Francesca Carrara/Chapter 31
CHAPTER IV.
"There, talking of the ladies, you may see,
As in some nest of faery poetry,
Some of the finest warriors of the court."
Leigh Hunt.
But the grand subject of discussion-—the perpetual theme to which all referred, was the fête about to be given by Mademoiselle de Montpensier. It was to be a bal costumé; and the taste and ingenuity of the whole court were to be taxed to their utmost. So, although every fête to which she had gone had been duly declared to be the last, yet Madame de Mercœur felt obliged to attend this one, as the very last indeed. It was a sort of visible sign that the heroine of La Fronde was reinstated in royal favour, and meant to be, as she had no longer any hopes of being Queen, a loyal and devoted subject for the rest of her life.
Mademoiselle Montpensier's history and character could only have belonged to her time,—a period devoted to, and distracted by, the very smallest interests that ever agitated a whole country. High born—and, Heavens! how, at that time, the privilege of noble blood was honoured! the world seemed but made for "nous autres grands;" rich—for she was the greatest heiress in France; handsome—for she possessed that high and superb style of beauty which suited so well with her state,—it would seem as if fortune had delighted in heaping all her gifts on a favourite.
But fortune takes a strange pleasure in mocking herself, and sometimes bestows all her gifts only to show how unavailing she can make them. Few lives have had more mortifications crowded into their brief space than that of Mademoiselle la Grande, Mademoiselle Princesse, Duchesse, et Comtesse of domains and denominations enough to escape any memory save a herald's or her own. The usual history of the heart was reversed in her case. Generally speaking, ambition grows upon the ruins of disappointed love; and we ask from honours and interests that delusion which we can no longer find in affection. But with her, ambition came first, and love afterwards. A throne was the vision of her youth; and the Cardinal Mazarin's soul must have much to answer for in purgatory for the many disappointments which originated with him. The war of La Fronde was the festival of her life, and, like most other enjoyments, dearly expiated. Some slight degree of personal predilection for the Prince de Condé perhaps dictated her celebrated order for the cannon of the Bastile to fire on the King's troops; but not much—only that transitory flutter of gratified vanity which is so often mistaken for a deeper sentiment. If Madame la Princesse had died—as nobody does die—precisely at the very moment to please others, the alliance might have taken place, but with as little expense of mutual feeling as could well bring two people together. The Prince would have allowed the principalities of Montpensier, Doubes, d'Eu, &c. &c. to exclude for the time les beaux yeux of Madame de Chatillion; and Mademoiselle would have considered "mon devoir à moi-même," "mes justes prétensions," satisfied by a marriage with the head of the house of Condé.
A long, dull exile, only alleviated by household dissensions—and quarrels are the common resource of the unoccupied—followed the exciting period of her brilliant career in Paris. At length she returned to Paris, still to see crowns passing by, which rested not on her brow, till religion or romance became her only refuge.
It is a great error for the heart to hoard up that romance which is only graceful in youth—and it is dangerous, too; for the feeling is as real and as keen, though no longer likely to meet return or sympathy.
Still beautiful, surrounded by flattery, and well aware of all that she had in her power to lavish on the man she loved, Mademoiselle de Montpensier may be pardoned for believing in the reality of his attachment, and for loving M. de Lauzun. Love him she certainly did, with the most earnest and disinterested passion. I know nothing more melancholy than the vain regrets, and vainer hopes, still raised, and only to be disappointed, of her lonely and irritating condition during her lover's weary imprisonment; unless it might be his return, achieved by her at such a price, and then to find herself neglected, duped, and reproached. It was the almost inevitable consequence of their disparity of years; but I never, for the life of me, could discover what consolation there is in knowing that we are suffering from our own folly. To my taste, it rather aggravates the ill; for there is always a sort of comfort in being able to lay the blame on others.
But the period of which we are writing belongs to one of the pleasanter episodes in her existence. Mademoiselle was but just returned to court, and enjoying all the gaieties of its brilliant scenes with the double relish of long seclusion; and that evening, as she walked up and down the terrace of the Luxembourg, waiting the arrival of her guests, she looked indeed native to the atmosphere. The lightly powdered hair sparkled with diamonds; and her fair pure skin needed no contrast to set off its transparent whiteness. The plumes which she wore suited well with the stately turn of her head; and if there he one thing more than another which marks the inherent aristocracy of gentle birth and breeding, it is the grace with which feathers may be worn—but a grace to be found, like truth, in "ah, how few!" Her scarlet satin robe swept the ground, trimmed with pearls and black ribands. A gold chain descended from her waist, and from it was suspended a curiously chased smelling-bottle; while the stomacher, arms, and throat, glittered with gems. There was a consciousness, too, about her, which is infinitely becoming—she felt that the Mademoiselle of to-night sustained her reputation. Hers was not the only brow brilliant with its own belief of beauty, nor the only toilette destined to be too charming!
It is curious, in any great festival, to note the various motives that animate its crowd. Some— and these are the very young—are joyful in the mere delight of being dressed, and of going out; some—and these are the very happy—look forward to meeting the individual at once their dream and their destiny. Ah! the anxiousness of the question, "Will they be there?" and the delicious knowledge of seeing them the first, the only object in the throng! A third set go for the credit of the thing—it is a sort of social trophy to be seen at such a place. Others go as a matter of course; society is the business of their life, and attendance on a fête is a moral duty. Some go to see—more, to be seen; some to be flattered—others, to flatter. Some go for the sake of their jewels—others, for themselves; and at the close of the festival, how few come away but worn out with lassitude and discontent!
Poor Francesca set out with these feelings. She had none of those pleasant, vague hopes which know not what they ask or what they seek, but which give such buoyancy and such gladness to youth. True, that her broken engagement with Evelyn was a relief; but it had been dearly bought, at the price of many illusions—of gratified vanity, of agreeable expectation, and an emotion the deepest and the tenderest that life can ever know. She felt such an utter want of interest in what was going on, that it was with difficulty she kept her attention sufficiently alive to go through the common routine of society.
As she stood before the mirror, gathering up her rich black tresses into the silken net which formed part of the Italian costume assumed for the evening, how often did the glossy braids escape from her hand! Climax of feminine indifference, she did not care how she looked!