Prince Eugene | Page 6

This silence first roused the countess from her
lethargy. A tremor convulsed her limbs; her dilated orbs which had
been fixed upon the door relaxed, and wandered from the silken
hangings of the walls to the gilded furniture around her; from the tables
of Florentine marble to the rainbow-tinted chandeliers, whose pendants
swayed to and fro in the sunshine. And now they rested dreamily upon
a picture which, conspicuous for size and beauty, hung immediately
opposite to the sofa whereon she was reclining. It was the full length
portrait of a handsome youth. He was not tall, but he was gracefully
proportioned. His shoulders were broad; and, rising from the midst of a
slender throat, adorned with a fall of lace, appeared his stately head
crowned with a wealth of long, brown curls. His face was of a beautiful
oval, his complexion clear, his mouth wreathed with happy smiles. The
brow was high and arched, and the fine gray eyes beamed with hope
and energy. In one hand he held a rose, which he extended to a person
not represented in the picture; the other band, half veiled by its
overhanging fall of gossamer lace, rested carelessly on the table, while
close by lay two rose-buds, which seemed just to have been dropped
from the half- open fingers. Over an arm-chair in the background was
thrown a mantle of royal ermine, which partially concealed the kingly
crown that surmounted its high carved back.
The eyes of the countess were fixed upon this picture with an
expression of tender sadness, and slowly, as if yielding to an influence
altogether objective, she rose from her seat and advanced toward the
portrait, where she remained gazing until her sight was dimmed by
tears, while the youth smiled ever, and ever held out the rose.
What golden tribute had his homage brought to her ambition! What
ecstasy had it poured into her heart! How truly had she loved that
princely boy, who, careless, happy, and fickle, was bestowing upon

other women the roses which for her had withered years ago, leaving
upon their blighted stems the sharp and cruel thorns of his inconstancy!
Since then, twenty-three years had gone by; she had become a wife and
the mother of seven children, but the wound still festered; the old
sorrow still sang its mournful dirge within a heart which to-day beat as
wildly as ever, and felt a pang as keen as when it first grew jealous, and
learned that not she, but Marie, had become the divinity whom Louis
worshipped.
Marie, too, had been forsaken, and had stifled the cries of her
despairing heart by marriage with another. The fate of both sisters had
been the same--a short dream of gratified ambition, followed by long
years of humiliation. It seemed that the prosperity and happiness of
Cardinal Mazarin's nieces had been coexistent with his life, for when
the eyes of their uncle closed in death, the light of their fortunes grew
dim and expired.
The portrait of Louis XIV., which was calling up the spectres of so
many buried joys, had been painted expressly for Olympia Mancini. It
represented his first declaration of love to her, and had been sent as a
souvenir of "the brightest hour of his life." He had barely reached his
thirty-seventh year, and yet this winsome youth had been transformed
into a demure devotee, who, despising the vanities of the world, had
turned his heart toward heaven, and spent his life doing penance for the
sins of his early manhood!
And this transformation was the work of a woman who had neither
beauty, youth, nor birth to recommend her to the favor of a monarch- -a
woman who had been the paid governess of the king's bastards, and
was not even gifted with intellect enough to cover her other
deficiencies!
These last thoughts brought a smile to the face of the countess. Turning
suddenly away from the portrait she crossed the room with rapid steps,
and placed herself directly in front of a large Venetian mirror which
occupied the space between two windows. It gave back the reflection of
an exquisite figure, whose outlines contributed much to the grace with

which the folds of a blue satin dress fell in rich profusion around it. The
white shoulders were scarcely concealed by a shawl of superb lace, and
the arms, still round, were set off by costly bracelets. The raven hair,
with not a trace of time's finger to discolor its glossy blackness, fell
around her face in curls as delicate as the tendrils of a grape. Her brow
was smooth and polished, her eyes aglow with passionate longing, and,
as her lips curved into a complacent smile, they disclosed two rows of
pearly teeth, compact and without a fleck.
Yes, she