Part 18 (1/2)
”Long had fired each youth with love, Each maiden with despair;”
but, unlike the Emma of the English ballad, Franconnette is too conscious of being fair, and torments her admirers to death. She becomes, at length, the object of suspicion and hatred to her fellows, in consequence of a rumour circulated by her disappointed lover, Marcel, that her Huguenot father had sold her to the evil one, and that misfortune awaited whoever should love or marry her. Some fearful scenes ensue, in which the poet exhibits great power. The quarrel of the rivals is managed with effect; and the rising of the peasantry against the supposed bewitched beauty; the discovery of Pascal's love, and the consequent revolution the knowledge effects in the mind of the deserted girl; his tender devotion, her danger, and Marcel's subsequent remorse, are admirably told; and, on the whole, the story of Franconnette must be acknowledged as a great advance upon the ”Aveugle;” and its superiority promises greater things yet from the poet of Agen.
”FRANcONNETTE'S MUSINGS.
”On the parched earth when falls the earliest dew, As s.h.i.+ne the sun's first rays, the winter flown, So love's first spark awakes to life anew, And fills the startled mind with joy unknown.
The maiden yielded every thought to this-- The trembling certainty of real bliss: The lightning of a joy before unproved, Flash'd in her heart, and taught her that she loved.
”She fled from envy, and from curious eyes, And dream'd, as all have done, those waking dreams, Bidding in thought bright fairy fabrics rise To shrine the loved one in their golden gleams.
Alas! the Sage is right, 'tis the distrest Who dream the fondest, and who love the best!”
But, perhaps, a better idea can be conveyed, by giving a version in prose of the whole story.
The story of Franconnette.
It was at the time when Blaise de Montluc, the sanguinary chief, struck the Protestants with a heavy hand, and his sword hewed them in pieces, while, in the name of a G.o.d of mercy, he inundated the earth with tears and blood.
At length he paused from fatigue: it was ended; no more did the hills resound with the noise of carbine or cannon: the savage leader, to prop the cross, which neither then nor now tottered, had slain, strangled, filled the wells with slaughtered thousands. The earth gave back its dead at Fumel and at Penne: fathers, mothers, children, were nearly exterminated, and the executioners had time to breathe.
The exhausted tiger--the merciless ruffian--dismounted from his charger, re-entered his fortress, with its triple bridge, and its triple moat, and, kneeling at the altar, uttered his devout prayers, received the communion, while his hands were yet reeking with the blood of innocence with which he had glutted his cruelty.
Meantime, in the hamlets, young men and maidens, at first terrified at the bare name of Huguenot, devoted their hours to love and amus.e.m.e.nt as formerly. And in a village, at the foot of a strong castle, one Sunday, a band of lovers were dancing on the votive feast of Roquefort, and, to the sound of the fife, celebrated St. Jacques and the month of August--that lovely month, which, by the freshness of its dew, and the fire of its sun, ripens our figs and grapes.
There had never been seen a finer fete. Under the large parasol of foliage, where the crowd were every year seen in groups--all was full to overflowing. From the heights of the rocks to the depths of the valleys, from Montagnac and Sainte Colombe, new troops of visitors arrived; still they come--still they come--and the sun is high in heaven, like a torch.
There is no lack of room where they are met, for the meadows here serve for chambers, and the banks of turf for seats.
What enjoyment!--the heat makes the air sparkle: nothing is more pleasing than to see those fife-players blowing, and the dancers whirling along. Cakes and sweetmeats are taken from baskets; fresh lemonade! how eagerly the thirsty drink it down! Crowds hurry to see Polichinelle--crowds hurry to the merchant whose cymbals announce his treasures--crowds everywhere! But who is she advancing this way? Joy, joy! It is the young Queen of the Meadows. It is she--it is Franconnette. Let me tell you a little concerning her.
In towns as well as in hamlets, you know there is always the pearl of love, precious above all the rest; well, every voice united proclaim her, in the canton, the Beauty of Beauties.
But I would not have you imagine that she is pensive--that she sighs--that she is pale as a lily--that she has languis.h.i.+ng, half-closed eyes, blue and soft--that she is slight, and bends with languor, like the willow that inclines beside a clear stream. You would be greatly deceived: Franconnette has eyes brilliant as two sparkling stars; one might think to gather bunches of roses on her rounded cheeks; her chestnut hair waves in rich curls; her mouth is like a cherry; her teeth would make snow look dim; her little feet are delicately moulded; her ankle is light and fine. In effect, Franconnette was the true star of beauty in a female form, grafted here below.
All these charms, too evident to all, caused ceaseless envy amongst the young girls, and many sighs amongst the swains. Poor young enthusiasts, there was not one who would not have died for her: they looked at her--they adored her as the priest adores the cross. The fair one saw it with delight; and her countenance was radiant with pride and pleasure.
Nevertheless, she has a secret dawn of vexation; the finest flower is wanting in her circlet of triumph. Pascal--the handsomest of all the youths--he who sings the best--appears to avoid and to see her without love. Franconnette is indignant at his neglect; she believes that he is hateful to her, when she reflects on his conduct; she prepares a terrible vengeance, and waits but the moment when, by a look, she shall make him her slave for ever.
Is it not always so! From all time a maiden so courted is sure to become vain and proud; and, young as she is, it is easy to see she is like the rest. Proud she was, to a certain degree, and a coquette she was becoming--a rural one, however, not artful; she loved none, yet many hoped she did.
Her grandmother would often say to her--”My child, remember the country is not the town--the meadow is not a ball-room; you know well that we have promised you to the soldier, Marcel, who loves you, and expects you to be his wife. You must conquer this fickleness of mind. A girl who tries to attract all, ends by gaining none.”
A kiss and a laugh and a caress were the answer; and, while she bounded away, she would sing, in the words of the song--
”I have time enough, dear mother, Time enough to love him yet; If I wait and choose no other, All Love's art I should forget: And if all is left for one, 'Twere as well be loved by none.”
All this finished by creating much jealousy, suffering, and unhappiness; nevertheless, these shepherds were not of those that make lays full of grace and tenderness, and who, dying of grief, engrave their names on poplars and willows. Alas! these shepherds could not write! besides which, though Love had turned their heads, they preferred to suffer and live on: but, oh! what confusion in the workshops!--oh, what ill-dressed vines--what branches uncut!--what furrows all irregular!
Now that you know this heedless little beauty, do not lose sight of her;--there she is! see, how she glides along! now she dances with Etienne the _rigaudon d'honneur_: every one follows her with straining eyes and smiles: every one gives her glances of admiration. She loses not one of their regards; and she dances with added grace. Holy cross!
holy cross! how she turns and winds, with her lizard-shaped head, and her little Spanish foot, and her wasp-like waist!--when she slides, and whirls, and leaps, and the breeze waves her blue handkerchief, what would they not all give to impress two kisses on her pretty cheek!