# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 33

CHAPTER VI.
"The hour of sacrifice Is near. Anon the immolating priest Will summon me."—The Hunchback.
The usual circle were assembled the following morning at Madame de Mercœur's apartment, when the Duc himself entered.
"What have you been hearing, seeing, or saying?" asked Madame; "for you look as if you had something extraordinary to tell us!"
"I have, indeed!" was his answer; "but even more shocking than surprising. The Queen of Sweden has had her chamberlain murdered—executed, as she calls it—at Fontainebleau!"
His intelligence was received with a universal exclamation of horror!
"How very dreadful!" cried Madame; "and to think that such an act should have been committed by any body that we all know!"
"Why, to be sure, our knowing her is a great ​aggravation of the offence," said her husband, half smiling at what was, nevertheless, a very natural conclusion.
We daily hear of crimes of all kinds—we are perfectly aware of their existence; but we never think of their being perpetrated by those whom we actually know. We always deem our own circle secure.
"But what led to this atrocious deed?" asked Francesca.
"Some act of treachery on the part of Monaldeschi, regarding some letters which he ventured to open, is assumed as the reason. The truth seems little known. But I have just had a letter from the Comte l'Escars, detailing all the circumstances that came to his knowledge;" and taking out the scroll, the Duc read as follows, adding, "I have omitted the first part of the letter, as being on my own business."
"You must pardon my thus hurrying over your affair, to say nothing of its being so incomplete; but my whole mind is so impressed with the strange tragedy of yesterday, that I can think, speak, write of nothing else. The ex-Queen of Sweden has had one of the gentlemen of her suite put to death in a manner equally sudden and barbarous; and what excites in me a strong personal ​feeling on the subject is, that Monaldeschi, the cavalier in question, dined with me the very day of his murder, as I must call it. Such a gay dinner as we had! for Monaldeschi—lively, unscrupulous, and sarcastic—was a most amusing companion. His spirits, far higher than his usual bearing, carried us all along with them; and I remember saying to him, 'I envy your gaiety; why, Monaldeschi, you are as joyous as if there were nothing but sunshine in the world.' He changed countenance, and becoming suddenly grave, exclaimed, 'Do not call me back to myself. I feel an unaccountable vivacity, which I know is the herald of disaster.' But again he became cheerful, and we rallied him on the belief, which he still gaily maintained, that great spirits were the sure forerunners of misfortune. 'Well,' was my answer, 'I should like mine to be so announced.' The dessert was being put down, when a messenger came from the palace, and commanded his immediate attendance on his queen. He turned pale as death, but prepared to obey the summons; and, taking up a glass, filled it with wine. The slender Venetian glass shivered in his hand before he could raise it to his lips. 'Are you superstitious, Count?' asked some one at the table; 'the delicate crystal of Venice is said to ​shiver when treachery is at hand.' This careless observation seemed to affect my guest far beyond what a slight pleasantry could be supposed to occasion. His face became livid; and snatching up a silver cup, he filled it to the very brim, and drank it down; then he stood for a moment, as if lost in thought, when, flinging his cloak around him, he hurried from the room, utterly forgetful of our presence, without even a gesture of farewell. His strange agitation left its own gloom behind, and our party soon broke up.
"Have you never, Mercœur, felt that vague fear, that feverish restlessness, for which you can give no rational cause; but which seems as if something extraordinary must happen, though you have not the slightest ground for expectation? I ordered my horse, and rode out; and the pleasantness of the evening led me further than I intended, so that the moon was up as I returned homewards. On my way, I had to pass the churchyard, which is about a quarter of a mile from the town. The moonlight was shining full on the lowly graves, over which the branches of an old yew-tree swung to and fro mournfully. To my great surprise, from the lateness of the hour, when the funeral rites are but rarely performed, I saw a group of persons gathered round a grave ​which was in the very act of being filled up. I distinctly heard the falling of the clods.
"Reining up my horse beside the low stone wall—prompted by I know not what curiosity—I asked who it was that had been buried? 'Count Monaldeschi;—executed this evening for treason against his rightful sovereign, Queen Christina,' replied a man in the uniform of one of her guards. I let the bridle fall from my hand. Good God! had he, then, gone forth from my dinner-table to his death! Could my cheerful companion of but a few hours since be lying there, cold as the damp earth they were trampling down upon his body? Were those brilliant spirits but lights of destruction?
"I know not how I regained the town, for the image of Monaldeschi floated before my eyes; now animated with all the warmth and hues of life—now pale, as I could fancy him after the fatal blow; but brought vividly before me, as objects are brought only in periods of strong excitement. I afterwards learnt the following details, partly from a page of his own, partly from le Père Mantuony:—
"On arriving at the palace of Fontainebleau, Monaldeschi was shown at once into the Queen's presence, who, with quick steps, was pacing the apartment, holding in her hand a packet of letters, ​which she had only just refolded. The Count dropped on his knee; when, hastily turning towards him, she bade him go to the galerie dux cerfs. He obeyed, and there he found the Chevalier di Sentinelli, the chief captain of her guards. Sentinelli is a man who never changed feature or colour in his life; and now, with the utmost coolness, he bade the unfortunate Count address himself to the priest in attendance; 'and,' added he, 'make your confession short, for my orders for your execution are immediate.'
"Monaldeschi staggered against the wall, and remained for a few minutes in a state of almost insensibility, when the Chevalier, drawing his sword, pointed to the Father, who stood nearly as pale and aghast as the man whose confession he was called upon so suddenly to receive. The prisoner sprung forwards, and throwing himself at the Confessor's feet, implored him piteously to hasten to Christina, and intercede for his life. At first, the Captain Sentinelli objected to Mantuony leaving the room with his penitent unshriven; but respect for the holy man at last induced him to allow his proceeding on what he warned him would be a fruitless mission.
"The priest found Christina in the same apartment, apparently entirely occupied with a ​volume of Swedish history. 'You come,' said she, rising from her seat, 'to announce that my orders have been obeyed.' 'I come,' replied the Father, 'on a more fitting errand for the minister of our Saviour; I come in his name to entreat your pity and pardon for yonder miserable offender. Please your Grace to think, that you may take life away, but cannot give it!' 'You will leave your penitent to die unconfessed,' was her only answer; 'I would not destroy both soul and body: but on your own heads be the sin, if you waste the time allowed to prepare for eternity.' 'Lady, for your own soul's sake,' cried the agitated old man, 'be merciful! remember, his blood will rise to the skies, and cry aloud for judgment, even, at the last day!' 'Between me and Heaven be the reckoning," exclaimed she, resuming her seat. 'For the love of our Lady, be pitiful! Only see him: you cannot order a fellow-creature from your own presence into eternity!' The Queen started from her chair. 'I have,' said she, white with anger, which yet affected not her calm and measured words,—'I have laid down most of the possessions of my ancestor; but once a Queen always a Queen; and treason shall not pass in my household unpunished while I retain but one faithful follower to avenge ​the cause of his Queen and of his mistress. Ay, by my own hand!' continued she, in a louder tone, half drawing a sabre that lay on the table, and returning the glittering blade to the scabbard with a force that made it ring again,—'by my own hand should the traitor perish, rather than his daring treachery should go unpunished! Now, will you back, and shrive the coward? or must he die with his guilt on his head? Yonder clock wants five minutes of the hour,—when that hour strikes, it will sound the knell of a traitor—as it strikes, he dies!'
"The Father left the room, and found the Count in a state of stupefaction. In vain he adjured him to turn his thoughts to prayer; in vain he offered to him the cross, and implored him to think on him who died to save; but the agony of his fear was too great for prayer. The clock struck, and Sentinelli drew his sword; the noise roused Monaldeschi, who, springing up, rushed to the window, and endeavoured to throw himself out,—it was fastened. Sentinelli followed, and tried to stab him. The first blow only resounded against the chain armour which he wore under his clothes; but at the second the blood rushed in torrents from his side; the third brought him to his knee, and then Sentinelli passed his sword ​through him. The miserable man dropped on the floor which was dyed crimson with his struggles, for still he writhed; when the executioner, pressing him down with his foot, extricated the blade; and as he drew it forth, Monaldeschi sunk back—dead!
"The corpse was immediately put into a coach, and buried in the church-yard with all possible speed; and, but for the horror in men's minds, there would not be a trace left of the unfortunate, even if guilty, Monaldeschi. I hear, however, that one horrible trace does remain: the floor was so saturated with the blood shed in his dying struggles, that no efforts can efface the stain; in vain buckets upon buckets of water have been poured upon the place,—the crimson is there fresh and red as ever."
It was some time before any one broke the silence that followed upon the gloomy narrative.
"And what do his Grace and the Queen say? for I believe you come from their presence," asked Madame de Mercœur, at last.
"Why the Queen proposed that it should be notified to Christina, that her presence was no longer desired in France; but to this Louis objected. 'The power,' said he, 'of life and death is in the hands of the sovereign. Christina is ​still Queen in her own household. It only behoves us, by some sign of coldness, to show that we resent the indignity of having our palace made a slaughter-house.'"
"Settled with his Majesty's usual sense of the royal dignity—wonderful in such a youth!" said an officer of the household; one of those elderly courtiers, whose whole life had been an adulation.
But Francesca, unaccustomed from her childhood to the ideal reverence with which the royal person and power were then regarded in France, could think of the ex-Queen's act as a murder only, not as a judgment. Was it possible, then, that such, an offence against the laws of humanity—a human being's life sacrificed with such vindictive cruelty—that this crime against nature and womanhood, was held as light in the balance when weighed with a want of respect to one of the royal residences! Well, custom is a surprising thing: and when we think how, from earliest infancy, we are surrounded by false impressions, undue rights, privileges, and prejudices, we may well marvel that there is such a thing as truth in the world. That it should be concealed, is far less wonderful than that it should ever be discovered. After all, the great error in human judgment is not so much wilful perversion, as that we judge according to ​situation, and always make that situation our own; while the chances are, that we really have not one thought, feeling, or habit, in common with those on whom we yet think ourselves qualified to decide.