CHAPTER V.
"This is to be alone: this—this is solitude."
Byron.
I have heard a great deal said of the cheerfulness of music, lighted rooms, and a gay crowd. I only know, that the most melancholy moments of one's life are passed in such scenes. There is such a feeling of solitude—so much conversation going on in which you can take no interest—so many persons who care not whether you are living or dead—so many forced words and smiles—so much fatigue—such a mockery of gaiety—such a dragging together of strangers, who can have nothing in common—and so much neglect, impertinence, and indifference. A large festival always appears to me a funeral on a grand scale of all human graces, affections, and kindlinesses. Like dancing, it is a remnant of ancient barbarism—fit for the days of the Chaldeans or the Babylonians, when people were only amused through their eyes—the sole entertainment of which savage nations are susceptible.
Madame de Mercœur and Francesca promenaded through the crowded rooms till they gained a seat near where Mademoiselle was standing. One of the diamond buckles of her sandal was unfastened.
"Ah!" exclaimed the Marechal d'Hôpital, "voilà une demoiselle proprement chaussée à faire la fortune d'un cadet!"
Mademoiselle gave him one of her haughtiest frowns, and turned away. In so doing, the glittering buckle dragged on the ground, and a youth, strikingly handsome, and dressed with just coxcombry enough to indicate that he was not indifferent to the opinion of others, stepped forward, and, dropping on his knee, entreated permission to fasten the buckle. Scarcely looking at him, the Princess accepted his services; the cavalier fastened the clasp, and, bowing profoundly, drew back.
"Splendid diamonds!" said some one at his side.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the youth; "I saw nothing but le plus jol pied du monde."
A personal compliment paid from the sudden impulse of the minute, no woman ever yet resisted; and Mademoiselle, turning round with a most gracious smile to her young assistant, for the first time remarked how very handsome he was.
Ah! the slight things in life are the irrevocable. The actions on which we calculate and decide never bring the important consequences which we expected from them. It is the thoughtless, the careless, the unmarked of the minute, that set their seal upon our fate—that are the final and the fatal in their results. That youth was Lauzun. I do believe, that the rule of love at first sight, like all other rules, admits of exceptions—while so many characters and temperaments exist, no one law can extend to all; but this I also believe, that love at first sight belongs to the highest and most imaginative order of passion—it stamps it at once with the seeming of destiny. All my readers may not assent to the truth of this assertion; but there must be some who will acknowledge, that at the first introduction of an individual, they felt that one was fated to influence all their afterlife—and when did such presentiment prove erroneous?
"You really," said the Chevalier de Joinville, "must come into the next room—Madame de l'Hôpital is astonishing us all by her skill in fortune-telling. Do pray go, and be introduced to the future."
He handed Madame de Mercœur, and the Duc de Candale conducted Francesca.
"Are you very anxious," asked he, "to consult the sibyl?"
"Nay," replied Francesea; "I want faith."
"You will," replied he, "nevertheless be amused with Madame de I'Hôpital's tact; she knows enough of the history of the individuals around to give a shrewd guess at the favourite fantasy of each, and that it will be successful is the summing up of her prophecy. She tells each what he wishes, and so obtains an easy belief."
"She would be puzzled to tell mine," answered his companion, "for I am sure I wish for nothing."
"I cannot emulate your philosophy," said the Duc, in a hurried tone. But a sudden movement of the crowd interrupted their conversation, and brought them directly in front of the table. The Chevalier de Joinville was in the very act of having his futurity unveiled.
"A most monotonous piece of business this," said Madame la Maréchale, "to have only good to prophesy—nothing but hearts and diamonds. You are sadly uninteresting, Chevalier; I wish I could foresee a few misfortunes, but your whole life is en rose—very sweet and very insipid. However, I must do you the justice to say you find thorns yourself."
"For the benefit of others, I hope," replied the Chevalier, laughing.
"Madame de l'Hôpital has been quite la fée bienfaisante" said Lauzun, who, like others, had been consulting the oracle. "I am bewildered by my future good fortune. I quite anticipate being married, if it is to bring me all that she predicts."
Mademoiselle blushed deeply. Now the necessity for such a blush must have been in her own thoughts, to dissipate which she began talking, with great animation and little connexion, to the Duc d'Anjou, who stood near. Fortunately, he was too much occupied in observing the folds of his azure silk cloak, bordered with silver stars, in a glass opposite; and the incoherency of his cousin's discourse was lost in the regularity of its ornaments.
"Shall I tell your fortune, dear?" asked La Maréchale of Francesca, who would fain have refused; but a negative would only have drawn more attention, so she submitted to her fate with as much resignation as could be assumed with a good grace. The Maréchale spread out the cards, looked at them with a sudden change of countenance, and then, with a forced smile, swept them all together again.
"I cannot tell you your fate—it is beyond my art. I suppose my science is limited to my own country." But her manner was evidently constrained; and, with a momentary superstition, it struck Francesca how unusually dark the cards appeared when spread out—while the next moment she smiled at her own folly.
The Duc de Candale followed, and again the ominous pack was shuffled and cut; again Madame the sibyl seemed disconcerted.
"You must beware of long journeys," said she: "but really I am getting stupid and tired—I will finish your fortune some other night, mon cher. You are young enough to wait."
The dancing, which had been suspended, now recommenced with additional animation, and De Candale claimed Francesca's hand; but the rooms were crowded, and they stood for some time loitering on one of the terraces.
"How beautiful are these orange flowers!" said Francesea, pointing to a superb stand of that most lovely shrub, where the golden fruit, the snowy flower, and the polished blossom, hung together. "I know no other plant that brings my own country and my early childhood so immediately before me. We had them in such profusion round the old palazzo!" and, unconsciously, her eyes filled with tears as she stood gazing on the well-known boughs.
"Do you like France?" asked De Candale; "Has it equalled your expectations?"
Francesca shook her head as she answered, "Ah! expectations are such unreasonable things! It was impossible for even France to realise the dreams of youth and solitude! What ever embodies our idea of perfection?"
"I have seen mine realised," said he, gazing upon her earnestly.
Nothing so completely excludes the idea of another lover as being already occupied by one; and Francesca had been too utterly engrossed by Evelyn ever to believe in the possibility that she could be loved, and not by him. The Duc de Candale's admiration had been remarked by all but herself. Perfectly in different, she never thought about him; and she now listened to his words, quite unconscious that they had any latent meaning as regarded herself.
De Candale misconstrued her gentle silence; and the downcast eyes before which were flitting far-off scenes, gave him more encouragement than any other expression that she could have worn. Naturally impetuous, disappointment was to him better than suspense. They were alone on the terrace; and Francesca started from her dream of early and betrayed hopes, to hear the passionate avowal that was being uttered by her unsuspected lover.
Surprise for a moment kept her silent; but to surprise succeeded a bitter sense of regret. "Not to me," exclaimed she; "pray do not address these words to me; you cannot think how they are wasted."
"Do you love another?" asked De Candale, in an altered voice.
She hesitated; under any circumstances a woman is reluctant to own her affection—it is so difficult to say what it is so easy to feel; and in her place, how painful was the confession! How can the heart bear to own that it has been given, and in vain?
Again her silence was misunderstood. "I have been too sudden," whispered he, in a gentler tone; "only say that you will let me hope."
Francesca felt that not to speak now was, indeed, giving false encouragement; yet, scarcely could she command her words. She was so grateful—so touched; but the very name of love conveyed almost an impression of terror—it was a word which she never wished to hear again. Briefly, but decidedly, she told the Duc de Candale that his suit was in vain.
With him anger was rapidly taking the place of softer emotions. "Certainly," he exclaimed, in no very gracious tone, "the folly of woman exceeds all that has ever been said about it. What can or do you expect beyond what I offer you?"
Now, when you have acted upon impulse, there is something exceedingly provoking in being suspected of acting from some interested motive; and Francesca rather warmly replied, "I am not aware of any right which you have to question me; but my expectations can have little to do with what is a mere matter of liking."
"Well," said the Duc, with that outward calmness of manner which anger often affects; "so you do not like me? I am sorry for your bad taste! and I bid you good night, quite convinced that you will repent your refusal; and I dare say you will never get married at all."
So saying, he left the terrace; while Francesca remained for a few minutes, bewildered by the suddenness of the scene, and half inclined to laugh at the Duc's parting denunciation. "The very idea of my repenting my refusal! his rank were too dearly purchased by himself. I can imagine no lot in life more wearisome than a union of interest and indifference! The contrast were too terrible, thinking of what hope once dreamed such a union could be made by mutual attachment. Ah, love has henceforth no part in life for me! Deceived, slighted, humiliated!—I loathe the very name!"
They say many a heart is caught in the rebound;—not when the heart has been really won. Pride may be soothed by the ready devotion of another; vanity may be excited the more keenly by recent mortification. But the great characteristic of deep and true love is its entire indifference to all feelings and opinions except its own; and, in such a case, and especially to a sensitive and reserved temper like Francesca's, the first disappointment is final.