51
I sat down and told him freely all that had happened from my strolling into Madame Riano’s garden until that moment.
“Peggy Kirkpatrick’s garden,” he said, absently tweaking my ear—a way he had. “That woman is the devil’s grandmother. When she is awake the devil sleeps, knowing all his business is well attended to by her. And Peggy Kirkpatrick’s niece—I know the chit, and knew her father before her. Scotch and Spanish—it is a fiery mixture. And I know that scoundrel, Jacques Haret. So the young man you came near finishing—Gaston Cheverny—laughed when he seemed a-dying. I wish we could have that young man—for Babache, my Tatar prince from the Marais, we ride for Courland within a fortnight.”
I said nothing, it being all one to me where Count Saxe rode so I rode with him. He continued, after a pause:
“It is true, as that devilish old woman Peggy Kirkpatrick says, I go on a marauding expedition, but never must we admit that.” He rose as he spoke, his black eyes flashing. “I go in response to a call from the greatest nobles in Courland, to lay my claims respectfully before the august Diet of Courland. But shoot me, if that Diet doesn’t elect me, it will live to be sorry for it—that I promise. And if Russia and Prussia want war, they can have it. War is the game of the gods. There is none better.” He rose and stood, the picture of a conqueror, smiling at the thought of the great adventures before him.
“It is a large enterprise,” I said. “Our necks will be in jeopardy every hour—but that is a small matter.”
52
“A very small matter, my Babache. Do you see yonder stars?” He pointed out of the window where the earnest stars were palpitating in the dark blue heavens. “Look at them but for a moment, and you will see how small a matter it is. But look not at the stars too often or too long—nor look upon graves too much and too deeply—for the contemplation of stars and graves will rob any man of all his ambitions; their silence will drown the shouting of the captains and the rustling of the laurels, through all the ages; the love of glory will die in his breast, and he will curse his doglike fate. Our largest enterprises are so small—so small!”
I perceived he was in one of those reflective moods when a man stops at a certain point in his existence, and, standing upon the lonely peak of the present, surveys the great unfathomed gulfs of the past and future that lie on either side. I have those moments often—but Count Saxe rarely.
He stood thoughtful for a while, then turning to me, said with a bright smile:
“But some things do not diminish even in the light of the stars; one of them is, the pure devotion of a woman. Mademoiselle Adrienne Lecouvreur sent me word this day that if I was resolved on my enterprise for Courland, all she had—her plate and jewels—should be pledged for me. Does not that shine bright even in the light of the stars?”
I answered with something I had once heard old Père Bourdaloue thunder forth from the pulpit in Notre Dame, about good deeds outshining the sun; at which my master laughed, and accused me of wanting to join Monsieur de Rancé in his dumb cloister of53La Trappe. Then, as if shaking off the spell cast upon him by the stars, he began to talk of the most trifling things on earth—about Monsieur Voltaire, for example.
“My coach is ordered to take us to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s,” he said. “I dare say that scoundrel of a Voltaire will be there—as you say you saw him with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur in the Hôtel Kirkpatrick garden. But I know he is under orders for England, and I will tickle him with a bunch of brambles by telling him that I shall mention to Cardinal Fleury that I saw him. Babache, I swear I am a little afraid of that thing of madrigals, as I call Voltaire. Those fellows who can write can always make out a case for themselves. I would as soon have Voltaire in London as in Paris—sooner at Constantinople than either.”
I went then to see if the coach was ready, and soon we were rolling along toward the Marais. My head was busy with our expedition to Courland, but it did not make me forget for one moment the soft splendor of Mademoiselle Capello’s eyes, nor Gaston Cheverny’s hurt. I privately resolved to take Gaston Cheverny with us to Courland if the wit of man could compass it.
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur lived then in one of those tall, old houses, not far from the garden in which we had played together as children. When we reached the place and were mounting the stairs, what should we see but Monsieur Voltaire’s long legs skipping up ahead of us! So he was still skulking in Paris! I knew the sort of persons I should meet with in that saloon—and they were there. First, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur herself, fresh from the theater; the Marshal, Duc de Noailles, who called my master “My Saxe,” and loved54him well; old Marshal Villars, the Duc de Richelieu, an actor or two, some fine ladies, a horde of small fry and Monsieur Voltaire.
As he was supposed to be safely locked up in the Bastille until he should leave for England, his presence was a good deal of a surprise, especially to the Duc de Richelieu; but Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s was neutral ground and nobody there would betray Monsieur Voltaire, as he well knew.
I entered the large saloon in the wake of Count Saxe, made my devoirs to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, and then retired against the wall, as the unimportant do. I was surveying the crowd of the great, and wondering what Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s father, the hatter, and my father, the notary, would say, if they saw the fine company their children kept, when my eyes fell upon my young friend, Gaston Cheverny, who, I supposed, lay in his lodging with a hole in his left side! The sight so staggered me that I felt my head swim. But there he was, as smiling, as debonair as man could be, wearing a handsome embroidered satin coat, white silk stockings and red-heeled shoes, his hair powdered and in a bag. I thought him handsomer than before. And that there was no mistake about it, I heard him addressed as Monsieur Cheverny.
I felt myself gaping with astonishment and became altogether lost to what was going on around me, except to this young man. I contrived to move nearer to him, and presently we were touching elbows. There was much laughter and conversation going on, the candles were blazing brightly, Monsieur Voltaire was telling a55story in a loud voice, but I saw and heard nothing clearly but this young Cheverny.
Considering our adventures together, I felt justified in addressing him, so I said, as soon as I got close enough:
“Monsieur, I hope you find yourself well?”
“Perfectly,” he replied courteously. “And you, Monsieur?”
“The same,” I replied. “I am glad to hear of it. I could not have made so large a hole in you as I thought, the night before last.”
He looked at me, puzzled for a moment; then his countenance cleared, and he said, laughing:
“It is the common mistake. You take me for my brother, Gaston Cheverny, who now lies at his lodging ill—his complaint probably small-pox or measles—” he winked as he said this. “I am Monsieur Regnard Cheverny, at your service—the elder brother, by three years, of Gaston Cheverny.”
I saw, then, on closer examination, that he was indeed the elder, and his seniority was very plain. But in feature, in complexion, in gait, in voice, he was more like his brother than would seem possible. He then went on, affably, to tell of his brother’s continued improvement. We talked a while together. RegnardCheverny, like his brother, was no man of milk and water, and once seen, was likely to be remembered. But I soon perceived that their souls were as unlike as their bodies were like. It is true, I had seen Gaston Cheverny only once, but the circumstances of that meeting were not to be forgotten. I am not given to sudden loves,56but I had loved Gaston Cheverny at first sight. I loved him for his foolhardiness, his presumption, in fighting me; I loved him because he loved fighting; I loved him because he could laugh in the face of death—in short, it was one of those strange kinships of the soul which make one man feel of another, the first time he sees him—“We are brothers.” And in the same way, I misliked Regnard Cheverny. He was a man strong enough to inspire love or hate. I have myself often heard that writing fellow, the Duc de St. Simon, say that love and hatred spring from the same root, and I believe it.
I also saw that Regnard Cheverny was a man of parts, and so regarded. I found out by the accident of conversation, that he had a head for affairs—a thing rare in his class. It was inherited from some of his Scotch ancestors, no doubt—for the Cheverny family had intermarried with the Scotch Jacobites, and had a large strain of Scotch blood in them. As Jacques Haret had told me, Regnard Cheverny had, during the preceding year, become possessed of the last remnant of Jacques Haret’s fortune, in Castle Haret, in Brabant, which had been sold for a song under the accumulated debts of many generations of Harets. I looked with interest at a young man, who, at twenty-three years of age, had so well feathered his nest; for his original patrimony, I inferred at the time, and found afterward to be true, was small. He was handsomer than his brother, being more matured, and there were a thousand subtile differences between them; but it all came down to this—Gaston Cheverny was to be loved—Regnard Cheverny was not.
57
Presently, supper was announced. It was there, around the table, that wit sparkled. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur sat at the head, with Count Saxe on one hand and Monsieur Voltaire on the other. She loved my master the best of any person in the world—but she knew that Monsieur Voltaire loved her the best of any one in the world—and he was very capable of love.
Monsieur Voltaire, as everybody knew, was to be sent packing to England, but with his usual adroitness, he made out that England was the country of all others he wished to see; that my Lord Bolingbroke—Harry St. John, as Monsieur Voltaire called him—was his dearest friend; and as for Sir Isaac Newton, one would have thought that he and Voltaire had exchanged nightcaps often. The valor of the English nation Monsieur Voltaire could not extol enough. My master listened to this with a grin, and then remarked that the English were in truth a valiant nation, but that the only Englishman he had ever met in hand to hand encounter was a scavenger whom he had no trouble in pitching headforemost out of his own cart. At this, Monsieur Voltaire sighed and said impudently: “Perhaps Count Saxe would favor the company with his story of bending horseshoes with his hands and twisting a farrier’s nail into a practicable corkscrew,” as if Count Saxe were always telling those things! Then he took another turn—this mischievous Voltaire—and paid Count Saxe most elaborate compliments on his prospects of becoming Duke of Courland.
“It is a great, a splendid destiny,” said he. “Fighting every day and hour—but that’s to your taste. An unruly people—but you were born to reign. A climate,58snow all the winter, rain all the other seasons—but you are robust and can stand it. And a duchess, Anna Iwanowna, with all the graces of a Calmuck Venus, waiting to become your duchess! But you ever adored the ladies, and are the very man to please a Calmuck princess!”
“Monsieur, you are most kind. Thank you for your congratulations,” replied Count Saxe, gravely. “If the Calmuck princess fancies me it will only be because she has not seen you. Men of letters are highly esteemed in Courland—where they are not much known.”
Monsieur Voltaire took snuff meditatively—and I trembled for my master.
“When you are Duke of Courland,” said this tigerish monkey of a Voltaire, “Peggy Kirkpatrick says, you will be ‘cousin’ to the Kings of France and Spain.” Madame Riano had bawled Count Saxe’s affairs and Courland all over Paris. “You will be ‘most Illustrious’ to the Emperor, and ‘most Illustrious and most Mighty’ to the King of Poland.”
The villain stopped and took snuff again. I felt my choler rising, and would have given my sword to have had my hand in his collar at that moment; he had already been caned twice, and ought to have been bastinadoed. Actually, persons were beginning to smile at Count Saxe, who turned red and white both, as Voltaire kept on:
“The Duke of Courland has the right of coining money, which the King of Poland has not. The revenue is three hundred thousand crowns, and the army eighteen thousand men.”
How the devil the fellow knew this, I can not tell.
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“He also has the right of raising taxes with the consent of the Diet—and if the Diet is handsomely treated, taxes can be raised as high as the moon. And more.”
Here he paused, and looked about him solemnly. Everybody was on the broad grin, except Count Saxe, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur and myself. I had almost gnawed my under lip off.
“The Duke of Courland is also pope. He issummus episcopus—which is Pope of Courland.”
At this—will it be believed?—there was, in spite of Count Saxe’s presence there, a shout of laughter. When it subsided a little, I, who had not laughed at all, had something to say.
“Monsieur Voltaire,” said I, “I have good news, great news for you. This day, in the garden of the Tuileries, I saw two persons—nay, two personages—that, it is well known, you have often expressed a strong desire to see. Both of them were inquiring about you.”
Monsieur Voltaire pricked uphisears; it was well-known that he loved the society of the great. As for myself, the company listened to me, because they had never known me to open my mouth before, at supper, except to put something in it.
“Ah,” said Monsieur Voltaire, putting his snuff-box in his pocket, and speaking debonairly. “It was probably Cardinal Fleury—and the Duc de Bourbon. I have reason to know they would like to make peace with me; but it must be peace on my terms, not theirs!”
“No, Monsieur,” I replied. “They were the Duc de Rohan and Monsieur Beauregard!”
Now, these were the two men who had each caused Voltaire a caning, and whom he had been burning to60meet for revenge. When I spoke their names there was a pause—Monsieur Voltaire’s eyes lighted up like two volcanoes. He turned on me a look that would have split a barrel, but did not make me wink an eyelash. Then there was a shout, a brawl of laughter, that rang to the ceiling and made the girandoles dance. I think what made the company laugh so was the notion that I, Babache, captain of Uhlans, should measure my wit against Monsieur Voltaire’s, and whether it were wit at all or not mattered little, for it served its purpose; it drove Monsieur Voltaire away from the supper table. He glared at the laughing faces about him, sat still a moment, then rising, with a half bow, half scowl at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, stalked out of the room. It was well known that, like most wits, he bore ridicule extremely ill, and could not stand being laughed at. As for Count Saxe, he hugged me, and I had so many compliments made to me that I was alarmed for fear I should be reckoned a wit.
When supper was over, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, by a sign, indicated that Count Saxe was to remain after the rest had left. All took their departure, including Regnard Cheverny, who bade me a civil adieu. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur took Count Saxe into her boudoir. I went into the saloon, where the candles were dying in their sockets. Presently the two came out of the boudoir. Count Saxe had a casket in his hand, which he gave to me. His eyes were full of tears, and he was silent from emotion. Mademoiselle was smiling—smiling when she said to him:
“Trouble not yourself about returning it. I think I shall not have use for money much longer. I am61often ill—more ill than any one supposes—and when I leave the theater I am more dead than alive. So give me in return but an occasional thought—a word of remembrance—it will be enough.”
Count Saxe said something—I know not what; the beauty, the touching sweetness, the majesty of this woman’s love was enough to overcome any man. He kissed her hand and her cheek in farewell; she gave me, as always, some kind words, and we left her, bowing to her with the reverence due a queen.
Count Saxe said not one word to me on our way to the Luxembourg. I believe he shed some tears as he sat back in the corner of the coach.
62CHAPTER VION THE BALCONY
The hour of action was at hand, however. The next day came the storm and stress of preparation. Count Saxe was besieged with persons wishing to go to Courland with him, chiefly gentlemen out at elbows who had nothing to lose; men of a doubtful past, men who had failed at everything else and thought themselves fitted to conquer a kingdom. Out of these and others Count Saxe selected three hundred men, whom he armed and equipped as Uhlans, and who were added to the body-guard I had under me before. There were other troops promised, and these Uhlans were meant to be the human rampart between Count Saxe and harm.
Monsieur Voltaire had gone to England, his departure hastened, so Count Saxe declared, laughing uproariously, by his dread of encountering Babache, the rival wit.
I found time, in the midst of running about from one end of Paris to the other, to call daily at Gaston Cheverny’s lodgings and ask after the young man. His improvement continued rapidly and steadily. I did not once see the young girl, Mademoiselle Capello, who had brought about all this fine coil, but she was not out of my mind for a moment. I may be, as I am, the63ugliest man on earth, without riches and not wanting them, humbly born and not disguising it, but yet I can have my dreams as well as any man. I often passed the great Hôtel Kirkpatrick in those days, and longed to know how Mademoiselle Capello fared, and whether her escapade had come to Madame Riano’s ears or not. Several times I caught sight of old Peter, who seemed to be majordomo of the establishment. The man’s face always arrested my attention. He was an ordinary looking elderly man, still retaining something of his soldier’s life about him, but the look in his eyes always went to the heart like a poniard. Afterward I heard why this was so. I saw Madame Riano often enough driving in or out of her courtyard in her great purple and gold coach, with her purple and canary postilions and four cream-colored horses. When she went to court she had six horses.
The days on which I saw Mademoiselle Capello were well marked in my memory. I never forgot the hour, nor the place, nor whether the sun shone, nor if she looked well or ill. Once on a soft and lovely evening I saw her sitting opposite Madame Riano in the coach, as it rolled over the Pont Neuf. The young lady leaned forward and smiled and bowed to me. Another time I saw her walking in the garden of the Hôtel Kirkpatrick. It was morning then, a May morning, and she was bare-headed, the sun kissing freely her dark rich hair, with the little rings around her milk-white brow and throat. Another day, toward sunset, when a great thunder storm was brewing, I passed the back part of the garden where the theater had been set up, and I saw her walking there alone. As I watched Mademoiselle Capello’s pensive64face—for that day she seemed to be in a reflective mood—the rain suddenly descended in sheets. She ran laughing toward the hôtel. Her face, her flying figure, her unconscious grace, were all childlike that day, and after all she was only fourteen; but maids were married often at fourteen.
On the twelfth day after I had made a hole in Gaston Cheverny’s carcass I was admitted to see him; we then thought ourselves on the verge of our departure for Courland. It was in the evening, and I was ushered into Gaston Cheverny’s saloon, where he sat in a great chair. He was pale and thin and showed his sufferings, but his eye was undimmed and full of light and laughter. With him sat Jacques Haret, dressed in Gaston Cheverny’s coat, waistcoat, breeches, stockings, and everything from his skin. He greeted me with the utmost cheerfulness and complaisance. In parting with most of his virtues he had retained two of the greatest—cheerfulness and courage.
“Good evening, Captain Babache,” cried Gaston, in a pleasant, though weak voice. “I swear to you by all the great gods of Olympus that from the moment I felt your sword sticking into me I have believed Count Saxe to be greater than Hannibal, Cæsar, Alexander the Great, St. Louis and the Cid Campeador, rolled in one.”
“That is most wise of you,” I replied, sitting down by him. “Believe that always and you will keep out of trouble.”
Here Jacques Haret, who was lolling in a chair, said:
“Our friend has been much concerned to know what has become of my late leading lady, Mademoiselle65Capello. It is in vain that I have reminded him of that old Spanish malediction on an enemy: ‘May you marry an only child; may you have a law suit, win it, and have to pay the lawyers!’”
A flush came into Gaston Cheverny’s pale face, and he looked displeased, as well he might, at hearing Mademoiselle Capello’s name in Jacques Haret’s mouth. I took no notice of his question, but began to tell Gaston Cheverny of our plans for Courland. His eyes kindled as I spoke, and at last he filled my heart with rapture by asking, eagerly:
“Do you think Count Saxe would take me with him?”
“With great joy!” I answered, for that was exactly what I was leading up to. And, to tell the truth, there were very few men of Gaston Cheverny’s character and standing among us.
Jacques Haret got up and whistled.
“I must leave you now, my friend,” he said to Gaston; “I am going for a promenade. I wish you would have your shoes made of Spanish leather—I don’t like these at all. And a gentleman should always wear silk stockings. That rascal of a valet of yours has twice brought me woolen ones. I am a patient man, but I can’t stand everything.”
To this Gaston replied: “Go to the devil.”
Jacques Haret went out.
Gaston Cheverny and I talked long and earnestly together. I did everything in my power to induce him to cast his fortunes with us. At every moment the sympathy between us grew keener. At last he said, blushing like a girl, and fingering the love locks that hung from his temple:
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“To tell you the truth, Babache, I am set upon some adventure, out of which glory and fortune may be wrung. For I love a young lady, not indeed above me in rank, but as far beyond me in fortune as in merit, and I must bridge the gulf between us before I can aspire to her. It is—it is—Mademoiselle—”
“Francezka Capello,” I said.
He was very much surprised at my guess, but the young always think their elders have no eyes. Then he burst forth, as young men of twenty do, raving over her beauty, her wit, her grace, lamenting her venturesomeness as if he were Solomon and Methuselah in one. I felt not one pang of jealousy. Francezka Capello was not for me, nor I for her—but that was no reason why I should not love her as one loves a star.
“And why does not Madame Riano keep a closer watch over her?” he demanded angrily, as if I had something to do with it. “Jacques Haret says that because Madame Riano always ruled her father, her husband, her confessor, her lawyers, and her doctors, she thinks to rule this girl by mere precept; but Francezka has the spirit of a fiery Scot and a hot Spaniard in her, and no one can rule her except by gentleness and persuasion. Then she is a lamb.”
He then told me all about the château of Capello in Brabant. It was a superb estate, and his own modest country house was within sight of it. Castle Haret, which Regnard Cheverny had so cleverly acquired, was some distance off in the same province. In Francezka’s childhood, during her parents’ lifetime, she had lived at the château, where Gaston and his brother had often played with her as a little girl. Since she had been in67Peggy Kirkpatrick’s care she had lived in Paris. But it was known that her Brabant estate was dearer to her than any or all of her possessions, and the Brabant people said that when she was her own mistress she would live in Brabant. The night at the Temple, Gaston Cheverny had gradually recognized his little playmate of years gone by, and from that moment, he confessed, with shining eyes, he had thought only of her.
“And now, in this expedition to Courland, I see the road to honor and fortune and Francezka open,” cried my young game chick, and I assured him so it was.
I remained with him the best part of two hours. The last thing he said to me was:
“The surgeon says I may mount my horse in a fortnight, but you say the word, and I mount and ride for Courland to-morrow!”
When I walked back to the Luxembourg, through the dark and quiet streets, I bethought myself that this young man, take him all in all, was the best recruit we had yet got. And so I told Count Saxe that very night.
There were unlooked-for vexatious delays about starting. We had thought to leave at any hour, when I spoke to Gaston Cheverny, but my master was summoned to Versailles, and there was much parleying about nothing; for after all, it came to what we could do in Courland of ourselves.
Cardinal Fleury must see Count Saxe, that the rights of the Church be guarded. The king must talk with him about the rights of the ex-King of Poland, his father-in-law. It was all very futile. Every one of us knew that Peggy Kirkpatrick told the68truth when she said we were going upon a marauding expedition after the crown of Courland; but the Russians were bent on the same errand, as were the Holsteiners and the Hessians, and it was a case of every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. I knew Count Saxe could beat them all to rags, and he could probably govern Courland as well as any of the other buccaneers after the crown. But I own from the beginning, I thought Count Saxe’s genius lay in war, not in peace. This thought gave me great content, for if we succeeded, it was well—if we failed, it was well. War is the game of the gods, as Count Saxe had said, and in that he had not then a peer.
It was on the morning of the last day of May, 1726, that we left Paris. It was a golden morning. The river ran silver, the fountains played gold in the sun, the heavens were a cloudless blue. I was in command of the battalion of Uhlans, and we made a gallant show, in our scarlet dolmans, our lances, with their scarlet pennons, catching the sun like points of fire. Gaston Cheverny rode with Count Saxe as aide-de-camp. He looked pale, but sat his horse firmly. We wore, according to the custom on opening a campaign, a little sprig of laurel in our helmets, but Gaston Cheverny wore also a deep red rose. As for Count Saxe, I will not speak of him, except to say that he looked like Mars himself.
Great crowds lined the streets, and we were very heartily cheered. Many persons of distinction were out, notably old Marshal de Noailles, who, as I said before, always called my master “My Saxe.” The marshal rode with us, his white hair floating over his shoulders. Numerous coaches were at the Port Royal, where we crossed69the river. Among them was the coach of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She gave us her own heavenly smile. Count Saxe bowed to his saddlebow, and his eyes did her homage.
A little farther on we passed the great Hôtel Kirkpatrick. At the sound of our horses’ hoofs clanging, Madame Riano came out on her balcony to see us. She waved at Count Saxe her great green and gold fan, without which she never budged, and actually laughed in his face and shook her head derisively when he bowed to her. That woman was enough to drive any man to drink. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Capello, but when we had passed the front of the hôtel we espied a little balcony on the side, overlooking the garden. She stood on that balcony; I remember she wore a crimson bodice and skirt and a crimson ribbon was in her unpowdered hair. Her eyes outshone the sun. She returned our bows with the lowest of curtsies. Gaston Cheverny’s eyes were glued to that balcony until Mademoiselle Capello was no longer visible. His face was glowing with delight. When we were well out beyond the barriers and in the fair open country, he rode up beside me. His face was all smiles and blushes, like a girl’s.
“Did you see Mademoiselle Francezka?” he asked.
I nodded, and he continued:
“Last night Madame Riano had one of her great routs. I went to it with my brother—our first visit to her since we have been in Paris. She received us well, and so did that angel, Francezka, who said she remembered us from her childhood. Ah, Babache, she was so kind to me. It seems she knew all about our little fracas—she70had got the whole story out of old Peter—and was full of the sweetest regrets. She even begged my pardon—the darling!—for having been so rude to me the night of our first encounter. I think she is now awake to the imprudence of her conduct, and most anxious for it not to be known, instead of being defiant, as she was at the time. She asked me to give you her thanks and her remembrance.”
“It is enough,” said I; “if I can but always merit her thanks and her remembrance I shall be satisfied. It is for men placed like you to aspire for more.”
“Babache,” he cried, “you are an honest fellow, and I am glad you made that hole in me, if it won me your friendship.”
“I did not wish to make a hole in you,” I replied. “What has your brother to say to your going with us?”
“He tried to dissuade me from going. I tried to persuade him into going. Regnard has more of that beggarly virtue of prudence than I. But, Babache, here is the devil to pay; my brother fell desperately in love with Mademoiselle Capello at first sight.”
“That is nothing,” said I, unfeelingly. “You are so much alike it can matter but little to her which one she may love.”
“Out, rascal! But—but—mademoiselle was much kinder to me than to Regnard. Indeed, she was not kind at all to him.”
“Oh, poor brother! How that must have pained you!”
“No! no! My brother and I are nearer to each other than most brothers, but when a young lady is concerned we are as man to man. So I was rather pleased not to have my brother for a rival.”
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“He will be in Paris while you are away, and may make his hay in your absence.”
Gaston’s face was flooded with laughter and color as he replied:
“Well—under the rose, remember—Mademoiselle Capello will not be in Paris long. She confided to me that her aunt was setting out upon her travels shortly, meaning to go as far north as Russia. Then, on their return, they will stop in Brabant, probably until mademoiselle attains her majority. It will go hard with me if I am not at my own house for a little while at least, while Mademoiselle Capello is my neighbor. And Babache!” he rode closer and whispered in my ear: “She told me last night she would be watching on a certain balcony when we passed, and I asked her what color of gown she would wear, because I should wear a flower of that color, and she said crimson, and here I have a crimson rose in my helmet.”
His boyish eyes were radiant with joy and triumph. His was a spirit daring in love as in war, and surely Francezka Capello had the spirit of ten good men in her young soul. I began to wonder what two such eaglets would contrive between them.
72CHAPTER VIIAN UGLY DUCHESS
The town of Mitau is an ugly place, built near a dull and sluggish river, rudely spanned by a bridge of boats at the market-place. The palace, however, is a fine building, and there dwelt the ugly Duchess Anna Iwanowna—bad luck forever to her!—and there could have dwelt Count Saxe if he would but have obliged the duchess by marrying her. But he could not swallow the pill.
We were in Mitau from June, 1726, when those rascally Courlanders pretended they meant to make Count Saxe Duke of Courland, until August, 1727, when we made our way out of the place—only twenty of us; and not without trouble, either, of which I shall speak presently.
To this rag of a remnant of twenty was Count Saxe’s following reduced. It is true my master had three hundred men, many of them my Uhlans, the “Clear-the-way-boys,” intrenched on the island in the Lake of Uzmaiz, five days’ march away, where they stood guard over a military chest of considerable value, and a large quantity of arms and ammunition. Our enemies would have given their ears to know where our money and arms were—for they knew Count Saxe had both—and it73finally took near five thousand Russians a month to find them.
I reckon those fourteen months in Mitau as going far to atone for our sins. It was a time of negotiations, contentions, bickerings, proclamations and counter proclamations, Count Saxe on the one side, and the Russian Empire on the other; the Courlanders in between, handing out lies by the shovelful, with equal impartiality on either hand! What liars they were! There was an open green field near the town, where the Diet met in those summers of 1726 and 1727, which Count Saxe called the Field of Lies, after the celebrated spot in France, where the heirs of Charlemagne met to divide the empire. I am sure more lies were told about the duchy of Courland than were told about the division of the empire of Charlemagne. We had promises enough, and even votes enough to elect Count Saxe Duke of Courland, if only he could have put his hand on ten thousand stout soldiers, to make the election good. The Russians very rightly paid no attention to the pretensions of the Holsteiners, and the Hessians, and the rest of the crown snatchers, as Madame Riano had called them. They were but lath and plaster; but Count Saxe was a man well fashioned by nature of her strongest metal, and him the Russians reckoned with, and him only.
We had but one piece of good luck in Mitau, and that was the place in which we were lodged. It was an old stone schloss near the river, and had been the residence of the dukes of Courland until they screwed the money from their miserable people with which to build the fine palace. They had made themselves secure from74their lieges in case the lieges should rise against their masters; for the walls of the old schloss were nine feet thick, with mere slits for windows, and it was surrounded by a moat, with a drawbridge. Moreover, there was a brick tunnel a half of a quarter of a mile long, which debouched at the river’s edge. The market-place, however, had sprung up at that point, and also, the bridge of boats, so that it was no longer available for the escape of armed men.
We did not reckon upon either defense or escape, until it was too late—the first, the last, and the only time Count Saxe was ever caught napping by his enemies. And it was by my forethought—I say it with diffidence—that the drawbridge was put in working order. It came about in this manner.
The ugly duchess, having fallen in love with Count Saxe the first time she saw him, as all the women did, poor souls, they could not help themselves—invited him to lodge with his suite at the palace, instead of at the old schloss with the rats. Never were there such rats. We used to have regular battues of rats, killing them with our swords. But Count Saxe was wary—he had no mind to be lodged too far away from his horses. As it was, our stabling was at an inconvenient distance from the schloss. But how to get away from the pressing attentions of a lady is a problem; all will admit that.
One morning, however, a placard was found affixed to the palace gates, making light of Count Saxe’s alleged intention to take up his quarters at the palace. He happened to arrive just as a great crowd had assembled, laughing and jeering. He rode up, dismounted,75tore the placard from the iron gateway, cuffed half a dozen grinning fellows, and like a walking volcano marched into the palace. He demanded instantly to see the duchess, and after tearing the placard to shreds in her presence, declared that nothing would induce him to subject her to such indignities; consequently he would remain at the schloss with the rats. The duchess glared at him, and in her turn cuffed a saucy page that laughed behind his hand; and from that hour she was his enemy. No woman ever forgives a man for being more prudent than she, and although I swear I know nothing of Count Saxe’s affairs with the ladies, I will admit this, that he was not reckoned a prudish man exactly.
When he returned to the schloss, and with mirth and heartfelt joy told me of the thing, my reply was to go and examine the drawbridge. Our arms and accoutrements were always kept in perfect order, so there was no need to inspect them. The chains and blocks of the drawbridge were rusty and moss-grown, but I speedily got them in working order, well oiled, and the drawbridge moved up and down as smoothly as my lady’s fan opening and shutting. Count Saxe, seeing me at work, with several men, came to find out what we were doing.
“I am putting the drawbridge in order, sir, because you were so extremely decorous with the duchess,” I said to him; at which he shouted with laughter, but owned I was right.
There was an open plaza in front of the schloss, with several mean streets making off from it. Within was76a courtyard of some extent, with a few dismal trees growing, and around us was the stagnant green water of the moat. Oh, what a dreary place that was!
I had mountains of writing to do, those devilish Courlanders presenting endless petitions, protests, pieces, justifications, and other rubbish, all of which had to be answered civilly. We kept up a brisk correspondence with France when we could; but the Courlanders have no notion that a courier is a sacred object, so a vast number of our letters never got farther than Mitau.
Our communication from the rest of the world was scant and uncertain. Even Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s letters rarely reached us, although we knew she wrote faithfully and often to Count Saxe. We knew scarce anything that was happening outside, except that Monsieur Voltaire was in England, and Count Saxe hoped he would remain there.
There was one person of whom I thought daily and hourly, but could hear no word of—Mademoiselle Francezka Capello. All I knew was that she and Madame Riano had set forth from Paris, in great state, on their travels. I was not the only person athirst for news of Francezka. Gaston Cheverny was as eager. He wrote continually to his brother Regnard imploring and demanding to know of Mademoiselle Capello’s welfare; but he admitted, with the utmost chagrin, that Regnard, in those of his letters which were received, never so much as mentioned Mademoiselle Capello’s name, which led me to infer that Regnard Cheverny knew all about her.
I have never known a man who early acquired a77fortune that was not a calculator and an acute reckoner of his own and other men’s chances. But Gaston Cheverny was not a calculator in the mean sense. The motto of his house well described him. It ran, in the old French—Un Loy, Un Foy, Un Roy. One faith was Gaston Cheverny’s in all things. He was full of youthful spirits, of ridiculous young daring, always wanting to achieve the impossible, and of the sort, when he could not conquer the world, to beat the watch. But those men are to be loved. Gaston Cheverny had great capacity for love and romance. The image of Francezka Capello had been deeply graven on his heart, and I saw what one does not often see in a young man barely one and twenty—a real devotion to an ideal, a faithfulness that can and will endure.
He was not one of the loose-tongued sort, who tell all to everybody. I think he never spoke of Mademoiselle Capello to any one but to me, and occasionally to Count Saxe. At night, when I sat in my room reading by a single candle, before I went to bed, Gaston Cheverny would come in, throw himself on my bed, and begin to rave over Francezka. He would go back to his earliest childhood, and aided by a very active imagination, prove that he had loved her ever since she was born. He explained this to me very ingeniously, saying he was in love with Francezka before he saw her, because he was in love with a dream, of which Francezka was the reality. I listened smiling and with a good heart. Knowing Gaston Cheverny well, I thought him worthy, if any man was, of Francezka Capello. Sometimes he would rave over her beauty, and would threaten to run me through when I ventured78to say that it was her wit and charm which made her beautiful. Again, he was full of adoration for her lofty, high spirit; and then bewailed it, as likely to lead her into unnumbered dangers, from which Madame Riano was small protection—for Scotch Peg loved adventures as a cat loves cream.
Gaston Cheverny was of a bookish turn, and was the first one who quoted to me the saying about books: “In winter, you may read them,ad ignem, by the fireside; and in summer,ad umbram, under some shady tree; and therewith pass away the tedious hours.” We passed away some of our tedious hours at Mitau in this manner, but we had few books. Among them luckily was a volume of Bourdaloue’s sermons, of which Count Saxe always made me read one whenever the Courlanders were more devilish than usual in giving us fair words of emptiness for truth; and my master always fitted the preacher’s denunciations to his enemies.
Gaston Cheverny and I made bold to correct Count Saxe’s theology, but he called us a couple of cheek turners, and declared he knew that the Psalmist, as well as Bourdaloue, had the Courlanders in mind when he denounced liars and hypocrites. Next to sermons my master liked the verses and songs of that rogue of rogues, François Villon. Gaston Cheverny sang these songs of Villon’s very agreeably, accompanying himself on the viol, and so whiled away some of our heaviest hours. These diversions, together with our rat-killings, were the sum of our amusements, for I do not reckon the balls at the palace as amusements. Count Saxe would occasionally insist on taking me to the palace, although I objected to going on the ground that79the duchess had said I was ugly. But this was reckoned a witticism of mine. Anyhow, as Count Saxe remarked, I could return the compliment to the lady. The entertainments there were dull, and besides, every Russian we saw scowled at us—and there was a Russian at every turn. All the court officials were Russian, and they took good care that we should not find Mitau agreeable.
Ah, it was a dreary, weary time, especially after the winter set in. In the spring it was scarcely more cheerful. Count Saxe’s chances were dwindling, there was no doubt about that. But he bore the gradual fading of his hopes with the gaiety of heart which was his own.
And the Russians grew more numerous. They seemed to be enveloping us; and from day to day we awaited the catastrophe which, I think, all of us expected—but not exactly in the guise in which it came.
In August, things were looking black for my master, and one night, he and I and Gaston Cheverny, being seated at supper, with Beauvais serving us—an honest and devoted fellow, Beauvais is, with a squint almost as bad as my cross eye—I said to Count Saxe:
“Sir, when shall we leave Mitau?”
Count Saxe looked hard at me, putting down his glass. Then he asked, in a cool voice:
“Do you think it time, Babache, to beat the chamade?”
I remained silent. Gaston Cheverny scowled at me; he was at the age when prudence seems but a beggarly virtue at best. Only Beauvais winked at me approvingly, and Count Saxe saw him in a mirror opposite. He was a very humble fellow, as brave as Julius Cæsar,80devoted to Count Saxe, and understood nothing on earth about war or politics; but Count Saxe knew, when the men of the Beauvais stamp see it is time to march, that events have already marched.
“Beauvais,” cried Count Saxe, “what think you of giving up the game now?”
“Monsieur,” replied Beauvais, “I promised my old father, when next we returned to Paris, to have sixteen trumpeters ahead of us when we crossed the Pont Royal, but I am afraid I was a liar.”
Count Saxe laughed at this, and swore very melodiously at the Courlanders; but being quick to decide, he gave orders that we should prepare to leave Mitau within three days. Thence we should retire to Uzmaiz, whence we hoped to give the Russians such a bone to pick that they would not soon forget it.
When Count Saxe was through with swearing at his Courland subjects I reminded him there was a court ball that night, and that he must go and smile on the ugly duchess.
At this he swore again, and for the only time I ever knew of, plotted revenge against a lady.
“Gaston Cheverny,” he cried, “do you, when you go with me to the palace to-night, take pains to inform some of the ladies of the court that I admit the duchess is not handsome, but she is worthy. Be sure and insist upon her worth—that is a form of praise hated by women; they know if a man praises their worth it is at the expense of their beauty. So, forget it not!”
We sat not long at table after that. I had to begin to plan our departure, and Count Saxe and Gaston Cheverny wished to arrive early at the palace, so as to81leave before midnight. It was still daylight when they rode away into the town—daylight lasts long in those far northern regions. Two gentlemen rode with them as escorts.
After attending to what was necessary, I watched from the courtyard the sun go down in darksome glory. The sky was full of coppery clouds, and bad weather was brewing. Of course I thought of the difference between our confident departure from Paris and our crestfallen return; and Madame Riano’s simile of the drenched hen plagued me much. And Monsieur Voltaire—how I hoped the king’s ministers would see the usefulness of keeping him out of France! And Mademoiselle Lecouvreur—how sweet and generous she would be—and then came the ever-haunting thought of Francezka Capello. Where was she at this moment? Under Italian skies, or among the peaks of the Swiss mountains, or in some distant German city; at all events far, far from me—so thought I.
The darkness came down suddenly, with copper clouds grown dusky and scurrying across the night sky. The lights vanished from the shabby town, but afar off the palace windows gleamed. All was darkness and silence, but all was not peaceful. As I stood on the drawbridge, under the light of the lantern swinging overhead, it seemed to me that the town was full of moving shadows. There would be a dark mass away in the distance, and while I was looking, it would noiselessly dissolve. Then the mass would become serpentine, appearing and disappearing silently and mysteriously. I had made up my mind that these softly moving shadows, like the shapes in a dream, were not dream shapes, but82solid Russians, with arms in their hands; and I congratulated myself that every moment since we entered the schloss two men with loaded muskets had kept their eyes fixed on the entrance to the courtyard. They were not sentries—oh, no—it was a mere guard of honor suitable to Count Saxe’s rank; but they were not wholly ornamental.
Suddenly hoofbeats sounded out of the darkness, and Count Saxe himself, with his two gentlemen, clattered over the drawbridge. He flung himself off his horse and said to me:
“You were right, Babache. This night must we ride for Uzmaiz.”
Our horses were stabled some little distance away toward the river side. I sent four men after them, with orders to bring them as quietly as possible.
“And Gaston Cheverny, sir?” I asked of Count Saxe.
There was that in his present circumstances which would have quenched mirth in most men, but Count Saxe was one of those men who could laugh in the face of fate.
“Gone to fetch Peggy Kirkpatrick,” he said. “We arrived at the ball—everything hostile to us—the duchess uglier than I ever saw her, and the Russians elbowing us at every turn. The first person my eyes rested on was General Bibikoff. I wondered what an officer of his rank was doing at Mitau just now. I surmised, however, that it was not for his health, and that he was not alone. And whom, think you, was he talking with—Peggy Kirkpatrick! She arrived at Mitau to-day on her way to France. She had with her that charming young creature, Mademoiselle Capello,83grown wonderfully handsome, and splendidly dressed. I thought Gaston Cheverny would die of delight, he was so joyful to see her. Peggy was a blaze of jewels and feathers, and looked more like an ostrich than ever. By heaven! If I had ten thousand men like Scotch Peg I could conquer Europe. But she did me one of the greatest services of my life. She took the first chance to speak to me aside.
“‘The Russians are after you,’ she said, ‘eight hundred of them under Bibikoff. A fool, Bibikoff; a dozen of the Kirkpatricks are worth, for fighting, his whole eight hundred. But mind you, General Lacy is behind him with four thousand, and Lacy is a Scotchman, so you need to beware of him.’
“‘Madame,’ said I, ‘we march before daylight—every hoof and toe of us.’ For I knew her information was sound. Then, after I had expressed my everlasting thanks, what do you think she said? ‘If, then, you are so eternally grateful to me, you will kindly allow me and my niece to travel to France with you.’ I told her I was not going to France yet—still holding some cards in my hand—but to the island in Lake Uzmaiz, where I proposed to make a stand. That delighted her. To Uzmaiz she would go, and for very shame, I could not refuse, after the service she had just done me, for she had taken not only trouble, but risk, to find out about Lacy. She desired that I let Gaston Cheverny go to her lodgings with her to make ready for her departure, and the young fool was charmed, of course. They left before the end of the ball. I remained to the last, so as to avoid the appearance of running away—but where are the horses?”