# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX.
"History is but a tiresome thing in itself—it becomes the more agreeable the more romance is mixed up with it." Crotchet Castle.
"Children and fools speak truth," muttered Evelyn, as he parted that night from Joinville, and meditated on the return of Mazarin, which the other had so lightly prophesied. "If so, I am paying court in the wrong quarter; and the promises made by De Retz of assistance to our cause, when he becomes minister, are as vain as promises usually are. Well! I will attend the meeting at the Duke of Orleans' to-morrow, and the gales of La Fronde must blow fairer than they do now for me to sail by. The safe way will be to leave Paris;—but then that lovely Francesca! I am much mistaken if the least hint, backed by that high-sounding word duty, will not be sufficient excuse for absence; and if ​Mazarin returns, her connexion with his nieces may be useful."
The next morning, Joinville was the first person he encountered in the ante-chamber of Monsieur.
"Have you heard the news?" exclaimed he, eagerly; "the Prince of Condé has left Paris, and the twenty-first is talked of as being the day fixed for the king's entrance. The troops are advancing every hour, and Mazarin is omnipotent with Turenne." And the young Important, in his delight at being the first to communicate a piece of intelligence, seemed to forget that it was the utter ruin of his party that he was announcing.
Evelyn made his way to the inner room, where an assembled group were already engaged in conference; but the voices were languid, and the speakers hesitated; each seemed waiting for the other's opinion before he would venture his own. Gaston of Orleans was seated in a fauteuil, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, everything about him betokening an indolent love of ease. He had that striking likeness which characterises all the Bourbons—and his first appearance was dignified; but when he spoke or moved, this dignity, at least on ordinary occasions, was entirely lost. He had a peculiarity in speaking, ​strikingly indicative of his character. He began in a clear voice and a decided tone, but before he arrived at the end of a sentence, his voice sunk so low as to be almost inaudible, and the meaning became as confused as the sound. Never was there a man less calculated for the chief of a party; rash in his commencements, he was never prepared for their consequences. He had no confidence in others; how could he, when he had none in himself? Without judgment to foretell, or nerve to meet, the dangers his impetuosity had provoked, he never saw things as they actually were—but usually took the view suggested by any one at his elbow, to whom habit, or even chance contact, gave a passing authority.
Marguerite of Lorraine was seated at his side. Thin, pale, with that worn look which indicates the broken spirit, or the habit of bodily suffering, save in the still fine outline of feature, there was slight remains of the beauty for which her husband had dared so much, and yet endured so little. She leant back feebly in her chair, like a confirmed invalid; but there was a feverish flush upon her cheek, and a sparkle in her eye, that betokened the keenest interest in what was going on. A grave, quiet, and elderly man, the ​President, De Bellicore, stood near; and between him and Monsieur was the Coadjutor.
De Retz was now in the prime of life, and his heavy ecclesiastical dress could not disguise his light and even elegant figure, while his feet and hands were of feminine size and delicacy; but here ended his personal advantages. His face was plain, his brow was dark and knit, while the clear grey eye was deep-seated, stern, and piercing; his complexion was sallow, and the lines of his countenance at once harsh and worn. Monsieur was speaking when they entered, with much animation:
"War rests with myself—I have but to give the signal, and we shall fight with greater spirit than ever. Ask the Cardinal."
"Doubtlessly," said De Retz, bowing with the most passive politeness.
"The people are with me?"
"Yes."
"M. Le Prince would return at my request."
"Your wish would be his law."
"The Spanish army await but my bidding to advance."
"So we have every reason to suppose," replied the Cardinal, in the same uninterested tone of ​mere and necessary acquiescence to the assertion of a superior.
The Duke, who was quite unprepared for these unlimited affirmatives, paused; for he had expected difficulties to have been raised and obstacles to have been confessed, to which he might have yielded with something of a grace. But now, that none denied the power to which he laid claim, it seemed inevitable that he must propose acting upon it. Madame could restrain herself no longer:
"Out upon it, Gaston!" exclaimed she; "we are not playing Italian comedy. This is just like Trivelin reproaching Scaramouch, 'What fine things I should have said, if you had but had the sense to contradict me!' It matters little what you can do, the question is, what you will do?"
The Coadjutor turned towards her, his whole face changed by its altered expression. It was impossible to imagine any thing more sweet, more winning, than his smile; it had all the effect of sudden sunshine. Still he remained silent—when Monsieur, turning towards him somewhat sullenly, "Well, what do you say? is there any safety in treating with the court?"
"None; unless your highness make your ​own security," he replied, with an energy the very reverse of his former manner.
"But you told me the King would not return to Paris without compromising with me."
"I told you such was the Queen's assertion; but I also gave you my reasons for doubting that such was the intention."
"I know Anne of Austria's smoothed-lipped falsehoods of old. All women are false enough, but she has dissimulation for a whole sex. Verily there must now be some surpassingly honest, for she has engrossed the portion of deceit allotted to many. Why, I had a letter this morning from her, filled with professions of forgiveness, and of friendship."
"Your grace best knows, from experience, what weight to attach to the Queen's honied words," observed De Retz, who needed no further clue to Monsieur's present irresolution.
"Does it not," asked the President, De Bellicore, "touch his grace's honour to ensure some safety to the city and to the adherents who have risked much in his cause?"
"What would you advise?" exclaimed the Duke, directing his question to the Coadjutor.
"I venture not on advice," replied De Retz; ​but I will venture on laying before Monsieur the bearings of his present position. Our difficulty is to avoid being blamed as a faction, willing to draw out the civil war to all eternity, or stigmatised as traitors, ready to betray their party for their own advantage. We have to advise you between peace and war; but with yourself the choice must rest. If peace, you must submit at once to the Queen, and allow the unconditional return of the court, involving that of Mazarin—with all Paris at his mercy. He, however, will not be vindictive; punishment suits neither with his temper nor his interest. But you know Anne of Austria, and may guess how her native bitterness will be excited by the violence of Servien, the harshness of Tettier, the impetuosity of Fouquet, and the foolishness of Oudedey. And all this, it will be said, the Duke of Orleans might have prevented by an effective treaty, securing an act of indemnity."
"But how am I to obtain such treaty?" asked Monsieur, in a querulous tone.
"By active and defensive measures; which brings us to the second question of war. If war there be, it must be made as if there was no such thing as peace. You must arouse the good city of Paris by a personal appeal—recall the Prince de Condé, and act together in strict unity. You ​must confirm your treaty with the Spaniard; and, my life on the issue, you dictate your own terms. But you must act at once. Permit me to conclude with the old legend of the English friar, who framed unto himself a brazen head, endowed with all sorts of magical properties. In the course of time, this head was to speak; and when the hour of its finding a voice came, it was to communicate everything in the world. The appointed moment arrived—the image spoke, and said, 'Time was—time is'—but, alas! the friar was sleeping at that precise instant. 'Time is past!' said the voice; and the 'head was shivered into a thousand pieces, leaving the luckless maker nothing but regret for having thus wasted the labours of a life. Now, decision is our brazen image—the time is, and is also rapidly passing away; in a short while we shall be broken up and dispersed, even like the fragments of the brazen head."
"Still," replied Monsieur, who had listened with evident impatience, "if the King has resolved on his return, it is not my duty to oppose it. I must regret my inability at Blois: truly, quiet and retirement will be very acceptable, after all my fatigue and anxiety."
"Mon bon Dieu!" exclaimed Madame; "is this language for a prince of France? But if it ​come to this, had we not better go with a good grace to meet the King half-way?"
"And where the devil should I go!" ejaculated the Duke—and rising impetuously, went into an inner apartment.
The Duchess followed him, but returned a minute after—"His highness is at present disinclined for farther conference; but begs me to offer his thanks for your zeal in his cause." Saluting the company, she again withdrew; and for a moment there was a profound silence.
"It is vain, mon ami," said the President, De Bellicore; "however strong the arm, it cannot cut down a forest with a broken axe."
"Well," returned De Retz, "let the worst come to the worst; I am still Cardinal, and Archbishop of Paris—a temporary absence may be requisite, but that will be spent at Rome—I have made my reputation, and look to the future for its fruits."
"And I must retire into my shell," replied the President; "I have done with activity."
The council broke up: and Evelyn pursued his way to Bournonville's, fully resolved on leaving Paris. He found Francesca somewhat pale, but beautiful even as a painter's dream of beauty. Her picturesque costume, too, increased the effect, ​for she had as yet had no time either to observe or follow the fashion of the French. She wore neither the rouge, the powder, nor the frizzed hair, so universal at this period; but her rich dark tresses were bound with classical simplicity round a head small like that of a greyhound; and she wore a black silk dress close up to the throat, with loose sleeves, like the garb of the novices of the convent where she had been partly educated.
Her manner was at first constrained, but it gradually became kind, as if she reproached herself for her involuntary coldness; while Evelyn expressed his regret at his being obliged so soon to leave her, and enlarged upon the necessity of stating to Charles the turn in affairs.
"My father blames the part I have taken in the Stuart cause; and perhaps I had studied our interest more"—and here a gentle stress was laid on the words—"had I disguised my feelings. But, methinks, every spark of generosity and spirit must arouse for the exiled and the unfortunate. I loathe the canting Roundheads, from their straight hair to their long sermons; and pant for the hour when, instead of the low-bred hypocrite who now holds sway in England, the throne will be filled by our young, free, and gallant prince."
​ "You were not such an advocate of the Stuarts in Italy," said Francesca.
"Forsooth, my beauty," replied her lover, laughing, "I had not then seen how all the pretty faces in England are being spoilt by their straight caps and close coifs. I should renounce the Puritans, were it but for the sake of those glossy tresses. And now, sweetest, keep your chamber closely till I return. I love not that gay gallants of Paris should hawk round my dovecot."
"Your caution seems to me most needless," replied the Italian, the haughty blood of her race rushing to her brow.
"Nay, I meant not to offend; but who can have a miser's treasure, and not guard it with a miser's care? And now, farewell; I leave my fetters on you." So saying, he flung over her neck a small Venetian chain of delicately wrought gold: "So light, yet so firm, are the links which bind my heart!"
Francesca leant by the window after he was gone, and, almost unaware, watched his graceful figure recede from her sight; and it seemed like a relief when she could see him no more.
"And this, then," thought she, "is inconstancy—that inconstancy of which the tales of my native land are so full. It no longer excites my ​wonder, for I feel in myself how involuntary is change. I may control my words, tutor my looks, nay, curb my very thoughts; but my feelings are beyond my power. Can I force myself to rejoice, as I once rejoiced, in the least look of Evelyn? Can I bid my heart beat with delight at but the echo of his step? Can I persuade myself, that only to breathe the very air he breathes is happiness, when I know that his presence revolts and chills me? I may be faithful to the letter, but, ah! not to the spirit of my vow. False and ungrateful that I am, I do not love him now! Holy Madonna! must it be in myself that I first find that want of true affection which we are warned to expect in the world? or is it the heartlessness of this great city which thus affects me?"
She looked down, and marked where her large tears had fallen, like rain-drops on her black dress.
"Alas!" exclaimed she, "I have cause to weep—I must weep over my own changefulness, and over the sweetest illusions of my youth. I feel suddenly grown old. Never more will the flowers seem so lovely, or the stars so bright. Never more shall I dwell on Erminia's deep and enduring love for the unhappy Tancred, and think that I too could so have loved. Ah! in what now ​can I believe, when I may not trust even my own heart?"
Ay, love teaches many lessons to a woman; but its last and worst must be when she learns to know that it is not eternal—that it can depart, and leave a scar never to be effaced, and a void never to be filled.