# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 26

CHAPTER XXVI.
"Many falsehoods are told from interest, many from ill-nature, but from vanity most of all."
The return of the Duc de Mercœur added, if possible, to the gaiety of Compiegne; and the Duchesse gave a fête in its honour. Everything then was expressed by a fête; saints were worshipped, mistresses flattered, ministers courted, victories celebrated, sentiments affiched—and all by a fête. Francesca greatly enjoyed the preparations—the pleasant part of a festival. For the truth of this, ask any young person you please. No entertainment, however brilliant, to which you merely go, can at all equal the delights of one where you have assisted from the original idea of the giving to the actual accomplishment of its being given. Your taste has been consulted, and your self-love enlisted in its cause; your advice has been asked, and, consequently, you have a personal interest in its success. Your time has ​been taken up by a thousand details—and occupation is the life of time. Who shall deny that "les avenues de la bonheur sont delicieuses à parcourir?"
Francesca was somewhat shocked to find it was thought "charmant" that all the fountains for the occasion were to flow from dolphins' months, instead of from the classic urn of some marble naiad. Neither could she perceive the absolute necessity of fastening all the wreaths with blue and white ribands, the colours of the house of Mercœur. Moreover, she could not help thinking that the congratulatory verses were rather profuse in their Mars', Hercules', Alexanders, and Julius Cæsars. Still, these were very small matters—as nothing, beside the display of fireworks which were prepared, and the rose-coloured taffeta brocaded with silver which was to be her own dress.
The important night arrived; an unusually hot day had been succeeded by a cool fresh evening, with a slight wind just enough to stir the orange-flowers, till the air was redolent of their perfume. The gardens were illuminated, and a striking effect was produced by the large pieces of water, which spread like immense mirrors, filled with the light which they reflected.
Enjoyment is the least descriptive of all ​feelings; and Francesca, who by this time had formed many slight and pleasant acquaintances, no longer found that a crowd was such very dreary solitude. She passed from one gay companion to another, greeted with numberless slight flatteries, alike listening and forgetting with a smile; honoured by a few words of compliment from Anne, and a look still more flattering from Louis, who at that moment found the homage which surrounded him on such a public occasion somewhat irksome, when a glance only could follow the lovely creature who flitted past.
I believe there are few who have not, even in their gladdest hours, felt how nearly gaiety and sadness are allied; a shadow steals over the spirits, like a cloud over the moon, soft and subduing, perhaps transitory, but not the less dark for the moment.
It was with a sensation of relief that Francesca parted with her last companion, and glided away to a lonely spot in the garden. The lamps, the music, came softened from the distance; the turf before her was silvered only by the moonlight. The moss at the foot of an old chestnut served her for a seat; and a trellis-work covered with honeysuckle separated her from the adjacent walk, the arch opening into which was just beyond. She ​sat, her beautiful head leaning upon her hand,—now listening to the sweet tones floating on the wind, and now lost in a vague and pensive reverie.
"I know not," thought she, "why I should feel so sad—it seems the very wilfulness of a child; and yet what an unutterable depression is upon me at this moment! Why should there arise so vividly before me all that is most painful in my destiny—its uncertainty, its dependence, its emptiness? How unsatisfactory has my life been of late! I have been divided between petty mortifications, which I blushed to confess even to myself, and vain feverish amusements—for I cannot call them pleasures. I wish I could look beyond the smiling faces which meet me on every side, and see whether they conceal feelings like my own. Madame Mercœur is happier than I am, and has more causes for happiness. She has so much kindness in her power—is so beloved, and so secure of that love! Alas! I am so very, very grateful to her; and yet I cannot help asking, what is my gratitude to her, and of what consequence is my affection? Ah! how foolish—nay, worse, is this repining! It is as if I wished some misfortune to befall Henriette, merely to prove my attachment. Not so—but ​surely I may contrast our situations without wishing hers to change."
And Francesca was drawing a contrast as contrasts are usually drawn, namely, as unfairly as possible. We take some most favourable portion of another's existence, and compare it with one of the darkest in our own, and then exclaim against the difference.
Gradually the young Italian's reverie became merged in one of the sweet Venetian barcarolles which had been familiar to her from infancy, when her attention was first attracted, and then fixed, by the conversation carried on by two individuals in the walk behind her, and whose voices she at once recognised to be those of the Chevalier de Joinville and Evelyn. There is not much to be said in defence of her overhearing; but is there a girl in the world who would not listen to her own name, and from the lips of her lover?—it must be so pleasant to hear him confirm to others what he has first said to yourself. Curiosity would be quite motive enough; but vanity and curiosity together are irresistible.
"What," asked the Chevalier, "will your beautiful Italian do?"
"Console herself," replied Evelyn. "To be very candid with you, I am getting heartily tired ​of my connexion in that quarter. It was a very amusing délassement during her residence with that most amiable of artists, Bournonville; but now that some childish acquaintance with the Mancinis has induced them try the dear delight of patronage, my beauty assumes les grands airs, and actually, the other day, gave a distant hint of marriage!"
"The forgetfulness of women is really charming," observed De Joinville.
"What say you to taking my place?—many a heart is caught in the rebound; and La Carrara's is worth having for a little while."
"I thank you," replied De Joinville; "but I have a foolish prejudice against les belles delaissées—I have no talents for consolation."
"Between ourselves, Francesca will find consolation in ambition. With her beauty and hypocrisy she may yet make a brilliant match. Well, I wish her all possible success; and, by the by, De Joinville, we really must keep her secret."
"Any secret of mine that you possess, you are at perfect liberty to reveal," said Francesca.
The sudden turn in the walk had brought the whole party face to face. For a moment the three stood in perfect silence. Evelyn—for falsehood brings its own cowardice—was speechless. ​De Joinville watched the scene with curiosity—perhaps with deeper interest; for in his secret soul he disbelieved what his companion has just asserted. There was a perfect simplicity—a clear purity—a frankness—in Francesca's whole demeanour, that no art could have assumed—it was too natural to be adopted. Moreover, his attention was riveted as if on an exquisite picture; the moonlight fell full on her face, which was pale as death, for her emotion was far too strong for confusion; her fine upper lip curled with unutterable scorn, while the blue veins on the temple rose distinct. The large dark eyes seemed filled with light, while her recreant lover cowered beneath their flashing disdain; and yet he was the first to speak.
"My dearest Francesca must forgive what a moment's jealousy—"
"I do indeed forgive," exclaimed she, while a smile of the most entire contempt rested on her beautiful features, "what I despise too much to resent! But as even the most cowardly liar may have his own miserable portion of influence, I owe a formal disavowal to myself." Turning to De Joinville, she continued, "As you have heard so much of this discourse, you may have patience for a moment more. My engagement with Mr. ​Evelyn has been open and avowed—approved by my only friend, Madame de Mercœur, who, as a girl, was the confidante of an attachment whose origin she witnessed—why still unfulfilled, has been in consequence of my feeling that it was a duty we owed to Mr. Evelyn's father, not to marry without his consent. I pray your pardon for troubling you with what can so little interest a stranger; but every man must have some feminine tie near and dear to his heart; and for the sake of such, he owes somewhat of courtesy to all who bear the name of woman.—As for you, sir," again addressing Evelyn, "I must say, our parting will to me be only a relief. Your right has for some time been your only claim on affections that have long ceased to be yours. I felt your unworthiness before I knew it. My only sense at this moment is thankfulness." She turned away, and passed De Joinville with a slight bend, and in another instant was hidden by the trees.
"I must follow her," exclaimed Evelyn, "And even try a little flattery;" but De Joinville observed that he did not take the same path.
"Ma foi!" exclaimed the Chevalier, "he must try his flattery on himself."