# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 29

CHAPTER II.
"The scenes through which of late I have conducted my readers are by no means episodical: they illustrate far more than mere narration the period." Devereux.
Brief as had been the young King's campaign, it was quite sufficient to produce a sensation at Paris. Henri Quatre was in every body's mouth in the way of presage and comparison. In reconnoitring the trenches, Louis's temple had been grazed by a bullet; and the exaggeration of praise and anxiety would have been ridiculous but for its entire sincerity. From that period may be dated the rise of that personal devotion which marked all the earlier part of his reign.
It has been said, with that degree of truth which is necessary to give effect to point, that the French character has been determined by two rhymes, gloire and victoire. Of this character Louis was the beau idéal. Young, brave, chivalrous, handsome, and graceful, he was every ​Frenchman's perfection of himself. One proof of a great man is fitness for the circumstances in which he is placed. That talent may reasonably be doubted which is never exercised; but no one could be more suited to his station than Louis. He possessed the genius of representation,—a genius especially requisite among a people who require to be both excited and impressed. His ambition was but the then voice of the nation carried into action—his wars were the public will; change was only brought about by the humiliation of defeat. His tastes were magnificent—such as belonged to the monarch of a rich and great country; and a more enlightened age would have added utility. His original character was generous and high-minded, though tried in after-years by the too severe ordeal of constant gratification and unvarying success, whose certain result is selfishness.
We cannot understand what we have never experienced; and we need pain, were it only to teach us sympathy. It is a good lesson of mortal instability; and we should be sorry to lose the touching spectacle of the noble firmness with which the aged King met the defeat and disasters which overwhelmed him in his old age. But, for his own sake, Louis's misfortunes should have ​happened earlier in life; what wholesome corrections they would have been to his overmuch prosperity! As, in after-time, we read the annals of his court, we are revolted by his self-indulgence, his utter thoughtlessness of others, his ingratitude, his cruelty,—and all is summed up in the conviction, This man knows nothing of suffering—he cannot measure the pain which he inflicts. Truly, we need human infirmity to teach us human nature, and that to Louis had been as a sealed book; he had only seen the coloured and gilded outside: too late he had to decipher the rough and gloomy page within. His natural impulses were good, and these are all most manifest in youth—the truth is, time wears them out; and manhood needs principle, which he had not. The beginning was promising. Look at his constant and attentive affection to his mother; his unvarying gratitude to the Cardinal; the energy with which, on Mazarin's death, when government came to be necessity, he devoted himself to the duties of his high station. No pleasure, no idleness, ever trespassed on the hours given to business.
But it is the earlier and lighter part of his career with which our readers have to do; and the present period at Paris was as gay as fêtes of every kind could make it. The youthful monarch ​was, of course, the centre of all; but Francesca could not but perceive, that while others addressed their flatteries to him, his were addressed exclusively to her.
The attention of which she was now the object would have amused if it had not embarrassed her. It was as if some spell had changed both herself and her situation. Every one seemed suddenly to have discovered some merit in the once neglected stranger. Homage came from every quarter, and adulation from every lip. No one was more ready to caress and bring her forward than the Comtesse de Soissons, who appeared to think every party incomplete without her early friend; and Louis passed almost every evening at her house, where restraint and ceremony were equally banished.
Madame de Mercœur's health now scarcely allowed her to stir from home; and Francesca would never willingly have left her. But this her good-natured friend would not hear of: "No, no; Marie has come to her senses. She is as fond of you as I am, and very much gayer; so go about with her. When will you ever enjoy yourself, if you do not now?"
It was useless contesting the point; and Francesca secretly longed for the period of the ​Duchesse's confinement, when she would have an undeniable excuse for remaining with her. "And by that time," thought she, "Guido will be returned; we will then fix on our future plan of life. Ah! I should be happier in our old dwelling than here. Guido, I know, loves his native land the best; and we, in seeking each other's pleasure, shall both find our own. Surely we have both said farewell for ever to the vain dreams with which we came to Paris."
There was vanity and pleasure enough around her now to have turned many a young head, and to have supplied many excuses for the turning. But Francesca was thoughtful beyond her years. The traces of her early disappointment were indelible; not that she sunk or pined away under the blow—she owned, after the first shock was past, and the beating heart severely tasked, that life had still many duties, and even some enjoyments. Were it only as a debt to Madame de Mercœur's kindness, some appearance of cheerfulness was necessary; and assumed cheerfulness often becomes more real than is always acknowledged. But, unlike the generality of her age, love now occupied no place in the future. How could she ever believe in the worthiness of any ​one? or, if she believed, it could never so interest her again.
One morning she accompanied Madame de Soissons to the fair, then the favourite lounge and amusement. The Comtesse bought every trifle that caught her eye, while Francesca looked on. Now it is not in human nature—at least in feminine nature—to see pretty things, yet not wish for them; and while her look lingered on many a graceful toy, the young Italian, conscious they were far beyond her slender finances, could not help contrasting her own necessity of debarring herself even from a slight purchase, with the lavish expenditure of her companion.
She had scarcely returned home an hour, and was giving Madame de Mercœur a full account of how Madame de Chatillion found out that it was so cold whenever l'Abbé Fouquet approached, and put on her black velvet mask, thus not allowing him to see her beautiful face even at a distance,—how the Due d'Anjou was inseparable from la belle cousine, who consulted his taste in all her purchases; when several packages were brought in, directed to Mademoiselle de Carrara. They were opened, and found to contain all kinds of toys, gloves, laces, ribands, &c., till the floor was strewed ​with their glittering contents. Not the slightest indication appeared as to who was the donor.
"Some anonymous lover," exclaimed Madame de Mercœur. "This is really too delightful. Who can it be?" and she began to guess every person she could remember as having even spoken to Francesca.
"For pity's sake," said the latter, laughing, "do stop; for I am really alarmed lest you should end with l'Abbé Fouquet himself; and I have really no ambition to succeed Madame de Chatillion."
"Now, out upon such a supposition!" replied the Duchesse; "I am too much charmed with the gallantry to wish to destroy the illusion. But is not this fortunate?" continued she, taking up a superb plume of white ostrich feathers, fastened by a small agraffe, enamelled so as to represent a bunch of violets; "this is just what you wanted for the velvet cap you are to wear at Madame de l'Hôpital's masked ball."
"Oh! but I do not like to wear it. It is so disagreeable to accept favours from you do not know who."
"On the contrary, you are saved from all obligation; for what is the use of being grateful, and ​to a wrong person, perhaps? Wear these exquisite feathers you must."
"I would much rather not."
"How very ridiculous! But I shall not argue the point,—I shall only command; and you know how contradiction disagrees with me. I will not be made ill, that you may look well; so, silence, ma mignonne. Here, Mariette," continued she, addressing one of her women, who had just entered; "place this plume in Mademoiselle de Carrara's cap,—and, remember, in the most becoming manner."
Both parties had their differing convictions. Madame de Mercœur, who looked always to what she wished, instantly recalled the admiration she had observed her beautiful protégée had excited in the Duc de Candale, and immediately determined that he was the generous incognito. Francesca's suspicions were less pleasant, but more true. She never for a moment doubted but that Louis was the donor, while the Comtesse de Soissons was the purchaser. She was certain that she recognised many of the toys. The feathers she did not recollect; but she remembered her own bunch of violets which Louis had taken the evening previous to his departure for Sedan. Should ​she mention her belief to Madame de Mercœur?—her natural frankness prompted this course; but it was opposed by every reason that could suggest itself. If she were mistaken, and it was just possible that she might be so, how monstrous, and, worse, how ridiculous, would her vanity appear! and, even if it were true, Madame do Mercœur was scarcely the person to consult—in her circle, the King was every thing; who there would think of gainsaying his pleasure? She felt rather than acknowledged, that between their ideas of right and wrong and her own, there was, indeed, a wide gulf. She considered, too, how slight was her claim upon the kindness of the Mercœurs; the had no right even to run the risk of embarrassing them:—on herself, therefore, must be her sole dependence. The Comtesse evidently was making a tool of her, by encouraging the King's predilection. Provided he was attracted to the Hôtel de Soissons, she cared not how; Francesca, or any one else, might be the magnet.
Madame de Mercœur had herself arranged her dress, which was splendid white silk, damasked with silver flowers; but it was with much internal misgiving that she put on the graceful cap and plume.
​ At first, she had resolved to wear none of the other gifts; and then it struck her, that this would indicate a secret preference for the tell-tale agraffe,—better choose amid the others, avow her present openly, and take refuge in unsuspecting pleasure and gratitude.
On her arrival at the Hôtel de Soissons, she saw that the keen eye of the Comtesse scanned her from head to foot. She evidently did not recognise the plume; but a peculiar smile passed over her face as she noticed the gloves, fan, and bouquet; still, she made no remark beyond the general exclamation, "How well you look to-night! 'tis a pity to put on your mask!"
Francesca immediately began to tell her of the good fortune of yesterday. She listened; but added, with an incredulous sneer, "And so you have not an idea who sent them? You are fortunate in such an anonymous lover!"
Francesca made no answer, but followed the Comtesse in silence, whose manner confirmed all her previous suspicions, and who, during the drive, turned the conversation on the most general subjects. They arrived at Madame la Marechale de l'Hôpital's, where the scene was equally gay and gorgeous.
Let no one dispute the influence of good and ​evil stars, after witnessing the progress of Madame la Marechale. She commenced life as a washerwoman, and now, in its meridian, was residing in one of the best hotels in Paris, wife to a man of the highest rank, surrounded by the élite of the court, Louis at her fête, and herself wearing a set of pearls larger than the Queen's; but this was a delicate subject, for it was well known that Anne piqued herself on the size of her set. Now, it is not so much La Marechale's matrimonial achievements that prove the good graces of her ruling planet, as her success in society. It was not so wonderful that the very pretty girl should marry a man whose years and wealth had alike multiplied; nor that the still prettier widow should turn the head and heart of de l'Hôpital, both being a little the worse for use. The wonder was, how well she succeeded in her new element. Her house was one of the most frequented in Paris, and even la superbe Mademoiselle deigned to pronounce that she was "une bien bonne femme;" and yet nothing could he more prominent than her ignorance, more pronounced than her vulgarity. Perhaps, if she had been more refined, she would have been less successful. Though there was a want of information, there was no want of talent. She had a good sort of coarse ​cleverness, admirably fitted to get on in the world; she possessed those two first requisites, a good constitution and a good temper; she had little feeling, and less delicacy; she soon saw that even people of the utmost refinement sometimes permitted themselves to be amused by its very reverse—and she cared little for affording amusement even at her own expense. Let those laugh who win, is the very axiom of vulgar policy, and on that hint she acted. It was now settled that every body was to be amused by her coarse jest and her odd expressions, and therefore everybody was amused. Moreover, there was another great secret of her popularity; all in her company luxuriated in a little complacent sense of their own superiority,—one of the most agreeable of the senses to indulge. Such was the enterprising individual whose saloon was to-night a representation of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Among other things understood of the Marechale was, that less ceremony was to be practised at her house than elsewhere. All were to do as they pleased, if they could; for, verily, to please one's self is no such easy task.
Dancing commenced; and during the course of the evening, Francesca and the Comtesse de Soissons paused for a moment to rest themselves ​in a small room fitted up as a tent with amber-coloured silk. The King and the Due d'Anjou entering at the same minute, a lively conversation began, which the Comtesse almost entirely supported. Suddenly the Duc caught sight of himself in a mirror opposite: "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed he, "I am too fair to remain here—I am quite overpowered by this colour; for mercy's sake, madame, come and dance with me, in pity to my complexion."
He took Marie's hand, and they quitted the tent, thus leaving his brother and Francesca to an inevitable tête-à-tête. Louis was silent, and seemingly somewhat embarrassed; and it was not till a slight movement of his companion indicated an intention of rising, that he said, "Pray do not go, Mademoiselle—I want to know how you like the fête."
"It is very gay," replied she.
"I have not enjoyed it till this moment," exclaimed her companion. "Ah! it is so irksome to have your attention distracted by every one excepting that one to whom it is devoted."
Francesca could only bow with as little of the air of taking the speech to herself as possible; but a young lover, like a child in the dark, gains courage from the sound of his own voice. Louis ​proceeded rapidly, showing her the little bunch of violets which he had taken the evening before he left Compeigne, though so dry and faded that nothing remained to indicate that they once were flowers but their perfume lingering round the envelope.
"You see how precious I have held even these few withered leaves—and your bouquet to-night is formed again of violets."
"They were an anonymous present, sent this morning."
"And you do not the least suspect the donor?" said the King, smiling.
"My suspicions," replied Francesca, "are far too presumptuous for utterance."
"Presumption is not a word for a mouth so lovely—it belongs rather to the one who ventured on such unworthy offerings, more than repaid by the happiness of their acceptance."
"Your Grace forgets," answered Francesca, "that there might be circumstances which made their refusal more embarrassing than their acceptance, however painful that was and is."
"Ah! you fear my mother, or the Cardinal's anger," exclaimed Louis; "but I am, and, when I choose, can be, the master. Madame de Soissons told me how timid you were; but, surely, my ​power is absolute—you may command rank far beyond your utmost expectations—wealth——"
"I pray you hear me for one moment," interrupted Francesca; "the Comtesse de Soissons has somewhat misinformed you as to my timidity, for I find that I have courage to tell you the truth."
"And truth made beautiful by coming from your lips."
"It is a pity to waste anything so graceful as your flattery—and on me it is wasted. It would be affectation were I to misunderstand your meaning; and I tell you frankly, that, so gained, I should despise wealth and loathe rank."
Louis's brow wore its deepest gloom as he said, "There are few in yonder room who would so cavalierly reject my love."
"Love!" exclaimed Francesca; "do not use the word—say a vain and passing fantasy—ay, and born of the flattering instigations of others—unworthy, I must hope, of me, and still more unworthy of yourself."
"I see nothing so unworthy in the admiration of beauty."
"A truce to these compliments, which suit me as little to hear as you to offer. Allow me to address myself to you earnestly and seriously. I do implore your forbearance. Look through your ​whole court, you can find no one so unprotected, so friendless, as myself. A dependant on your dependants, what refuge have I but in your own sense of right? Madame de Soissons may shew what I have to expect from an early friend—my happiness is nothing compared with the advantage of attracting you to her house for even a few passing evenings. I repeat to you calmly and truly, your pursuit may annoy, but it cannot alter me. The worst thing that I shall have to forgive will be, your own destruction of my high and respectful admiration."
"Who is the flatterer now?" asked Louis, but with a much less moody aspect.
"I do but give utterance to the universal feeling; and I can only entreat your pardon, and throw myself on your generosity."
"Allow me, Mademoiselle, to lead you to the ball-room; and the only pledge I ask of your forgiveness is, that if ever I can render you favour or service, you will not forgot that I shall venture at least to place myself on your list of friends."
Francesca's eyes were filled with tears of gratitude; she could not trust her voice to speak, but a look was sufficient answer; and, with marked and kind courtesy, the young monarch took her hand, and led her into the adjoining chamber.
​ "If I had known that your dread of the yellow silk was equivalent to positive banishment," said Louis, addressing the Due d'Anjou, "I should not have waited so long for your return, for I wanted to consult Madame de Soissons about the ballet to-morrow. My mother, with the Père Vincent's good leave, has decided on honouring it with her presence."
So saying, Louis led the Comtesse a little apart. Francesca saw them talking—the King earnestly, his companion at first sneeringly, but the sneer subsided into silent attention. No one knew better than Louis, even at that early age, how to insure obedience.
As she returned home, Francesca observed, under the veil of more than ordinary politeness, a concealed constraint in her companion. Both were glad to separate: and, to the shame of a good conscience be it spoken, the embarrassment of the injured, as usual, exceeded that of the injurer.