CHAPTER XXXI.
LUCIA’S TEARS.
Lucia Guiscardini had started by the night mail for Paris.
The next morning was the one fixed for her marriage, arranged to take place as quietly as possible at the Russian embassy.
Fatigued, nay, utterly exhausted, she slept heavily for some hours after her arrival at her apartments in the Rue Saint Honoré.
When Finette came to arouse her, according to orders, she was lying like one in a stupor, and it was with the greatest difficulty the girl could wake her.
“It is almost a pity not to let her sleep as long as she may,” thought the maid, as she stood by her, looking down at the flushed face and uneasy attitude of her slumbering mistress.
Finette had no great reason to care much for the overbearing, capricious prima donna, but she could perceive that she was struggling against impending illness, and she felt sorry she should not be at her best on her wedding-day.
“Madam!” said Finette. “Awake! It is nearly eight o’clock, and your bath is ready.”
A shuddering sigh, and then Lucia relapsed into her lethargic state again, though she was evidently suffering from the visitation of some painful dream.
“Madam!” again urged Finette. “It is your wedding-day. Rouse, then. It is a glorious day—the sunshine bright and golden, scarce a cloud in the blue sky.”
She pressed the soft, rounded shoulder of her mistress, and shook her with a firm yet gentle hand. For madam had given imperative orders the preceding night that she must be awakened immediately after eight o’clock, if not before. The entire responsibility of this lay with Finette, for she had no other attendant with her.
A stifled scream broke from the half-parched lips ofthe sleeper, and she sprang up, throwing her hands forward, as if to defend herself.
“No—no—no!” she shrieked. “No! Ah-h! You shall not take me. I have not done it. Take your hands off——”
“Madam, it is I—Finette. Do not be alarmed. Pray calm yourself. The people in the house will be frightened. You have been dreaming. It is your wedding-day.”
The smooth, reassuring tones brought back the Italian’s scattered senses, and the light of reason to her brilliant, distended eyes. She turned her glance on the young girl standing by, and sank back, shuddering, gasping for breath, almost on the verge of hysterics.
“I believe—I—was dreaming. Oh, Heaven! what a horrid, awful dream!” She covered her face with her hands, with a sobbing breath. “I am scarcely awake now. I feel so—so tired.”
“Your journey has fatigued you, madam. Why, you have had only a few hours’ rest, though you slept a little in the train. Come, I suppose madam must make an exertion, and rise. I will order the coffee.”
“Why do you wish me to get up? Oh! my head aches so fearfully—at the back, Finette.”
“Madam forgets it is her wedding-day. I am sorry madam’s head is so bad,” said Finette.
“Bon Dieu!my wedding-day!” cried Lucia, again starting up. “I had forgotten. Give me my wrapper.”
Finette gave her the richly embroidered silken wrapper, and then went out to give directions about madam’s coffee.
Lucia threw on her wrapper, and got out of bed. A few tottering steps, and she fell back, flinging her arms on the coverlet in blank despair.
“I believe I am going to be ill,” she cried, aloud. “But I must not be ill until I have been made a princess. Oh! this sickening pain in my head. But I must not give way at the last, after daring so much. What folly! It is simply fatigue. I ought not to have stayed there till the last moment, and then taken such a hurried flight.”
She lay in a half-stupefied state, however, making no effort to raise herself, as if she felt it would be useless. Then hot, blinding tears of rage and despair began to rain over her arms, on which she rested.
So absorbed was the unhappy creature by her terrors and doubts, her feeling of physical exhaustion, her dread lest her forces should fail her at the last, that she did not notice the return of Finette.
The girl stood on the snow-white, fleecy rug just inside the door, in an attitude and with an expression which showed that she was utterly confounded by the scene before her.
Madam had been in all varieties of humors—in violent, stormy frenzies of rage, sullen, depressed, ill-humored, exhausted, wearied—but never before like this.
Finette’s idea was natural, and yet, hitherto, undreamed of, for her lady had seemed, if not the least in love with her handsome prince, certainly pleased and eager to welcome him.
“She does not like him,” thought the waiting-maid, “and is only going to marry him for his money and his title; perhaps she likes somebody else. But it will never do for her to go on in this way.”
The girl was pleased at the prospective vision of being confidential maid to a rich princess—the position would offer so many advantages in addition to the increase of social dignity. It ill-suited her that the marriage should be put off, and she was superstitious enough to regard as most unlucky a postponement of the wedding-day.
It was not until she was close beside her that Lucia gave any sign of being aroused.
“Come, madam’s nerves are giving way,” said Finette smilingly. “Time is flying, and madam knows how long it takes to dress. Sit in this great easy chair, and steady yourself, while I brush out your hair. Come, they say people always fall into a terrible way just before they get married, though when the dreadful words have been spoken by the clergyman, they begin to laugh at themselves for being so silly. It is quite proper to cry on one’s wedding-day, madam.”
She lent the support of her youthful arm to Lucia, who rose mechanically, as if in a dream, and placed her before the dressing-table, a fairy picture of lace, silver, carved ivory, and gold.
Then she proceeded to array the bride, who exerted herself when desired to do so, but otherwise sat or stood like a lovely inanimate statue or waxen figure.
Although it was to be a strictly private marriage, the only attendant on herself being Finette, Lucia had prepared a toilet of the most recherché quality. A pure, white silk, covered with rare and costly laces, a hat of elfin workmanship, over which was thrown a square of tulle, frilled and embroidered petticoats, proclaimed her bridal state. With a great yearning, she had desired white satin and a lace veil, and to wear some of her diamonds, but was obliged to stifle the wish.
When she was dressed, Finette left her sitting by the open window, the balcony of which was heaped with exquisite flowers.
The girl—her only bridesmaid—went to attire herself in her own room, which adjoined that of her mistress.
“What has happened to me?” Lucia asked herself in affright. “What means this weakness, this sense of a sudden blank? Shall I be able to go through my morning’s work? What will happen next? Shall I live to enjoy my honors, my wealth, my prince’s adoration? Nay, I must strive against this pain and depression and fear.”
Rising, she began to walk to and fro, with uncertain, wavering steps, swaying from side to side unconsciously.
Presently Finette returned, arrayed in a really charming manner in a cloud of pretty, fresh, embroidered muslin. In her hand was a large bouquet of the most choice blossoms, fit for the bride of a king to carry.
“See, madam,” she exclaimed gaily; “here are some flowers, this moment sent. There was no name left, but you will guess from whom they have come.”
Lucia took the flowers, and put the bouquet up to her pale face, without making any remark.
“See how the sun shines—a happy omen!” continuedthe girl lightly, as she gathered up her mistress’ handkerchief, gloves, and little ivory fan. “The carriage waits—we shall be in good time.”
Lucia recovered her strength, and in a certain degree her spirits. They descended to the carriage, and drove to the Russian embassy.