Francesca Carrara/Chapter 99
CHAPTER XL.
"I crave your Grace's pardon."
Shakespeare.
How odd it is to think how differently people are employed at the same time, and how sad to think how heavily the burden falls on most! The contrast of the lot of the few with that of the many rather aggravates the misery:—why should they be thus favoured?
The evening, so anxious, so wretched to the young heiress of the Castle, had been passed very cheerfully by her guests. The Queen Mother and her suite had arrived at that age when cards are a habit, a business, and a relaxation. The one or two younger members enlivened themselves by betting sums they could not afford. Meilleraye and Hortense were rather unhappy at the thoughts of returning to France, where their intercourse would be so much more restricted; and Madame de Soissons and the King had drawn two large chairs near the hearth, the evenings being sufficiently cold to make a fire pleasant. She was talking, though in a low voice, with much warmth, and Charles was listening with an appearance of pleased attention—that is, he was kept awake very agreeably. When the dialogue began, both had determined to speak on the same subject; and what the one wanted to learn, the other wished to tell.
Madame de Soissons possessed, in its perfection, that rare and graceful gift of narrative, which skims so lightly over the surface, and yet leaves nothing unmarked—the keen vein of ridicule mingled with the touch of deeper feeling, and a sort of personal flattery thrown into the whole—something that brings the things described home to your individual experience; and, finally, which forces one idea prominently forward—the attention devoted to yourself, in so much pains being taken for your amusement. She was relating the history of Francesca, and endeavouring to render it as interesting as possible. She took it up from its earliest period, painting her as the lonely child in the deserted palazzo, yet careful beyond her years for the sake of the strange old astrologer, whose wild and wayward habits certainly lost nothing by Marie's description.
"And yet, your Grace, the young lover then sued in vain. She can now renounce rank and wealth for his sake; but she could not leave that aged and weary man desolate in his last years."
Paris came next, and the romance of Italy was left behind.
Charles was greatly amused by the deception of Francis—there was no high feeling in himself that recoiled from such imposition; still, he felt rather glad that it was not successful—partly, perhaps, because it would have put an end to the story.
Marie's own voice faltered a little when England became the scene,—the remembrance of Guido rose upon her memory; it was fortunate, for Francesca's sake, that it did, for real feeling always excites sympathy.
"And now think how strong and how enduring has the affection been on each side! We laugh at these grandes passions, and it is well that we should—they don't come much within our social experience; but still it is as well that constancy à touts épreuve should sometimes exist, if it were only for the sake of Corneille's tragedies, and Madame Scuderi's romances."
"And also," interrupted her listener, "that we may ourselves believe, and be believed. Let a miracle have happened only once, and we always expect it to happen again in our own case. Fidelity is very good as a precedent,—one true lover helps on the vows of a thousand false ones."
"I see," said Marie, "your Grace has a fellow feeling for the many."
"It excites so much envy to be singular, that I pursue the beaten path from a pure spirit of Christian charity."
"Do I doubt the excellence of your motives?—I see you are inconstant only from humility."
"I could soon forget to be humble at your side; Madame de Soissons' fetters are not to be lightly worn."
"I would thank you," replied she, laughing, "but I have made a vow not to speak of myself to-night. I intend to talk of nothing but Francesca. I am about to leave England; I must implore your Grace to allow me to carry away one pleasant recollection—one whose pleasure will not be painful because past,"—and here Marie took un petit ton de sentiment,—"you must, as a parting favour, accord me Robert Evelyn's pardon?"
"I feel most mercifully disposed towards the young Republican," replied the King; "your interest throws its own charm around the object. But this present case quite reverses the old saying, which asserts that the law is one vast cobweb, which the large flies, alias the rich, break through, but in which the small flies, alias the poor, are entangled. This Mr. Evelyn's estates are sadly in his way. It will tax even your eloquence to persuade George Villiers to give up the broad lands which are now his by right of confiscation; and life without land is but a half sort of pardon. What shall we do with Buckingham?"
"I was not aware," replied la Comtesse, "that the Duke was keeper of your Grace's conscience."
"Faith," answered Charles, "it might be in better hands; but if my conscience is not in his keeping, Robert Evelyn's estates are."
"Oh, they will bear a considerable fine; and there must surely be in this discontented island other rebels, whose estates may be confiscated for the Duke of Buckingham's benefit, and who are not so much in love as to be interesting."
"Well, pardoned he shall be," returned the King, "even at the penalty of George's not saying a witty thing for the next month at Whitehall, excepting at my expense."
"Your Grace," replied Marie, with a most flattering smile, "can repay him with interest. But a thousand thanks for your goodness. How happy this will make my poor Francesca!"
They now changed the subject, for Marie's quick eye had detected Buckingham's entrance; and she began to draw a laughing picture of the melancholy alteration which their departure would occasion in the Castle.
"These poor, dear, dull rooms—how weary they surely feel of those eternal portraits! What a comfort our countenances must have been!—why, the very old chairs must rejoice in a variety!"
At this moment Lord Avonleigh approached, with a face of solemn distress. "I must entreat your patience," said he, "if I lack to-night somewhat of the courtesy due to my illustrious guests; but I am in great anxiety of mind. The Lady Francesca has been taken dangerously ill—a fever, as my household physician declares. Do not look so alarmed, Madame; every possible precaution has been taken to prevent infection. I have given the strictest orders to interdict any communication between her attendants and those devoted to your service."
"Oh!" said la Comtesse, "I am not the least afraid. I shall request permission to see her. I can assure you she has been my nurse before now."
"I cannot take upon myself to allow such a risk, both for your sake and—pardon my parental anxiety—for hers. She is now sleeping; and the leech hoped so much from her being kept quiet, that I dare not suffer her to be disturbed. I shall treat her as a prisoner. See, I have in my own possession the key of the gallery which communicates with her apartments."
"There cannot be too much care taken in such a case," said the Duke of Buckingham, gravely, and looking at the King; then, changing his manner to one of extreme interest, he added, "Are you satisfied with only your ordinary advice? Should not you send express to London?"
"I think so highly of the care I have often myself experienced, that I am content to wait till to-morrow: a quiet night may do much."
Madame de Soissons urged no more her wish to see Francesca, but joined with the rest in expressing her regret.
The party soon broke up, for it was very late, and the intelligence of their hostess's illness did anything but exhilarate the circle. We always feel afraid, when any one is taken suddenly ill, that our own turn may come next; for the following day and night, at least, symptoms are equally fancied and watched.
During the confusion of the card-table settlement, Madame de Soissons approached De Joinville, and said, "Was it not your page whom I saw risking his neck for a crow's nest in the avenue, the other morning?"
"I dare say it was," replied the Cavalier; "I have known him risk it for a less matter."
"What could he do in a lady's service?"
"Oh! Louis is dévoué au service des dames. You might send him to the end of the world with a smile."
"I do not mean to send him quite so far as that. But, can he be secret?"
"He is my page," answered De Joinville, significantly.
"My question was rather unnecessary. I will ask one more to the point. Will you lend him to me a couple of hours hence, and let his coming to my chamber he enveloped in mystery as profound as M. de Liancour's meaning?"
"He shall be equally undiscovered; Louis would pass a sunbeam and cast no shadow. Two hours hence he shall be with you."
"And as a reward you shall be present at the dénouement of my romance. There was already a lady, a knight, and a confidante,—there lacked nothing but a page."
"Louis is perfect of his kind; but I am very curious."
"You must wait till to-morrow. Good night! and remember that if discretion be the better part of valour, silence is the better part of discretion."