# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 22

CHAPTER XXII.
"Crystal and myrrhine cups, embossed with gems And studs of pearl." Milton.
Francesca that evening awaited the appearance of Evelyn with no little anxiety, which increased on perceiving that she was quite hemmed in by the quick-eyed Christina in front, the Duchesse de Mercœur on one side, and, to her great surprise, Louis took his place on the other, and, regardless of the eagerness with which she was watching the stage, drew her into conversation. She could scarcely disguise her preoccupation. Like most persons utterly unused to deception, she could not imagine how it was to be managed; and her thoughts conjured up every probable and improbable embarrassment that might occur. The actors, too, diverted her attention, with all the fascination their art ever exercises over the unaccustomed; by degrees her eyes fixed upon the ​scene, and she became almost absorbed in the distress of the hero and heroine, who were in their usual difficulties. Her inattention, however, rather amused the King, though the charm with him had lost its illusion from frequent repetition; yet it was something new to observe it in another. The amusement would not have lasted very long, but Christina, tired of what was going on, addressed herself to him, and satirised the play, unmercifully, but entertainingly.
At this moment Mazarin entered, and Evelyn was in his suite. It had been arranged that his intended invitation should be given personally, as if without premeditation, much ceremony being thus avoided. During the time that the Cardinal was paying his devoirs to the two Queens, Evelyn remained behind, and gradually obtained the vacant place between Francesca and Madame de Mercœur; the latter, to whom he more particularly addressed himself, observed, "What very fragrant flowers!" With an air of gallantry, he anxiously selected some of the rarest, and presented them to her; then turning, as if with a sudden thought, to Francesca, offered her the remainder. She immediately perceived the note around the stems; and now, while all were engaged with the Cardinal, concealed it with an ​ease that astonished herself. Before, however, she could look round, Evelyn had disappeared.
Soon alter, Louis resumed his place; and observing the flowers, asked Francesca for one of the roses, which she immediately gave, when, much more to her dismay than to her gratification, he kissed it, and placed it concealed in his bosom, adding, in a low voice, "It is too precious to be worn openly." Then, as if he were himself confused by what he had said, turned hastily, and began talking to Madame de Mercœur.
From the theatre they proceeded to the Cardinal's, where many of the guests were already assembled; among others, the Queen of England and her daughter. There was something in the scene that jarred upon Francesca's previous sympathy. She, whose councils had done much towards conducting her husband to the scaffold on which he perished—whose rank was a mockery, making her present state of dependence more bitter—an exile in her own country, whose very dreams must be haunted by death and danger; yet there she was seated, the centre of a frivolous circle, and of flatteries whose worthlessness she of all there must best have known. Ah! misfortune ought to have sufficient self-respect for solitude.
​ For the first time it struck Francesca how exceedingly difficult she would find it to deliver the note with which she had been entrusted. The three Queens were seated at the upper end of the room, surrounded by their attendants, with every eye fixed upon their least movement: what excuse had she for approaching Henriette?—she had never been presented to her, and it was most probable the whole length of the chamber would be between them during the evening. But while she was increasing the difficulty by thinking about it, Madame de Mercœur, passing her hand through her arm, said, "You must come with me, Francesea; I want you to see the old portrait I was telling you about the other morning."
So saying, she led her into a small apartment adjoining. There were three small rooms, which ran one into another. They were alike hung with gray cloth, covered with pictures, while all the light came from above. The picture before which they paused represented one of those ruined fountains so common to Italy. Francesca gazed upon it as if it had been an old friend: many a time, beside such a one, with its curved and broken marble, had she wreathed the acanthus that hung around it, the green and trailing foliage so profuse in the South, into shapes even more fanciful than those ​which once suggested the Corinthian capital. The clear blue sky, and the towers of a church in the distance—the sunny foreground—brought the old-accustomed scenes so forcibly to her mind, that for a moment she had forgotten all but themselves.
Madame de Mercœur, though with a kind remembrance of childish habits and haunts, threw around them none of that melancholy which is their poetry, and soon drew her companion's attention to the figure. It was a female in the prime of life, with the colours and rounded form of youth, but with the expression of a more advanced period; it was wonderful how the painter had contrived to give such determination, nay, even severity, to the brow, and yet retain such sweetness in the lower part of the face. But the mouth was that of a child—so small, so fresh, so red, and parted with a smile so glad, so innocent, and extending its influences to the dimpled cheek and little ivory chin. Yet the nose was high and Roman; and the eyes, which looked boldly out, seemed to flash fire. The dress was singular; a green velvet boddice, which fitted tight, and was met at the throat by a chain, or rather collar of gold. A crimson scarf was round the waist, in which was placed a poniard, whose sheath and handle glittered with gems. The large ​loose sleeve was lined with fur, and on each arm was a bracelet. On the one, a plain massive band which matched the collar; on the other, a serpent; the tail reached nearly to the elbow, and the head rose a little from the wrist; the tongue of a ruby, the eyes of large brilliants. The costume was finished by a petticoat of broad alternate stripes of green and crimson, with a deep gold lace. The hair was plaited with bullion and red riband, and then wound round the head, something after the fashion of a turban, save that it entirely displayed the forehead.
"It is too fierce," said Louis, who, together with Mazarin, had entered the gallery.
"Such was the original," replied Mazarin; "she was the wife of a celebrated bandit in the Abruzzi; and this likeness was its artist's ransom. It was found in the old castle, which had long been the haunt of a most desperate band. Tradition says she died by her husband's side, fighting to the last."
"I cannot approve this costume for la Signora Carrara: Amazons are out of keeping in a fête. Now, I much prefer the one to the left."
They passed on to the picture which he named; singular enough, there was a resemblance in the features, and yet no likeness between the two; ​it was as if to show the infinite difference that could be wrought by expression. The background of the painting was a crimson velvet curtain, which threw out the drapery of the figure. It was dressed in white satin, unmixed with any colour; the boddice was laced with pearls, but the fair neck and arms wore no ornament; and the profusion of raven black hair hung down in large loose curls, without any visible confinement. The large, soft dark eyes were raised, but seemed rather engrossed by their own feelings—(thoughts are scarcely tender enough for such a look)—than fixed upon any surrounding object.
"It is a lovely portrait; Francesca will, of course, adopt a dress honoured by your Grace's approval."
Louis looked at Francesca, who, colouring a little, bent her head in silence.
"I have lately," remarked Mazarin, "Added to my collection of royal likenesses; this is a very scarce one of Francis the First."
"I am proud of my ancestor," exclaimed Louis, gazing on it with an animation which suspended everything else for the moment; "I envy the glory which yet lingers round the name of France's most chivalrous king. Ah! but for my mother's fearful love, I should now be at the ​head of my army. I envy Turenne every victory he gains in my cause."
"It is a grave fault," answered the Cardinal, "for a King thus rashly to expose his life. Think of all the evils France has suffered from the imprudent valour of her monarch."
"Imprudent, if you please," rejoined Louis; "but this very imprudence has ranked him among our greatest heroes." And saying this, he passed on, as if unwilling to continue the conversation.
"Ay," exclaimed Mazarin, looking after him with an expression of almost affection, "He has in him stuff enough for four kings, and an honest man beside."
A landscape, with a palace in the distance, somewhat resembling that of La Franchini's, attracted Francesca; and while she was observing a scene which seemed so familiar to her, she dropped the flowers which Evelyn had given her. Before she even perceived her loss, the King had picked them up, and was about to give them to her, when he perceived the note, and also observed that the seal was yet unbroken.
"Mademoiselle has not had time to read a letter so surrounded by sweets—pray use no ceremony."
​ "Good Heaven!" exclaimed Francesca,—"if I had lost it!"
"Is it, then, so very precious?" asked Louis.
Francesca was too young not to feel ashamed of its being supposed that she could be the possessor of a love-letter, and answered unguardedly, "Oh, I am only its bearer; it is not for me."
"Can I save you the trouble?" asked the King, smiling; partly from that general gallantry which was his universal tone, and a little, it must be owned, from curiosity.
"Holy Madonna!" ejaculated Francesca; "if your Majesty would but take charge of it! I see clearly that it is impossible I shall be able to deliver it."
Louis, amused by the ignorance of form which so readily took him at his word, assured her he would give it. "But to whom? for the note has no address!"
"To the English Queen."
Louis looked surprised; but having promised, his courtesy was too perfect to allow of either hesitation or question.
Further conversation was interrupted by the approach of the Cardinal and his niece, who asked the King to adjourn to a neighbouring ​gallery, "Where," said he, "you will witness the perfect enthusiasm of my gallantry."
They went forward; but Madame de Mercœur lingered a moment behind. "I do not know how you will manage your hair," said she, looking at the picture; "though, Heaven knows! we found it easy enough some three or four years ago."
"I like the other best," answered Francesca, who had a sort of unconscious reluctance to allow her costume to be thus Louis's especial choice.
"That is quite out of the question," rejoined the Duchesse; "have you not lived here long enough to know, that a royal wish is a command?"
They then proceeded towards the gallery, which they found already partially filled, and the news of its contents soon attracted thither the rest of the company. It contained every species of ornament: toys, china, shawls, lace, &c.—a very fair, whose temptations were selected with all possible attention to taste, and an equal disregard to expense. On one table were Indian cabinets, wrought in ivory, ebony, tortoise-shell, and amber; on another were the exquisite porcelain of Dresden and Sèvres; a third was heaped with gold and silver stuffs; a fourth, with the colours of the rainbow, in embroidered taffetas; close beside were perfumed gloves, and the rich ribands of ​Lyons, and velvets from Genoa fit for the mantle of a Queen.
Other stands were covered with the "cunning devices" of the goldsmith and the jeweller. There were diamonds colourless with excess of light; rubies, rich as the sunset of their native clime; the purple amethyst; the pale, pure pearl; and ornaments worked in gold,—from the massive links, like precious fetters, to the light fragile chains of Venice. Nor were there only articles of personal decoration; but on some of the tables stood silver cups and lamps, crystal girandoles, and alabaster vases.
The surprise excited by this exhibition was indeed increased when the Cardinal came forward and said, that he trusted his guests would accept his offering, as whatever the gallery contained was to be distributed among them by means of a lottery. "It is fortune you will have to thank, not me."
A murmur of applause and gratitude arose from the crowd, which was soon interrupted by the preparations for distributing the tickets.
Four pages, clothed in white and crimson, brought in two massive salvers, whose delicate carving was from the unrivalled graver of Benvenuto Cellini. These were filled with small sealed billets, from which the company were to draw, ​and afterwards open, in succession. The pages first approached and knelt before the Queens, who each took one of the billets, and then proceeded to distribute the remainder among the rest.
It was curious to observe the many indications of character called forth by the spirit of gambling so unexpectedly evoked. Some pressed forward; others hung back, as if they feared to tempt their fate without some effort at propitiation, in the way of "muttered vow and inward prayer." While one would take up a sealed billet with affected carelessness—belied, however, by the anxious eye—another could not conceal the flushed cheek and the trembling hand. Many elbowed their way to the pages, without consideration or scruple; some few, with innate courtesy, made way, and seemed to think that others had as much right as themselves.
But Francesca's whole attention was soon engrossed; for, attracted by the beauty of some vases of cut crystal, Queen Henriette was standing beside one of the tables. A moment afterwards, Louis approached her, and began, apparently, to discuss with her their exquisite workmanship. He passed one or two from his own hand to her's; but scarcely five minutes had elapsed, before he turned away; yet Francesca could not doubt but ​that the letter had been delivered. The young Italian could scarcely believe, that what had seemed to her a difficulty so insuperable could be so easily effected. Her eyes were fixed upon the place, aware of what was going on, but she had not been able to perceive look or gesture that either party wished unobserved. She little knew the perfect command of countenance so early acquired in society; or how one who, like Henriette, had lived in a world of plot, intrigue, and anxiety, was alive almost by intuition to the slightest signal of intelligence.
The King moved carelessly amid the surrounding groups, evidently, however, verging to her side of the room; when his progress was interrupted by Mademoiselle Mancini, who addressed to him some laughing question. This was soon followed by another, and she contrived completely to engross Louis's notice. Marie even then began the course which, in after-years, secured her so vast an influence in the court,—alternately taking up and laying down her claim to the youthful monarch's penchant; administering to his amusement, and ready to encourage his passing fancies. Already she had controlled her temper, excepting where it might be indulged in with safety. She saw that Francesca was now the idol; and artfully ​turning the discourse on Italy, contrived to talk about her former friend—the most interesting subject she could have selected. Any one possessed of less finesse would have disparaged a rival,—not so Marie. She praised Francesca; told many slight but amusing anecdotes of her childhood, and all in her favour; till the King was charmed with her for such warm and ingenuous friendship, and with himself for having been the first to discover those merits and graces.
In the mean time, Francesca, separated from Madame de Mercœur, was hidden by a group around the Queen of Sweden. With the wall on one side, and a human blockade on the other, she was left at full leisure to meditate on a vow made at the first announcement of the lottery, namely, that whatever might fall to her lot she would offer in a neighbouring chapel to the Virgin, at whose shrine she would kneel one hour for Guido's safe return. But conversation was too busy to allow of any very abstracted meditation, and she was compelled, perforce, to listen.
"I shall carry away with me," said Christina, "An equally brilliant and grateful remembrance of your court."
"I trust," said the Duke de Candale, "you ​will defer these pleasures of memory to the latest possible period of enjoyment."
"Till to-morrow," replied she.
"So soon!" replied the Duke; "And can you tell us so with a smile?"
"Ah! you, I know, are one of those," continued Christina, "who imagine existence is bounded by Paris—that life elsewhere is but dull vegetation! Now, denounce me not as a heretic; but I prefer Rome. Here everything is absorbed in the present, as all there is merged in the past. Yet, you must admit, that the past, with its gathered glories of many ages, exceeds the past which has only to-day?"
"Yes," replied Candale; "but such glory has its gloom. The shadow of the tombs whence it emanates rests upon it."
"But what superb repose!—what deep conviction of the worth in life's nobler uses! I have," said the Queen, "Higher hopes, and more generous feelings, in those marble solitudes, sacred to great names, than I have here, where pleasure is business, and a tabouret the best ambition. It is very catching; I am half inclined to dispute precedence myself."
"Yet these forms are necessary," replied an elderly courtier, whose well-powdered ailes de ​pigeon stood out a little more stiffly than usual at hearing such doctrines.
"Well, well," interrupted the Queen, impatiently; "you take good care to surround yourself with them."
"I'll tell you an anecdote," said De Joinville. "You are aware that the privilege of entrance to the staircase of the Louvre is reserved to the Princes, to Ambassadors, and to Dukes. One evening, when we were all assembled after his Majesty's supper, M. de Roquelaure entered, and advancing at once to the King, said, 'I came in my carriage to the bottom of the staircase.' Now he is not entitled to this honour, and the King is severe on any breach of etiquette; so he was asked, in an angry tone of voice, 'And who could be ignorant enough to allow you to enter?' 'Ignorant, indeed, Sire,' replied Roquelaure; 'for he allowed me to pass under the name of the Duc d'Epernon, the last deceased.' Louis laughed at this; and we all, as in duty bound, followed the example. 'I must tell you how it happened,' continued Roquelaure. 'It was raining in torrents when I arrived at the Louvre, and I told my coachman to enter. The sentinel called out, 'Who is it?' 'It is a Duke.' 'What Duke?' 'The Duke d'Epernon.' 'Which?' ​'The last deceased.' 'Enter!' and my ghostly grace entered. So you see, Madame, wit makes its way in spite of all our forms."
The conversation was interrupted by an announcement, that as the billets had all been distributed, they were now to be opened.
Poor Francesca felt most cruelly disappointed. Pushed aside in the crowd, with none to heed her hidden position, no billet had been handed to her: the pages had passed to and fro, but she had been kept completely out of sight. She thought of her intended offering to the Madonna; it was as if her very intention had been rejected. Perhaps, even at that moment, Guido was in trouble or in sickness! "Though I have nothing to offer, yet I will go to-morrow and pray," thought she; and, in spite of her efforts, her eyes filled with tears.
The whole gallery was now a scene of gay confusion,—all were exhibiting and comparing their prizes; and in the mouvement Francesca contrived to draw near to Madame de Mercœur. She held in her hand a superb jasmine spray of pearls, which she was showing to the group around.
"I pray you look at mine," said a cavalier, who, though rather advanced beyond middle age, retained the buoyant step and clear, glad eye of ​youth; "do you not think it very appropriate?" and he exhibited a small hermitage, carved in alabaster.
"Quite a moral lesson, Benserade, for you. When do you retire?"
"A hermitage? Benserade would prefer a monastery, if all tales be true," exclaimed De Joinville; "and, in their confirmation, I must say I never tasted such venison as at the Benedictine Abbey."
"And I," said the Due de Candale, "Add my testimony in favour of their wines: summer seemed to have been expressly made for their vineyards. No trifling recommendations, Monsieur Benserade."
"I have known, in my court experience, much worse ones attended to," replied Benserade.
"Your hermitage wants nothing but an inscription," said Madame de Mercœur.
"It shall want nothing that you wish," answered the poet; and, taking up a pencil, wrote four lines on the vacant space which seemed destined for such use.
"Adieu, fortune, honneurs, vous et les vôtres, Je viens ici vous oublier; Adieu, toi-même amour, bien plus que tous les autres Difficile à congédier."
The little circle were warm in their commendations on the readiness and the grace of the inscription; when the English Queen stopped for an instant in passing, and addressed Madame de Mercœur. "Have I calculated too much on your kindness? I want my Henriette to see some of the dresses preparing for the ballet; will you allow her to come to-morrow, and trespass on your time and good-nature for their exhibition?" and as she spoke, her eye, with the most seeming unconsciousness, rested on Francesca. Madame de Mercœur returned a polite consent, and the Queen left the gallery.
Francesca was again confounded at the ease with which the appointment was made; for she was right in her supposition, that the Princess's visit the following morning was to give an answer to the note which had that evening been conveyed to her mother.
Mademoiselle Mancini, whose dialogue with Louis had been interrupted by the Queen's departure, whom her son almost invariably himself conducted to her carriage, now advanced to exhibit a splendid pair of diamond earrings. She was herself radiant with triumph; which grew still more obvious, when Louis returning joined their circle. Francesca was still in the ​background; but the quick eye of the King at once perceived her. He produced his prize: it was a massive bracelet, consisting of a broad band of gold, widest in the middle, and shaped something like a cuff; though it was obvious, from its unusually small size, it was only fitted to a most delicate wrist. It was set with a sort of running pattern of various precious stones; and it was difficult to say, whether the costliness of the material or the taste of the workmanship was most to be admired.
Many a bright eye grew brighter as the glittering toy was submitted to their inspection; but Louis seemed to have no immediate intention of parting with the beautiful bracelet. He passed round the circle, addressing each individual with his own peculiar grace of manner, questioning them on the various results of the lottery, till he arrived where Francesca stood. "And you, Signora Carrara, have you been very successful?—what memorial of our Cardinal's gallantry has fallen to the lot of his fair country woman?"
"I had no billet," was the hesitating and confused reply.
"Mon Dieu! why did you not take one?" exclaimed Madame de Mercœur. "My dear Francesca, you are too shy."
​ "The pages did not happen to pass near me."
"And you, my poor child, were ashamed to help yourself! Will you ever forgive my carelessness?—it is I that am to blame," said the Duchesse, with a kindness that quite deprived her young companion of all power to thank her.
"Allow me the pleasure of reparation," said the King. "The Signora Carrara will, I hope, accept this toy in token that she extends her forgiveness to us all. There is not a gentleman here but must feel such a neglect as a personal reproach." With the most dignified, yet graceful courtesy, Louis fastened the bracelet on Francesca's arm.