ISABELLA OF PARMA.
The Princess Isabella slept unusually late the next morning. Her little
bell, that summoned the ladies of honor, had not yet rung, and the day
was far advanced. The first cameriera seemed troubled, and whispered her
apprehensions that the princess was sick; for she had observed, for some
days, she said, that her highness had looked pale.
"But we must go into her room, ladies," added she; "for it is almost
time for her highness to visit the duke, and he never forgives an
omission of ceremonial. Follow me, then; _I_ will undertake to awaken
the princess."
She opened the door softly, and entered the sleeping-room of the
princess, followed by the other maids of honor.
"She sleeps yet," said the cameriera; "but I MUST waken her," murmured
she to herself, "it is my duty."
She advanced, and drew aside the heavy folds of the pink silk curtains
that hung around the bed.
"Pardon me, your highness," she whispered; "but--"
She stopped; for, to her great surprise, the princess was awake. She lay
in her long white night-dress, with her hands crossed over her breast,
and her head cushioned on the rose-colored pillow that contrasted
painfully with the pallor of her marble-white face. Her large eyes were
distended, and fixed upon a picture of the blessed Virgin that hung at
the foot of the bed. Slowly her looks turned upon her attendants, who,
breathless and frightened, gazed upon the rosy pillow, and the pallid
face that lay in its midst, dazzling their eyes with its whiteness.
"Pardon me," again whispered the cameriera, "it is almost noonday."
"What hour?" murmured the princess.
"It is ten o'clock, your highness."
The princess shivered, and exclaimed, "For three days, then!" And
turning away, she began to pray in a low voice, and none but God knew
the meaning of that whispered prayer.
Her prayer over, she passed her little white hand over the dark locks
that fell around her face and made an effort to rise.
Her maids of honor saw that she was ill, and hastened to assist her. The
hour of the princess's toilet was to her attendants the most delightful
hour of the day. From her bedchamber all ceremonial was banished; and
there, with her young companions, Isabella was accustomed to laugh,
jest, sing, and be as merry and as free from care as the least of her
father's subjects.
Philip of Parma was by birth a Spaniard, one of the sons of Philip the
Fifth. After the vicissitudes of war which wrested Naples and Parma from
the hands of Austria, Don Carlos of Spain became king of Naples, and Don
Philip, duke of Parma. Isabella, then a child of seven years, had been
allowed the privilege of taking with her to Italy her young playmates,
who, for form's sake, as she grew older, became her maids of honor. But
they were her dear and chosen friends, and with them she was accustomed
to speak the Spanish language only.
Her mother, daughter of Louis XV., had introduced French customs into
the court of Parma, and during her life the gayety and grace of French
manners had rendered that court one of the most attractive in Europe.
But the lovely Duchess of Parma died, and with her died all that made
court life endurable. The French language was forbidden, and French
customs were banished. Some said that the duke had loved his wife so
deeply, that in his grief he had excluded from his court every thing
suggestive of his past happiness. Others contended that he had made her
life so wretched by his jealous and tyrannical conduct, that remorse had
driven him to banish, if possible, every reminder of the woman whom he
had almost murdered.
In the hearts of her children the mother's memory was enshrined; and the
brother and sister were accustomed for her sake, in their private
intercourse, to speak HER language altogether.
At court they spoke the language of the country; and Isabella--who with
her friends sang boleros and danced the cachuca; with her brother, read
Racine and Corneille--was equally happy while she hung enraptured upon
the strains of Pergolese's music, or gazed entranced upon the pictures
of Correggio and the Veronese. The princess herself was both a painter
and musician, and no one, more than she, loved Italy and Italian art.
Such, until this wretched morning, had been the life of young Isabella.
What was she now? A cold, white image, in whose staring eyes the light
was quenched--from whose blanched lips the smile had fled forever!
Her grieved attendants could scarcely suppress their tears, as sadly and
silently they arrayed her in her rich robes; while she, not seeming to
know where she was, gazed at her own reflected image with a look of
stupid horror. They dressed her beautiful hair, and bound it up in massy
braids. They smoothed it over her death-cold forehead, and shuddered to
see how like a corpse she looked. At last the task was at an end, and
the cameriera coming toward her, offered the cup of chocolate which she
was accustomed to drink at that hour. Tenderly she besought the unhappy
girl to partake of it, but Isabella waved away the cup, saying:
"Dear friend, offer me no earthly food. I pine for the banquet of
angels. Let the chaplain be called to bring the viaticum. I wish to
receive the last sacraments of the dying."
A cry of horror burst from the lips of the maids of honor.
"The chaplain! The last sacraments! For you, my beloved child?" asked
the sobbing cameriera.
"For me," replied Isabella.
"Heavenly Father!" exclaimed the aja. "Have you then presumed to
anticipate the will of God, and to go before His presence, uncalled?"
"No, no, death will come to me, I will not seek it. I will endure life
as long as God wills, but, in three days, I shall be called hence."
The young girls crowded around her, weeping, and imploring her not to
leave them.
Isabella's white lips parted with a strange smile. "You tell me not to
die, dear friends; do you not see that I am already dead? My heart is
bleeding."
The hand of the cameriera was laid upon her arm, and she whispered: "My
child, be silent; you know not what you say."
Isabella bowed her head, and then looking tenderly around at her
kneeling companions, she said: "Rise and sit by me, my dear girls, and
listen to what I am about to say, for we speak together for the last
time on earth. "
The maidens arose, and obeyed, while Isabella leaned her head for a few
moments upon the bosom of her mother's friend, the cameriera. There was
a pause, during which the poor girl seemed to have received some comfort
in those friendly arms; for she finally sighed, and, raising her head
again, she spoke solemnly, but not unnaturally.
"I had last night a singular vision," she said. "The spirit of my mother
appeared to me, and said that in three days I was to die. I believe in
this vision. Do not weep, dear sisters; I go to eternal rest. Life is
bitter, death is sweet. Pray for me, that my mother's prophetic words be
verified; and you, beloved friend of that mother," added she, kissing
the cameriera's cheek, "you who know the depths of my heart, and its
secret, silent agony, pray for your child, and praying, ask of her
heavenly Father--death."
The aja made no reply, she was weeping with the others.
Isabella contemplated the group for a moment, while a ray of life lit up
her eyes, showing that, even now, it was sad to part from her friends
forever. But the expression was momentary. Her face returned to its
deadly paleness, as gasping for breath, she stammered:
"Now--now--for--my father! Estrella, go to the apartments of the duke,
and say that I desire an interview with his royal highness."
The young girl returned in a few moments with an answer. His royal
highness had that morning gone some distance in the country on a hunting
excursion, and would be absent for several days.
Isabella looked at the cameriera, who still stood beside her, and her
pale lips quivered. "Did I not know it?" whispered she; "I told you
truly, HE did it! God forgive him, I cannot.--And now," continued she,
aloud, "now to my last earthly affairs."
So saying, she called for her caskets of jewels and divided them between
the young maids of honor; and cutting from her hair one rich, massy
lock, she placed it in Estrella's hand, saying, "Share it among you
all."
To the cameriera she gave a sealed packet, and then bade them leave her
to herself; for the ringing of the chapel bell announced the departure
of the priest thence, with the blessed sacrament.
The sacred rites were ended. On her knees the Princess Isabella had made
her confession, and had revealed to the shuddering priest the horrible
secrets of the preceding night. She had received absolution, and had
partaken of the holy communion.
"Now, my child," said the priest, in a voice tremulous with sympathy,
"you have received the blessing of God, and you are prepared for His
coming. May He be merciful to you, and grant your prayer for release
from this earth! I, too, will pray that your martyrdom be short."
"Amen!" softly murmured Isabella.
"But the ways of the Lord are inscrutable, and it may be that He wills
it otherwise. If, in His incomprehensible wisdom, He should declare that
your days shall be long on this earth, promise me to endure your lot
with resignation, nor seek to hasten what He has deemed it best to
delay?"
"I promise, holy father."
"Make a vow, then, to the Lord, that by the memory of your mother you
will fulfil every duty that presents itself to you in life, until God
has spoken the word that will call you to Himself."
"I swear, by the memory of my mother, that I will live a life of
resignation and of usefulness until God in His mercy, shall free me from
my prison."
"Right, dear unhappy child," said the father, smoothing, with his
trembling hands, the soft hair that lay on either side of her forehead.
"May God reward thee, and in His infinite mercy shorten thy sufferings!"
He stooped, and kissing her pale brow, made the sign of the cross above
her kneeling figure. Then, with eyes blinded by tears, he slowly
retreated to his own room, where he threw himself upon his knees and
prayed that God would give strength to them both to bear the cross of
that dreadful secret.
Isabella, too, remained alone. In feverish longing for death, she sat,
neither hearing the voices of her friends who begged for admission, nor
the pleadings of her brother, who besought her to see him and give him
one last embrace. Through the long night that followed, still kneeling,
she prayed. When the sun rose, she murmured, "To-morrow!" and through
the day her fancy wandered to the verge of madness. Sometimes visions of
beckoning angels swarmed around her; then they fled, and in their places
stood a hideous skeleton, that, with ghastly smile, held out his
fleshless hand, and strove to clasp hers.
Again the night set in, and the next morning at break of day, Isabella
rose from her knees, and, hailing the rising sun, cried exultingly,
"To-day!"
Exhausted from fasting and such long vigils, her head reeled, and she
staggered to her couch. A cold shudder crept over her limbs; all was
dark as night about her; she tried to clasp her hands in prayer and
could not, for they were numb and powerless. "This is welcome death!"
thought she, and her lips parted with a happy smile. Her head fell
backward on the pillow, and her senses fled.