CHAPTER XXVII.
"But this divinest universe
Was yet a chaos and a cave."
Shelley.
"I really congratulate you on your brilliant conquest," said Madame de Soissons, as she was seated in the usual tête-à-tête with her hostess which concluded the day. "Are you not afraid of the consequences of the despair of your five hundred rivals? As a friend, I advise you, after you are Duchess of Buckingham, never to move out without a guard, and to drink but from a Venetian glass; thus taking all possible precautions against 'the poison or the steel.'"
"When I am Duchess, I will take all the care you advise; but it is waste of time guarding against evils which never can arrive."
"Never! What will you wager that the first letter I receive from you in France does not contain a full account of all the preparations for your marriage at least, if not of the marriage itself?"
"I will stake heart, life, and soul, on the impossibility.”
"You speak earnestly," replied the Comtesse. "We all know the worth of a lady's negative. The more forcible the resolution, the more chance there is of its being broken."
"Not with me. Under no possible circumstances could I love the Duke of Buckingham. He is too unreal—he affects too much to suit what he supposes is your taste. Life is to him a scène de comédie: he aims at acting his many parts brilliantly; but, in our admiration for the actor, we lose all interest in the individual."
"The truth is, or at least such I suspect it to be, that you have no heart, Francesca, to give. I remember a certain young English cavalier, whom we usually found loitering beside the ruined temple in the pine-wood. You had some lover's quarrel; but you are disposed to Christian charity, are you not? Nay, nay—don't blush, nor turn away that pretty head! I shall be a most indulgent confessor. What! tears, Francesca? You love him still?"
"I do," said Francesca, "more dearly, more deeply than you can dream!" and again she hid her face in her hands. But this was one of those subjects on which, speak but once, give but one little hint, and the heart forces its way to the lips,—it must have the relief of words.
"I loved him when but a girl, when only alive to the intense happiness which he taught me could exist. I could have passed days, content but to look upon his face, to watch his shadow wave on the long and undulating grass; to hear his voice; and when he gazed on me—when he spoke, though in the most indifferent words—to feel my heart beat as if it had started into sudden existence, and yet could have died upon the moment—its every purpose of life fulfilled in that deep and unutterable delight. He loved me. I should have perished when his presence was no longer around me, had I not lived upon that sweet and secret knowledge. We met once more—he seemed changed; his unworthiness was forced upon me, and we parted—never, never to meet again! Humiliated, angry, resolved as I was, yet even then I loved him: all recent injury faded before the tender memory of our early love. At length I learned that we had both been cruelly deceived—that he was all I once believed him. Judge how my heart sprang back to its old allegiance, hopeless though it was—though it is! Marie, I tell you, that were every worldly advantage heaped in one balance, and his own exiled self placed in the other, I would rather follow him a beggar through the world, live a neglected slave at his side, than take the fairest portion that Fortune ever yet assigned a favourite. Nay, more:—uncertain as I now am whether his affection may have survived my supposed faithlessness, I would rather preserve the poor privilege of treasuring up his remembrance—of carrying for his sake a wrung but undivided heart to the grave—than aught else that life can offer,—my first, my last, and only love! I cannot even imagine a destiny uncoloured by his influence, or a life undevoted to his idea."
Both were silent. The language of strong passion or deep feeling was strange to Marie; she scarce knew how to answer it. For a moment she yielded to a confused sensation of tenderness and sympathy; but the worldly calculation soon arose. She now felt assured that the Duke would never succeed. Still, habit was all powerful, and she thought within herself, "les absens ont toujours tort." Would not Evelyn's presence be additional security? But how was that to be managed? She must know more. "Have you no means of communicating with Mr. Evelyn?" asked she.
"None," replied Francesca; "never was situation more awkward or more painful than my own. But have you patience to hear the history?"
"Not only patience, but inclination," cried Marie, drawing her chair eagerly forward, and looking the curiosity she felt.
Thus encouraged, Francesca proceeded as briefly as possible to detail the events of the last two years, interrupted only by an occasional exclamation of surprise from her companion; and at last concluded by saying, "And now, can any thing be more hopeless? An exile in all probability from his country for ever, what chance have I of meeting Robert Evelyn again? And even were we to meet, it would be in coldness on his part, which would be an insurmountable bar to explanation. Often and often do I feel so wretched, so despairing, that the quiet rest of the grave seems all that I dare desire, or can hope."
"Not quite so desperate, dearest Francesca. I never will believe but that Fate owes you a recompence. I will for once prophesy from my wishes, and predict a happy meeting between yourself and Mr. Evelyn."
Francesca pressed her extended hand, but gave no further answer; and the friends separated for the night—one to think, the other to act. Madame de Soissons had just finished a packet to be despatched to her uncle. Late as was the hour, she sat down and wrote a long letter, which, when concluded, she enclosed to the Cardinal. Apparently, she was satisfied with her performance, for a smile of triumph curled her lip as she sealed the scroll and whispered to herself, "The game, I think, is in my own hands. I would not give much for his Grace's chance of this fair castle and its fairer heir."