# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
"'Tis he—what doth he here?"—Lara.
The following evening, Bournonville and his guests were seated round the large old-fashioned hearth, whose wooden chimney-piece represented the death of St. Louis, rudely carved in the same material, and once painted white, now brown with smoke and time. Madelon sat in the corner with her eyes closed; but her hands moved, as if telling her large oaken beads were a mechanical effort. Guido and Francesca were in attitudes at least of attention, though the thoughts of each were far away; and the painter was dilating on the fair beauty of Mademoiselle de Longueville, and the dark beauty of Mademoiselle de Chevreuse, at both of whose portraits he had been assidulously employed during the day. Henriette and Marie ​de Mancini, his former inexhaustible themes, seemed to have entirely escaped his memory.
Suddenly the whole party were alarmed by a violent knocking at the door. The sound of armed men with their heavy footsteps and clanging swords, mingled with oath and threat, were distinctly heard; and the bolt was scarcely withdrawn, before in rushed a party of about twenty, who appeared both prepared and determined to take possession of the place. Guido drew the slight rapier that hung by his side; but his guard was instantly beaten down by the leader of the band, who, however, in so doing, dropped the cloak from his face.
"M. D'Argeuteuil!" exclaimed Bournonville, "surely this is not the respect you show to the fine arts. Even during the ferocious siege of Rhodes, Demetrius honoured the house of Protogenes the painter. Will you, a Christian and a gentleman, allow yourself to be outdone in courtesy by a heathen?"
D'Argenteuil laughed. "Not so, my prince of colours. I knew not of your return; and this house commands the barrier which we have some reason to expect will be attacked to-night. Most of my men will disperse as sentinels; and you ​must find room by your fireside for myself and a friend or so."
Bournonville was profuse in politeness and protestations. "I have yet left a flask or two of fine old Burgundy; and I think I know what fair saint will best honour the health," added he, with a most insinuating smile.
But in the meantime a far different scene had been going on in the chamber. Francesca, as the door opened, had shrunk to the side of Madelon, when her attention, as the tumult ceased, was caught by a young cavalier who was gazing earnestly upon her. The light fell more fully on his face—she could not be deceived—she sprang forward, and, laying her hand on his arm, exclaimed in English, "Evelyn, dearest Evelyn! have you forgotten Francesca Carrara?"
"Mr. Evelyn!" exclaimed Guido, at the same moment.
Lost in delight and surprise, the young Englishman stood for an instant motionless; when, recovering from his astonishment, he caught the beautiful hand extended towards him, and, kissing it, eagerly whispered, "Francesca, the lovely Francesca, I am too happy!"
Turning to Guido, he expressed his pleasure ​at meeting him also; and then, addressing a few words in a low voice to D'Argenteuil, took his place by the fire.
The soldiers were dismissed, the Burgundy produced, and, despite their forcible entry, the new arrivals were as much disposed to its cheerful enjoyment as if they had been old friends bidden to a festival; Evelyn, Francesca, and Guido occupying a little nook to themselves.
"I will not tell you to-night," said the young Englishman, "of the disappointment and difficulties which awaited my arrival at home; suffice it to say"—looking towards Francesca—"that henceforth I shall look but to myself for happiness. I am now engaged in an affair which, if it succeed, will enable me to make my own terms."
"Why do you not speak in Italian?" said Francesca, who was something chilled by the over-frankness with which her lover alluded to feelings which with her were so sacred and silent.
"In good sooth, my sweet saint, my stay in England and here has somewhat roughened my tongue for the words of the soft south. I must learn them again from you."
Francesca sighed, and thought how little she had forgotten the English she had learned for his sake.
​ Evelyn proceeded to narrate his business in Paris. "Only that the majority of people are idiots, and prefer their fancies to their interests, these cavalier and roundhead differences might soon be settled. My plan is perfect, on the old principle that les extrémes touchent. I propose to unite the opposites, and conclude our civil wars like a comedy—with a marriage: Charles Stuart and Frances Cromwell!"
"So degrading a connexion!" interrupted Guido.
"The daughter of his father's murderer!" exclaimed Francesca.
"Ay, ay, prejudice and fine feelings, the old Scylla and Charybdis of action," returned Evelyn, with something between a smile and a sneer: "if the brewer's daughter has not the blood of the Stuarts and Plantagenets mingling in her veins, she is but the more ennobled by an alliance with him who has. As for 'his father's murderer,' such harsh expressions are never used, beautiful Francesca! We must talk of the force of circumstances, of imperative necessity, and find fault with the cruel horoscope which ordained such a fate. Charles Stuart will suddenly have seen the errors of his royal father. Cromwell's conscience will equally suddenly be touched with the desire of ​reparation. He will perceive that the innocent should not suffer for the guilty. The converted king's return will be another crowning mercy; and Frances Cromwell will bring three kingdoms for her dower. I much misdoubt me if our royal master would not take her for but the revenues of one of them."
"Well arranged," said D'Argenteuil, joining in their conversation; "but a man's circumstances must be desperate before he attempt to mend them by marriage. Why, your prince has already three alliances in agitation. There is his mother trying flattery in every shape to win for him the good graces and fair domains of our princess, Mademoiselle de Montpensier."
"If it be true what I hear," said the Chevalier de Joinville, the other remaining cavalier, "she had better take him. When she ordered the cannon of the Bastile to be turned on the royal troops, at the sound of the first gun, Cardinal Mazarin only remarked, 'Ah! Mademoiselle has killed her husband.' Gallantly as he has played it, De Retz has a losing game: the Condé is against him, and his reliance on Orleans—we all know what that is."
"Your young monarch," continued D'Argenteuil, "must then resume his devoirs to one of Mazarin's nieces."
​ "They say," returned Joinville, "that our own Louis is his rival there. Ma foi, the subtle Italian knows well how to weave his net. If the fair Mancini manages the son as her uncle has managed the mother, France is but a heir-loom to the Mazarins."
"If we were but as civilised as those Turks—who, but that we zealous ones consider you papists as the more pressing danger, would doubtless ere this have been the objects of another crusade—all these marriages would be easily arranged. Charles Stuart might have one wife for money—your own Montpensier, for example; another for his home interests—my Frances Cromwell; a third—the Mancini—for a foreign alliance; while let the fourth be chosen for love, unless there be any other advantage to be gained."
"Mr. Evelyn never makes unnecessary difficulties," replied D'Argenteuil, in a sarcastic tone. But the night is far advanced; I think we need now dread no attack; so I drink my farewell, and thanks to Monsieur Corregio Bournonville for his hospitality."
D'Argenteuil set down the cup, and, bending courteously to the strangers, withdrew.
Evelyn lingered for a moment, took from Francesca a few early violets—Madelon's gift, ​the first of their small garden—and, placing them beside the little bunch of straw which hung from his button-hole, "They will be scarce withered ere I am again at your feet," and followed his companions.
"Why, Evelyn," exclaimed Joinville, "in what profound mystery you had enveloped your beautiful Italian! Remember, I am not on honour, and shall do my utmost to rival you."
"I pity all who take fruitless trouble," said Evelyn, carelessly.
"I understand, now," added D'Argenteuil, "what made our volunteer so ready to accompany us. I believe, however, Mr. Eyelyn usually has some reason for his actions."
"Could I give a fairer one?" laughingly replied Evelyn.
D'Argenteuil was, however, wrong in his supposition. The young Englishman had only joined his party from mere love of adventure, for he was recklessly brave; and Francesca's arrival in Paris was as little known to him as to the rest of the party.
The heavy door had scarcely closed, when Francesca, leaning her head on Guide's shoulder, burst into a passion of tears.
​ "Is he not altered?" asked she, in an almost inaudible voice.
"You must make allowances," said her cousin, soothingly, "for the different manner of the countries; he has been talking carelessly, and before others." But he thought not what he said, and both retired to a sad and reflective pillow.
So much for anticipation in this life! Had Francesca been asked that morning what would give her the most perfect happiness, she would unhesitatingly have replied, her meeting with Evelyn. They had met, and she was sorrowful even to weeping. Ah! hope fulfilled is but a gentler word for disappointment.