauty as with a garment,—can he take pleasure in the penance which fills this sullen edifice? Why are we sent into life, but to share in life's sympathies and ​struggles? Methinks it is not well thus to make a fenced boundary of that devotion which should mingle with and aid every action of existence."
Again the wind drove the dark vapours across the moon; a heavy rain began to pour down; and casting one more glance round the gloomy quadrangle, she felt it a relief to gaze on a medal of the Madonna, which hung round her neck. It recalled all the vivid hopes and beliefs of her childhood, when she was wont to kneel before some lovely image, till the face seemed to smile encouragement, and the little supplicant felt as if beneath a mother's eye. This period had long since passed; the discursive reading, the enlightened discourse of her grandfather, had cast her mind in a different mould to the usual superstition of her country; but faith and love were only more pure and perfect in a soul too innocent not to be religious.
At the morrow's early matins, Francesca's attention was particularly drawn towards one nun. Sister Louise was still in the early period of youth, but it was youth from which bloom had utterly departed. The features were thin, even to emaciation, and cheek and lip were alike colourless; while this deadly paleness rendered still more remarkable the large lustrous black eyes, filled with all the light of excited fervour. But when the ​enthusiasm of devotion died away, as it were, with the dying notes of the anthem, the whole face wore the impress of fixed melancholy, to which there could be no hope but beyond the grave.
"That is Mademoiselle d'Epernon," replied Madame de Mercœur, in answer to her friend's inquiry: "I can scarcely recognise her. When I first arrived in Paris, she was among the most celebrated of our youthful beauties—one whose destiny promised to be brilliant as herself. The crown of Poland was offered for her acceptance; when she announced her intention of retiring from the world. Prayer and remonstrance were alike in vain; and she took the veil before she was nineteen."
The attraction between Louise (for so she was always called) and Francesca was mutual, and they soon became constant companions during the few leisure moments that the constant succession of religious offices permitted. Worked up to a high pitch of devotional enthusiasm, Louise was energetic in the performance of penance, and fervid in psalm and prayer; but from all other duties she shrunk with disgust, and never voluntarily participated in the ordinary employments of her associates. A convent to her had evidently been the refuge of the bruised spirit and of the ​broken heart. At first, Rome was the great theme of their discourse. Rome, the mighty mother of the Christian faith, whose amphitheatres had been red with the blood of the saints, and where the pilgrimage and the miracle still testified to the truth. But it was not likely that conversation between two very young persons should always keep to this exalted strain; the feelings are sure to follow close upon imaginings, and confidence is natural to youth.
Francesca had been so long accustomed to have every thought spring from the heart to the lip, that the restraint so familiar to those with whom she had of late associated, oppressed and chilled her. Reserve and distrust seemed equally painful and unnatural; it was too soon for the pride of art, which supports so many through winding and rugged pathways.
Louise, bred up amid strict forms and courtly observances, perhaps found the far greater relief. To talk of herself and of her feelings, with the entire conviction of affectionate attention in the listener, was a new sensation. Besides, there was now such a wide and such an irretrievable gulf opened between her present and the past, that she referred to the days of her youth with a delight like that of age, which recalls mournfully and ​tenderly joys and sorrows which never more can disturb a pilgrimage, which is even now passing through the valley of the shadows of death. The monastic seclusion of Sister Louise was like old age, inasmuch as all events and emotions in life were left far behind; all emotions, did we say?—not so. There are some that will rise even at the foot of the altar, and will haunt the pillow, however guarded by penance and by prayer. These remembrances would have been less vivid had Mademoiselle d'Epernon remained in the world: love would have become its own atheist, as it found of what changeable and finite material that passion was formed, which once seemed so eternal; and the single disappointment on which she now dwelt would have grown supportable from companionship. Mademoiselle d'Epernon, in the gay and varied pathway of busier life, would have almost lost the image now so constant and so precious.
At the back of the convent was a large though neglected garden. Fruit and yew-trees mingled together; and in some of the more sunny patches, one or two of the nuns had cultivated some, carnations, whose green buds were just beginning to take the small globular form, which, as yet, had no beauty but that of promise.
​ "I observe," said Francesca to her companion, "that you have no flowers."
"I have not patience to cultivate them," replied Louise. "I planted some once; but, poor things, they soon perished for want of care. I used to love them; but now my thoughts wander away from the flowers to their recollections—to all that should be so utterly banished from my meditations."
Perhaps there is not a situation in the world so confidential as pacing up and down some shady walk, arm in arm. The freedom of that freest element, the air, communicates itself to the thoughts; the green obscurity of the closing branches overhead re-assures timidity; the motion gives its own activity, and dissipates the nervous restlessness ever attendant on excitement. Your face is necessarily a little averted from your companion's, though not enough to prevent your marking the attention given. Then the chance which led to your choice of subject was so accidental, the discourse has proceeded so gradually, that restraint has melted away from the lip, and reserve from the heart, almost before the speaker is aware that the secret soul has found its way in words.
"I can scarcely," said the nun, as she complied with Francesca's request that she would ​trace the progress of the change—seemingly so strange and sudden—which sent the youthful beauty from the court to the cloister, "recall one sorrow or one disappointment in my earlier life. I had good health, a gay temper, and was surrounded by indulgence and affection,—from my father, of whom I was the darling plaything, to my nurse, whose principal object in existence was myself.
"The court was at its very gayest, when, on our return from England, my age allowed me to participate in the festivities which were the order of the day. The sombre austerity of the late King had disappeared with himself—the dissensions, whose echoes have pierced even these walls, had not then commenced. There was some truth in the flattery which said, that the queen ruled all France with a smile. But the pleasantest time of our fife leaves the lightest impression; or, perhaps, one deep feeling has absorbed all memory, as it has destroyed all hope. I am astonished to think how little I remember of all the light fancies and vanities which made the delight of my first two years at court.
"Perhaps you have heard that there was once some purpose of marriage between the Duc de Joyeuse and myself; it is of that which I have to tell. Even in your brief experience of society, you must have discovered that its success has its ​chances. There are some evenings when you succeed, you scarcely know why, and the homage of one only seems to attract that of another. It was on such an evening that I first met the Duc de Joyeuse. I danced with him, and he scarcely spoke to me;—perhaps the contrast had its effect, for that night my silent cavalier was the only one who obtained a second thought. I felt a vague desire to see him again; I wondered whether he was always so reserved; I endeavoured to recall the few words which he had said; and rose the next morning eager and impatient, expecting I knew not what. How long the morning seemed! I scarcely heard a word that was said to me; I could keep my attention to nothing. I went to a ball in the evening. My eyes fixed involuntarily on the door; every one seemed to enter excepting the one whom I could not help anticipating in every new arrival. I danced without spirit; I found the evening wearisome; I complained of fatigue; and I retired to rest with a discontent and a despondency entirely new to my experience.
"Mademoiselle de Montpensier was at that time my most intimate friend; and the next morning she entered my chamber before I was risen, a slight headache serving as an excuse. 'As usual,' said she, laughing, 'I am come to tell you ​of your conquests. I was at Madame de Guise's yesterday evening, and her youngest son could talk of nothing but Mademoiselle d'Epernon.' 'Why he scarcely spoke to me!' 'Speaking of you,' replied my companion, 'is far more expressive: but you are actually blushing about it,—I do verily believe it is a mutual impression.'
"My mother entered my room at that moment; but Mademoiselle went on rallying, and it seemed to me that the subject was not disagreeable even to her. Alas, how that thought encouraged my own weakness! The truth was, that an alliance between the houses of Guise and Epernon was at that time deemed equally suitable by both. How little can the very young comprehend the affections being made matter of policy! I discovered that my headache was gone with a surprising degree of rapidity; I arose with such gay spirits, I found the liveliest pleasure in all my usual occupations. True, I did not continue long at any of them, and every now and then lost myself in such a delicious reverie of the coming evening.
"It was not quite so delightful as I expected; for shame and confusion for the first hour of the Duc de Joyeuse's presence made me scarce conscious of what I said, or how I looked; and during the last I could think of nothing but how silly I ​must appear to him. Still, with what a happy flutter of the heart I flung myself into my fauteuil that night, to think over the events of the evening!
"Time passed on, and François became my avowed lover. About two months after our first meeting, I was taken ill, and of the small-pox. The holy saints forgive me for the horror with which I heard my disease pronounced! I prayed in my most inward soul that I might die rather than become unlovely in his sight: I have been justly punished. With what a strange mixture of joy and dread did I hear his voice, almost hourly, in the antechamber, making the most anxious inquiries! Others shunned the poisoned atmosphere, but François feared it not. What prayers I implored them to make in my name that he would refrain from such visits!
"One day he came not: I was told, and truly, that business the most imperative required his personal attendance; yet I could not force the ghastly terror of his illness from my mind. I dared not tempt my fate by content—the agony which I suffered seemed a sort of expiation. The next day I heard his voice, and fainted. Francesca, it is an awful thing thus to allow your destiny to be bound up in that of another—to live ​but by the beatings of another's heart,—thus, as it were, to double your portion in every risk and weakness of humanity.
"I cannot describe to you the mixture of anxiety and shame with which I desired to know how I looked. One morning, while alone with my mother, I asked her to bring me a little mirror that was wont to lie on the table; she smiled, and said, 'Not yet, Louise.' I never felt one moment's care after that—I knew that she could not have smiled, had she anticipated any very terrible alteration. At length I was able to rise—to move from one chamber to another, and at last to see François. Do you wonder I cannot bear flowers, when I tell you that he used to bring them to me every day? I was too happy: earth, in its perfect enjoyment, had no thought for heaven. Life is but a trial; and wherefore was I to receive my reward before the time? But, ah! my friend, a woman may well be forgiven for the passionate sorrow with which she sees the empire of the heart pass away from her. Is it a light thing to discover that you are poor, where you deemed that the most precious riches were garnered?—to find what had seemed to you like fate, treated as a trifle and a toy?—to think that affection, which gathered pride from its imperishable nature, is yet ​dependent on such slight circumstances?—the discovery, too, how much you have overrated your own power? humiliation and regret exchange but to heighten their bitterness.
"Soon after my recovery, Mademoiselle de Guise appeared to seek my friendship more than she had before done. How willingly I met her advances!—I loved François too well not to love those connected with him. Yet her friendship disturbed our intercourse; she was constantly interrupting our conversations, and I found myself perpetually engaged in a whispering dialogue, from which François was completely excluded. She possessed a peculiar talent for placing everybody in their worst possible light; I felt that I never appeared to advantage in her presence. She drew from you some playful opinion, and then, suddenly repeating your words seriously, would, by some imperceptible change, contrive to make your expression appear the unconscious betrayal of some strangely unamiable feeling. Mademoiselle de Montpensier warned me against her treachery. 'She hates you,' said my friend; 'you give in to her snares, and will be surprised when you find they have succeeded.' I little heeded this warning—it is so difficult for the young to believe themselves hated without a cause!
​ "A few weeks after my illness we went to Sedan. A thousand slight anxieties and difficulties, contrived by Mademoiselle de Guise, had kept me in a perpetual fever; my health was sinking under them—and change of air and scene always seem such infallible remedies where the pale cheek is considered, and not the harassed spirits. Indeed, the persecution under which I suffered was one not easily to be told in words; I had not then thought over it as I have done since. The journey, therefore, was principally undertaken on my account; but, once at Sedan, and some affairs of my father's detained us beyond the time that had been expected.
"Long as our absence appeared, it ended in our return to Paris. One—two—three days elapsed, and François never came; yet he knew of our arrival, and was only separated from us by a street. The fourth day brought Mademoiselle de Montpensier. She laughed, and, recalling her warning, asked me, 'Who was right?' and informed me that the Duc de Joyeuse was now the devoted attendant of Mademoiselle Guerchy; and she ended in being quite angry with me for not seeming so utterly overwhelmed as she expected. There were two causes for this; first, and that indeed was chief, in my secret soul I ​disbelieved what she asserted; and, secondly, I felt so angry with her want of sympathy.
"But her assertion soon proved its truth. That very evening I met both the Duc de Joyeuse and Mademoiselle Guerchy;—a slight embarrassment on his part, a little air of triumphant impertinence on hers, and an affected but insolent commiseration from Mademoiselle de Guise, told the whole. Francesca, I have heard my father say, that the shock of a gun-wound at first deadens the pain, and the suffering is lost in the shock. Mine was such a case; it was confusion, not pride, which supported me through the evening. When we were in the carriage, my mother put her arm round me, and said, 'I am charmed with your conduct, my child; you treated cet jeune insolent with fitting disdain." A sudden resolution grew up in my heart, and I thought within myself, 'My mother shall not be made wretched by my misery;' and, with a strong effort, I restrained the impulse which prompted me to throw myself on her neck and weep.
"It is singular how little I recollect of the succeeding period. My existence was a blank—I neither thought nor felt; a strange impatience actuated all my actions. I longed for change—for movement; I dreaded being left a moment. I ​craved for pleasures which, nevertheless, I did not enjoy. I grew bitter in my words—I believed the worst of everyone; nay, I sometimes doubted the affection of my kind, my indulgent parents. But let me hastily pass over this vain and profitless epoch,—the fierce tempest, and the weary calm, were but the appointed means by which I reached the harbour of faith and rest.
"During our stay at Bourdeaux, I accompanied my mother to a little convent, whither had retired an early friend, one who had been much trouble, and known many sorrows. I was aware of her history, and was singularly struck with her calm and gentle manner. I left the cell; and my chance wandering through the garden led me to the burial-ground. I sat down on one of the graves, at first from very idleness; but the still solemnity of the place gradually impressed my thoughts—the presence of the dead made itself felt. I looked over the numerous tombstones, so various in their dates:—the maiden reposed by the full of years;—all bore the same inscription—'Requiescat in pace.' I had before seen the words—I had never before reflected on them. What was this peace?—I felt that it was the peace of hope, as well as of rest. It was not only that the turmoil of this feverish life was at an end, but that ​such end was only the beginning. I saw the sunshine falling over the tombs—to me it seemed like the blessing of Heaven made visible. It so happened that the place where I sat was the only one in shadow: to my excited feelings the darkness was emblematic. I stepped forth into the glorious sunshine, and prayed that even as that light illumined my mortal frame, so might the Divine grace illumine my soul! From that instant I vowed myself unto God. I know, Francesca, that you consider this but as the ill-regulated enthusiasm of a moment—and such I now confess that it was.
"But out of evil worketh good. That enthusiasm led to reflection—that reflection to conviction. I became deeply penetrated with the vanity and the worthlessness of my former life. I looked at its petty cares—its bitter sorrows, and said, ‘Oh, that I had the wings of the dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest;' and then I learned that faith had wings even like the dove's, and that its rest was in heaven. One trial yet remained; but I trusted, in all humility, that the difficulty would make the sacrifice more acceptable. Yet, from day to day, I delayed telling my mother, that in me she saw the dedicated servant of God. Every time I sought her presence I ​resolved on the disclosure, but in vain; the words died on my lips, and again I had to pray for strength from above.
"One morning I was summoned at an earlier hour than usual to her chamber. She received me with an expression of rejoicing affection, which showed me she had something more than usually pleasant to unfold. I had scarcely taken my accustomed low seat at her side, when, opening a casket which stood on the table near her, she took out a diamond tiara, and, placing it in my hair, pointed to the glass. 'Ah, my child!' she exclaimed, 'you well become your future crown!' and, without waiting for my reply, she informed me that my father's negotiations for my marriage had been completely successful, and that the King of Poland had demanded my hand.
"The time for concealment was over. Supported by a strength not my own, I threw myself at her feet, and avowed my unalterable resolve. That dear mother has since died in my arms, blessing her child, and rejoicing that I had chosen the better path; and yet, even now, I shrink from recalling the suffering of that scene. The cloister then seemed to my beloved parent even as the grave; and, ah! my father's anger was terrible to bear, for it was an anger that grew out of love.
​ "But if their reproaches cut me to the heart, how much more did I suffer from their entreaties? Yet I persevered even to the end, and was permitted to begin my year of noviciate in the hope that my resolution would falter when put to the trial. They knew not in what entire sincerity it had been taken. I remember a letter of remonstrance I received from Mademoiselle de Montpensier, and among other arguments, was this; 'I implore you to marry the King of Poland, if it were only to mortify Mademoiselle de Guise.' She was little aware that forgiveness of even her enmity had been the earliest offering of my heart above.
"I have never repented my choice; every hour I have felt my belief more perfect, and my hope more exalted. Had I remained in the world, experience could but have brought me added discontent, and more utter weariness. I had been too profoundly disabused of life's dearest illusions ever again to allow of their sweet engrossment. Only those who have looked hopelessly upon life, and turned again to the restless and gloomy depths of their own heart with a despair which is as the shadow of the valley of death,—only they can know the peace that is of heaven, and the faith that looks beyond the portals of the grave.
"Once only since my abode in this convent ​has my heart gone back to the things of its former life; but tenderly—not repiningly. Mademoiselle de Montpensier passed here a week in Lent, and her first intelligence was, that the Duc de Joyeuse had died of the wounds he had received while leading on a charge of cavalry during a sortie from Paris. He died, too, unmarried. Heaven forgive the weakness which found in that thought sweetest consolation! I was free to remember him—to pray for him—to know that to none other could his memory be precious as it was to me. Perhaps even now, looking down from another world, better and happier than the one where we go on our way in heaviness, he knows with what truth and constancy I loved him. I now dare hope to meet him again; for, Francesca, what may we not hope from the goodness of God?"
The nun's voice sank into silence, and her companion saw that her pale cheek was warm with emotion, and her large lustrous eyes bright with tears. A kind pressure of the hand expressed her sympathy, and they parted,—Louise to join a service about to be performed, requiring the attendance of the sisters only, and Francesca to her solitary cell, to muse over the votary's confession. But she looked back to the world; her yet unbroken spirit asked activity, not repose ​—a thousand hopes and wishes rose in vivid colours upon her imagination. She knew as little what she asked as what she anticipated; still the future was before her, and all know what the future is to youth. Nothing more truly proves that life is but a trial—than the pleasures which depart, the sense of enjoyment which deadens, and the disappointments which spring up at every step in our pilgrimage. Could life preserve its illusions, who would be fit to die? Vanity of vanities is written on this side of the grave, but that we may more clearly discern that on the other shines the hope of immortality.