Francesca Carrara/Chapter 93
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"Happiness!
It is the gay to-morrow of the mind,
Which never comes."
Barry Cornwall.
"Now, I am quite sure that our beautiful hostess has been making an assignation," soliloquised Charles, who, for want of something better to do, had been watching the various actions of the group in the principal chamber in the castle, where every window was open to the soft south wind, and the air was vocal with the humming bees, and sweet with the breath of flowers placed in gay profusion on the terrace.
He had noted, with his usual quick glance at a pretty face, Francesca's attendant catch her mistress's eye before she approached, and that, under the pretence of bringing her some music, she had given a note. The maid sustained her part with great readiness—not so the mistress.
Francesca's hand trembled as she broke the seal, and the colour rose crimson to her temples as she glanced at its contents. With ill-concealed trepidation, she penned a brief and hurried answer; and Charles saw with what tremulous anxiety it was given to the girl, who showed a true genius for her vocation, and, by dint of throwing down some loose sheets of music, and then picking them up, contrived to place herself between her lady and the rest of the company.
Alice left the room; but Francesca still busied herself with the strings of her guitar. A very novice in deception, she fancied all must notice her manœuvre, and could as little restrain the vivid blush as she could still the beatings of her heart.
Charles followed the girl into the gallery, down which she was slowly proceeding, holding the little twisted scroll in her hand, and looking at it with that expression of fear and curiosity which seems to say, "Now, if you were not so intricately folded, I would open you and see your contents; but I shall not be able to replace these folds in proper order if I do—still, I have a great mind to try."
Her indecision was of short duration; for Charles, whose approach she had not perceived, suddenly snatched the note from her hand, and, well acquainted with the mysteries of its shape, opened it, and read its contents, before the girl had recovered her surprise.
"A pretty messenger you are," said the volatile intruder, "to let your mistress's notes be caught in this manner! Why you are not worth your ribands! I shall certainly take this one back to the Lady Francesca, and give her some good advice how she sends letters by you any more."
The girl had but her sex's usual resource, and she availed herself of it—that is, she began to cry, or rather whimper, exclaiming, "that she should lose her place!"
"Place! place!" said the King—"if it comes to that, you must have the paper back again. There is a fatality in the word: 'place! place!' is the cry with every one who comes near me. For God's sake, keep your present one—for really I have none vacant at this moment."
"There—you have unfolded it!" And in her despair at the numerous folds, Alice forgot to observe the contents.
"Pshaw!—there, all's right again—but you must pay me for my trouble." So saying, he retwisted the note, kissed the bearer, and walked off with a careless composure.
The damsel might admire, but not emulate. One good effect, however, was derived from the interruption; she now only be came impatient to get rid of a note which had caused so much trouble already, and might occasion more; and in five minutes it was safe in the keeping of a boy who waited for it, and who, the moment he received it, darted off with a rapidity which might have served as an example to Alice when sent on her next message. Like most good examples, it was not one by which she was likely to profit. The truth is, Alice felt her dignity compromised. Her lady evidently had a mystery, and she was not intrusted with it. This led to two resolutions: first, to discover; secondly, to reveal it.
Some one says, keep your secret yourself, for how can you expect others to do that which you cannot? Still, I am persuaded more secrets are revealed by being kept than by being told. You enlist a person's honour, and, still dearer, their vanity, on your side by confidence. We all desire to deserve the good opinion which we believe we have inspired; but distrust awakens all that is little and mean within us. Why should we be better than we are held to be? We are mortified by not being thought worthy of trust; and there is also a feeling of small triumph in circumventing those who doubt either our inclination or our power of service. We like to show that we are not the nonentities for which we were taken.
The contents of the epistle which had excited so much curiosity were but a few words; but how much did they imply! They ran thus:—"Meet me to-night, between seven and eight, by the little pool in the wilderness. I think we are there secure from disturbance." There was neither address nor signature.
"The appointment is expected," thought Charles, "and the lady's handwriting too well known to need her name. Every precaution is taken, so that, even if the note were lost, it would not be of much consequence. So much caution indicates a most promising mystery—nous verrons." And the King returned to the terrace, where Madame de Soissons was talking to the Duke of Buckingham and the Chevalier de Joinville. They looked so well amused that he decided upon joining them.
"I am glad," said the Comtesse, "of your Grace's appearance. Will you interpose your authority, and insist upon their being convinced? It is very provoking to be so much in the right, as I am, and for them not to perceive it."
"Mine is a limited monarchy," said Charles, smiling; "but I will exert my utmost influence on your side of the question, when I know what it is."
"I am maintaining that it is a mistake ever to regret the past."
"Ah, Madame! a week hence and I shall not be able to agree with you. Nay, the mere foreknowledge that you will soon only have me in your remembrance convinces me that regret is man's natural destiny."
"I will take the compliment for the present, and wave it for the future. I am universal in my views, and see no reason why I should be regretted more than any thing else. What is the use of regretting the inevitable?—and if not inevitable, it is better to remedy than to regret."
"But not so easy," remarked De Joinville.
"We should never spare our trouble," returned she; "the trouble our wishes or pleasures give us is the secret of their enjoyment. Ask the Duke, if the possession of any hearts ever equalled the pursuit."
"Ah," said Buckingham, "that is because no heart is worth the trouble which it took to win."
"There I agree with you; but the trouble was worth itself.”
"I must protest," exclaimed De Joinville, "against your sweeping assertion, that every heart is worthless."
"Oh, I will admit of exceptions; but the very exception proves the rule. Love-making would be very insipid, but for the little difficulties, vanities, and misunderstandings, which diversify its progress."
"A lover's progress," added the Duke, "is like the races which the ancients were wont to run, carrying torches—the competitors usually contrived to extinguish their light before they reached the goal. So, in love—ay, in life—one bright hope dies away after another, and leaves us nothing but to regret that it was our own hurry that put them out."
"Regret again!" exclaimed Madame de Soissons. "Instead of lamenting over the extinguished torch, we ought to try to kindle another."
"Or rather," replied De Joinville, "try to do without either. We should try to cultivate monotony much more than we do. We work ourselves up into excitement, when we should rather compose ourselves into content. We should trace and retrace our steps. No path appears so short as that which is well known. Ah! change is a great error—the variety of existence only reminds us of its weight. Who are the happiest individuals of our acquaintance? Those whose existence revolves in the smallest possible circle—men whose daily horizon is bounded by their dinner—women whose hope extends not beyond their knitting needles. We should endeavour to forget that we are alive; instead of that, we keep renewing the mournful remembrance in every possible manner. We aggravate our miseries by mocking them with the name of pleasures. We insist upon disappointment by the pure force of unreasonable expectations."
"Well," interrupted Buckingham, "honour to the system which Pythagoras discovered in a bean-field! Pray, believe in it with all possible haste and fervour. They say faith works miracles; and the doctrine of transmigration holds out a prospect of future felicity to you, as an oyster or a dormouse."
"Or a stick, or a stone," said Charles.
"No, no, the oyster for me," replied De Joinville. "Let me have the consciousness of repose. Happiness is nothing, unless we know it."
"And hence it is nothing," rejoined Buckingham; "for who knows that they are happy?"
"We are much happier than we like to admit," said the Comtesse; "but complaint is too gratifying to our complacency. We love to talk of ourselves, but we are obliged to manœuvre for listeners. Were we to dilate on our beauty, our wit, or our wealth, all the self-love of our auditors would be up in arms against our own; they would never have patience to hear the list of our inherent or acquired advantages. But let them triumph over us, and we insure their patient attention. Gratified envy takes the shape of pity, while we mourn our misfortunes, our faithless friends, and all the bead-roll of grievances which authorises the luxury of lamentation. The truth is, we like to talk over our disasters, because they are ours; and others like to listen, because they are not theirs."
"You take a bitter view of human nature," said Charles.
"Mais, mon Dieu! it is the truth," replied the Comtesse. "Let me say the very worst of it that I can, I do not say half so much us it deserves."
"As representatives of the human race," replied the Duke, "we beg to offer our grateful thanks for your good opinion—unless you mean to make an exception in favour of your friends."
"Most assuredly not," was her answer; "for it is among my friends that I have acquired my experience."