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“But you show great good-willtowardMonsieur Gaston Cheverny—and they are as like as two peas.”
“Outwardly, yes. Inwardly, never were two men so unlike. Come now, Babache, do you not love Monsieur Gaston?”
“Yes, with all my heart.”
“And do you not love Monsieur Regnard?”
I saw whither she was leading me, but I could only say:
“No—I do not love him.”
“Well—they are as like as two peas.”
She turned her head at the sound of galloping hoofs. Gaston was riding toward us. The blood that poured into Francezka’s cheeks, the light that shone in her eyes, showed plainly how welcome was his society. I afterward asked Gaston if Regnard had given him a message from Francezka. He said no; but seeing Regnard return with a black countenance, he thought to try his luck with mademoiselle—and was rewarded for so doing.
We went forward at a smart pace. Every foot of the way recalled to Francezka and Gaston their childish days, and they talked with the greatest animation.
We were skirting the forest and heights of the Ardennes, and at last, the highway bringing us upon a broad open plateau, the château of Capello lay before us in all its beauty. At the sight, Francezka stopped her horse, and, putting her hands to her face, fairly burst into tears of joy.
Little did I think how I should come to know that151place; of what I should see and do and suffer there. I only saw in it the pleasantest abode that man ever contrived for himself.
The château itself reminded one much of the Grand Trianon, which I have often seen in the park of Versailles. It had the same form but was larger. There was the graceful façade with its sweeping wings, the curving marble balustrade of the terrace, the windows, large and many, on which the autumn sun shone red. But the situation of the château of Capello had far more of natural beauty than the Trianon. It lay in the lap of the distant Ardennes, whose blue heights and rich woods marked the horizon. Below the château the ground sloped gradually toward a vast meadow-land, with many beautiful groves of aspens, and tall ranked Lombardy poplars. On the slope lay the park and pleasure grounds of the château. A silvery river made its devious way about this fair domain. It washed one side of the château, where it had been turned into a canal built like those of Venice, with a marble banquette ornamented with statues and an ornate bridge; but after thus playing the court lady for a short space, the river again became a woodland nymph and ran away, laughing, to the woods and fields. On one side of the château a rose garden was laid out, not too primly, and many other gardens; while on the other side, overlooking the hedgeway and quite screened from the château by groves of linden trees, and by great clumps, almost groves, of huge old lilacs, was a plaisance, in the formal Italian style.
These Italian gardens are common enough, and all152much alike, but in some strange manner, this one at Capello seemed to me to arrest attention at once. Perhaps it was because it appeared solitary, although in reality it was near the château. It had several falls, with marble steps bordered with box, with many yew trees, and statues of nymphs and fauns. At the very top was placed a statue of Petrarch, and on one side of it was a moss-grown marble bench, and on the other, an ancient sun-dial. The whole scene might have been transported from Petrarch’s land.
Below this garden lay a little lake, still and dark and cool. Tall cedars of Lebanon fringed its banks both on the east and the west, so neither at morning nor at evening did the waters shine and glow, but always lay somber and with a melancholy loveliness, in the midst of that joyful landscape. As I looked at this distant still lake and garden, a poignant feeling came upon me that I had seen them before, and that they held for me a story—oh me! oh me! It was as if my soul had visited them in dreams—those dreams when I told Francezka of my love and she listened to me—yes, listened to me. I had to force myself to turn my eyes from that enchanted garden and lake of pensive beauty.
We were riding forward rapidly, and when we came within close view of this garden, Francezka clapped her hands wildly.
“There, there, just as I have seen it in my dreams!” she cried. “I never dreamed of Capello in my life that I did not dream of the lake and the Italian garden—and I have not seen them since I was six years old! That statue is Petrarch’s—and on the base is an inscription from the sonnet,
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La vita fugge, e non s’aretta un ora,—
I forget the rest.”
“I remember,” said Gaston, riding by her side.
“E la morte vien dietro a gran giornate.
I recall that statue well.”
Whether he really remembered it, or being well learned in poetry, took up the thread from memory, I know not, but it delighted Francezka. She turned to him two lambent eyes. They both laughed with delight; neither one of them seemed to understand the gloom of the words they spoke so lightly. Francezka continued in a voice half laughter and half tears:
“And around the sun-dial are the words:
Horas non numero nisi serenas—
I read it—‘Only the sunny hours I mark.’ Oh, what serene and sunny hours shall I have in that garden! There is no spot at Capello I love so well—no spot in the world I love so well. It shall not be touched—it shall remain green and mossy and secluded just as it is now. Much of my life shall be lived in that old garden.”
Her enthusiasm was quite extraordinary. The rich blood was mounting to her cheek, her vivid face became more vivid. It seemed to me as if even her dark hair glowed more deeply.
We entered the great park of the château by an avenue of horse chestnuts. The path was singularly varied154and charming. Although it was autumn and the woods were bare and the earth was brown, the beauty of the spot seemed only delicately veiled. I have seen many grander places, although this was grand for a private person; but for sweetness of air, for soft repose, for a calm and penetrating beauty, always I prefer this château of Capello. The Scotch gentleman, Francezka’s father, must have had uncommon skill in choice. We rode up the broad esplanade in front of the château. Smoke was coming from the chimneys, the great doors were wide open, and old Peter, smiling with pleasure, was standing there with a respectable staff of servants he had collected. Francezka sprang from her horse, ran up the marble steps, Gaston Cheverny hotly pursuing, and entered under her own roof, crying, with smiles and tears:
“This is myJoyeuse Entrée, as the old Brabantians had it! Welcome, welcome—Monsieur Cheverny and my own good Babache!”
We entered a magnificent hall, with many suites of rooms. On the left, was a handsome red saloon, and on this side, overlooking the bright waters of the canal was a gallery of Diana, with the story of Actæon torn by his dogs told in panels on the walls. Beyond this still was a small yellow saloon, with a large fireplace in it. Francezka’s father, it would appear, did not take kindly to the huge porcelain stoves of the region, and followed the custom of his country in having fireplaces in which great logs of wood were burned. Francezka ran from room to room, Gaston Cheverny following her. I walked after them, examining things at my leisure; among others, in the red saloon, recognizing the155portraits of Francezka’s parents. Both of them had died early, and their portraits were those of youth. Francezka was a mingled likeness of both. She had not the exact and classic beauty of her mother, for Francezka’s beauty was highly irregular; but I fancy it was the more seductive. And she had, in a great degree, the esprit and the high-sparkling glance of the Scotch captain.
Among the servants and dependents who had assembled for the great occasion, old Peter did not fail to point out to me his niece, Lisa. She was a quiet-footed, slim little creature. She was not homely at all, contrary to my expectations, and had very soft shy eyes, that looked at one like the eyes of a bird that is shot.
In a little while the rest of the party arrived. Francezka met Madame Riano and Count Saxe at the entrance to the château, assuming, from the beginning, the air of being chatelaine of her own house—and she scarce sixteen! And with such grace, such intelligence! She was extremely polite now to Regnard Cheverny, being in her own bailiwick, and he seemed to cherish no memory of her past behavior. She was equally polite to Jacques Haret, for whom old Peter had reserved two of the best rooms in the château. All of us, however, were well lodged, and Count Saxe was given the apartment in which Louis le Grand had once been quartered.
My master was full of compliments on the château, as well he might be. We retired to our rooms when it was growing dusk, and in an hour supper was announced. It was served in the little yellow saloon, which was a favorite one of Francezka’s father, and was likely to be favored by her, too. It was a merry supper156table, with white waxlights and red firelight shining on it, and we had the wine of the gods. The Scotch gentleman had provided his cellars with vintages worth the housing.
Francezka chose to appear at supper in a dress new to us—the dress of Brabant, with the lace lappets falling over her hair, the lace apron, and red-heeled shoes, with clocked stockings. Whether she was bewitching or not, one may judge.
We sat long at table. Gaston Cheverny sang songs, then we sang in chorus. Jacques Haret, the rogue, was a pleasant table companion, and exerted himself to make the time pass joyfully. It was late before we parted, and then, in good spirits. My chamber, as always, was next Count Saxe’s. I tumbled into bed, and for the first time since I had crossed the French frontier, eighteen months before, I slept with both eyes shut. There was no need to keep one’s pistol within reach, no need to rise through the night to be sure the horses were not stolen, no need to sleep with a part of one’s clothes on, for fear of fighting or running before morning. One could sleep in peace. So slept I, and so snored I that Count Saxe waked me up with swearing at me in the middle of the night from the next room.
157CHAPTER XIIIHIS GRACE AND PEGGY
Although it was not necessary for me to rise early at this place of peace and beauty, the château of Capello, yet, long habit was upon me, and, by sunrise, I was up and dressed and out in the fair, fresh autumn morning. I made straight for the Italian garden, and was not surprised to find Francezka there before me.
She was sitting on the bench by the statue of Petrarch. The hoar frost glittered on the ground, just touched by the shafts of light which were to grow into the great sun. The air was soft and mild, and Francezka had no hat upon her dark hair, but sat wrapped in her crimson mantle.
She was gravely studying the inscription on the statue of Petrarch.
“Life flies apace and tarries not an hour,” she said, translating to me. “Monsieur Gaston Cheverny was mistaken in saying the next line is here—about Death following Life with huge strides. I am glad it is not here—it would be too sad.”
“Whoever placed the inscription here had looked into the serious face of Life which always confronts us,” I said.
Francezka turned on me two laughing eyes.
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“Life turns a face all smiles to me now,” she said. “I am glad I am not complete mistress of myself and my possessions yet. One should sip and taste of pleasure before drinking a full draft. My father, you must know, did not have the French idea of marrying me out of hand; and I mean not to marry until I find a man I can not live without. It will be time enough then. And as for being timid—only look at my Aunt Peggy! She does as she likes and has done so all her life; and instead of being herself afraid, everybody is afraid of her—and she is very much esteemed by all who know her.”
I had seen, for long, that Madame Riano’s example was not wasted on her niece, but Francezka, like most young spirits—or rather, all young spirits—knew not how to weigh and compare. Madame Riano had never enjoyed the beauty or the fortune of this young girl, and her youth was safe from the dangers that lie in the path of beauty and riches.
“But one thing I am resolved upon,” said Francezka. “However happy I may be—and I am at this moment so happy I can scarcely forbear to sing—I danced this morning in my bedroom for very joy—I say no matter how happy I may be, I shall try to do some good in the world. At least I can make gifts.”
“Yes,” I answered, “that is the cheapest form of goodness. You give away what would else be in your way.” An ungallant speech, but made with a purpose.
Francezka looked at me angrily for a moment, then smiled and took my hand in her two velvet palms.
“Babache, you are like a chestnut bur, sometimes—but159I love you—and I shall always heed what you tell me. Can I do more?”
She then rose and we walked about the garden, and looked down at the lake, still darkly shaded by the cedars on the brink, although the sun was now blazing in the east. We spoke not much. Francezka’s joy seemed to have grown quieter, if more intense. In the pauses of our talk, I found the lake had a voice—a voice like itself, sad. There was some subterranean outlet which gave a motion and a sound to the water, and this sound was a mournful one. Francezka stopped and called my attention to it.
“I remember that moan of the lake,” she said—“or I think I remember it—as Monsieur Gaston Cheverny thought he remembered the inscription on the statue.”
“Yonder comes Gaston, now,” I said.
“No,” said she, sweeping her glance toward a figure afar off, descending the steps of the terrace. “It is Monsieur Regnard Cheverny.”
“And here is the other Cheverny,” said Gaston’s voice behind us.
He did not look particularly happy; the splendors of the château of Capello were in marked contrast to his own modest house, the Manoir Cheverny, which lay a mile or two away.
Gaston pointed toward it—a low-lying building, of moderate size, with a carved stone gateway opening into a courtyard, and with a fair-sized pleasure ground around it. There was both comfort and beauty about it, but nothing in the least to compare with Capello.
“It is good enough for a bachelor,” said Gaston, grimly. “There shall I end my lonely old age.”
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I have observed that when a man is deeply in love, he is apt to threaten the lady of his love with the suggestion of losing him.
To this Francezka replied, demurely:
“I shall be happy to have company; for, perhaps, I shall die a spinster.”
The whole rich and peaceful landscape lay before us—the red-tiled village, the little stone church, the windmills—all singularly pleasant to look upon, giving one a sense of the well-being of the people; and to one who has seen the gardens of the world ravaged by fire and sword, this means much. Gaston assured us that as soon as his house was in order, he would have me to stay with him, thereby abandoning Count Saxe for the time; and Francezka diverted herself with asking me, if she and Count Saxe were in a burning building and I could only save one of them, which would it be—and other pleasantries.
Regnard Cheverny had evidently been looking for Mademoiselle Capello, and presently joined us, and by that time we were called to the château for breakfast. The parish priest, a modest, homely, shabby little man, named Benart, was already at the château, to pay his respects to the ladies. He remained to breakfast, and I formed a high opinion of his judgment by the respect he paid to Count Saxe, although purposely kept in ignorance of my master’s rank and condition. The little priest mentioned that his brother, the Bishop of Louvain, would soon be coming to visit him, at which Madame Riano snorted like a war-horse. I suspected that she and the bishop did not deeply love each other, and Jacques Haret afterward enlightened161us on the subject. I began to wonder where Jacques Haret would bestow himself, for I suspected that Mademoiselle Capello would not permit her hospitality to be imposed upon. This was settled by the action of Gaston Cheverny, who told me before breakfast, when we had a word in private, that he intended to ask Jacques Haret to the Manoir Cheverny.
“Otherwise he will remain here to Mademoiselle Capello’s annoyance, and that I wish to spare her,” he said to me.
When he had risen from table, Gaston therefore announced that he and his brother and Jacques Haret would be quartered at the Manoir Cheverny, but he hoped to see much of the ladies at the château of Capello, and also of Count Saxe and Captain Babache—which we all suitably acknowledged. Then, meaning to give the ladies time to rest, Count Saxe and myself accepted Gaston’s invitation to accompany him to his own house. This we did, walking across the park in the bright autumn morning. Jacques Haret diverted us on the way by his history of the bloody warfare which had raged for thirty years between the Bishop of Louvain and Madame Riano.
“The bishop,” said Jacques Haret, as we strolled along, “is one of those ecclesiastics who expect to appear in full canonicals—velvet robe, jeweled crozier and shining miter—before the judgment seat of God. Peggy Kirkpatrick thinks the Archangel Michael keeps the family tree of the Kirkpatricks always in mind. You may imagine how Peggy and the bishop agree. They were well acquainted in their youth before the bishop took orders, and Peggy has got a notion in her162head that the bishop was once in love with her, when it is well known that he hated her like perdition from their childhood. The bishop is as militant as Peggy, and I believe either one of them would travel twenty leagues for a bout. You will see that the bishop will shortly appear in these parts. He can not let his old enemy dwell in peace, and Peggy will welcome him joyfully. That woman reckons that day a holiday, when she meets an enemy in fight.”
So, with pleasant converse, we reached Gaston Cheverny’s house. Over the gateway was inscribed the arms and motto of the Chevernys,Un Loy, Un Foy, Un Roy.
The old stone house, of a story and a half, was plain, but spacious. Within it was an abundance of good furniture, linen and plate. Unlike most bachelors’ houses, there was no need to apologize for anything.
At the Manoir Cheverny, therefore, Gaston Cheverny took up his abode, with his brother and Jacques Haret as guests. Regnard showed no disposition to live at Castle Haret, alleging that he must furnish it and equip it from Brussels, which he proceeded to do; but I think he meant not to leave Gaston alone so close to the château of Capello. Regnard had two servants, and four horses quartered on his brother, and he bought another horse, giving three hundred good crowns for it. I never saw the least want of hospitality or affection for Regnard on Gaston’s part. He was as generous a soul as I ever knew.
As for Jacques Haret, he openly said he had only given up his quarters at the château of Capello because he could not wear the clothes of either Madame Riano or163Mademoiselle Capello. He wore, however, both Gaston and Regnard Cheverny’s clothes, until the two brothers presented him with a complete outfit, as the price for letting their wardrobes alone.
I think all of us, after our adventures and disappointments and travels, enjoyed to the full this short season of peace and rest. We apprehended great influx of company, for which Count Saxe had, at present, no taste. But the weather suddenly turning very harsh, the roads became bad, and we saw but few guests. Among them was Count Bellegarde, the young man who had been Gaston Cheverny’s friend at our first meeting. He was the same handsome, stupid, watery, no-ideaed fellow as that night in the Temple gardens. His family had put the notion into his head that he would do well to marry Mademoiselle Capello. He thought that a sight of his beauty was enough to accomplish his object. We had much diversion out of him, Jacques Haret and the two Chevernys slyly putting him up to many follies.
Our days and evenings, however, were in general spent together without other guests, and naturally there was a bond amongst us. The better we came to know Madame Riano the more we saw to esteem in her, in spite of her extraordinary pride and everlasting blowing of the trumpet of the Kirkpatricks and her general desire to dominate the universe. And it was easy to see, in Francezka, those same sterling qualities of integrity, courage and generosity which distinguished Madame Riano, and with them infinitely more tact and suavity. The rains and the snows made all of us haunt the firesides of Capello. Every one of us felt that relaxing of the mind and body which accompanies a period of rest164after action. Softer pleasures appealed to us. Our days slipped away, I knew not how, and our evenings were given to cards, conversation and music. Madame Riano was an inveterate card player, and well-nigh invincible, so we often had cards for diversion.
Mademoiselle Capello played charmingly on the harpsichord and Gaston Cheverny sang often to her accompaniment, which was not calculated to please Regnard, though he took it cheerfully. Jacques Haret was the very soul of entertainment. I have never known a man whose mind was always so much at ease as Jacques Haret’s. The most virtuous person that ever lived might envy this rogue his cheerful acquiescence in fate.
About a fortnight after our arrival the news came that the Bishop of Louvain intended to visit his brother, the little priest, and likewise proposed to pay his respects to the ladies of the château of Capello. Jacques Haret assured us that the parish priest’s larder was not of the sort to satisfy this particular bishop very long.
Madame Riano marshaled her forces to meet the bishop. The Chevernys were to be at hand, likewise Jacques Haret, who was a valuable ally on the present occasion.
Nobody looked forward to the meeting between Madame Riano and the bishop more than Count Saxe, who declared that he expected to learn much of the art of war from the two belligerents. His incognito was to be strictly observed even with the bishop.
On the day named for his Grace’s arrival, precisely at six o’clock, the hour named by the bishop, his chariot all gilding and coats of arms, and drawn by four horses, drew up before the great entrance of the château.165Madame Riano, with the light of battle in her eye, sustained Francezka, who was to receive the bishop in her quality of chatelaine for the first time. Count Saxe was in the background, and behind him stood Jacques Haret and myself. The two Chevernys were also present, awaiting the bishop on the terrace. When the bishop’s coach came rumbling up, the Chevernys dutifully opened the coach door to assist his Grace to alight. First stepped out the little parish priest, the bishop’s brother, dressed in a shabby surtout. That silent little man was a humorist of the first water. He seemed to love his brother, but not one single absurdity of the bishop’s escaped him.
After Father Benart came the bishop, a fine, large, well-built, handsome man, enveloped in a huge purple velvet mantle. He stepped gingerly as if afraid of giving his dignity a jolt. The two Chevernys greeted him respectfully, to which the bishop replied with amiable condescension. Then came the meeting with his arch enemy, Madame Riano, which was highly courteous on the bishop’s side, but a little brusque on the part of Madame Riano. The sight of the bishop’s coach and velvet mantle and grand airs seemed to stir the Scotch lady’s blood instantly to the boiling point.
Francezka was all youthful grace and courtesy, and no man not an ogre could fail to be charmed with her. Then Count Saxe as Count Moritz was presented to the bishop, and myself later; Jacques Haret had known him always and assumed a hail-fellow-well-met air with this pompous ecclesiastic, which was evidently disconcerting to him. But the bishop was no match for Jacques.
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As I am to be judged at the last day, I will swear that the bishop was no more impressed by Count Saxe than if that immortal man had been the cat’s aunt, as the peasants say; passed him by with a negligent nod, to which Count Saxe returned a bow so low and with such a sparkling light of laughter in his eyes that only a wind-blown dullard like this bishop would have failed to perceive that he was a man of consequence in disguise. The little priest had seen all along that Count Saxe was a personage, and treated him always with the greatest deference.
The bishop was escorted to the red saloon and placed in a large gilt chair—he was the sort of man to like large gilt chairs. Madame Riano seated herself on one side of him, and Francezka, beautifully demure and well behaved, sat on the other side. The rest of us grouped ourselves around in a half moon. The bishop, after having formally inquired after Madame Riano’s health, with the air of a Christian and a martyr blessing his enemies, turned to Francezka with the most entire change of countenance, benignance shining forth effulgent, and asked after her welfare and travels. To this Francezka responded properly. Then both of the belligerents, unable to restrain their martial ardor longer, broke the truce. Here is the conversation that ensued between the bishop and Madame Riano, the rest of us maintaining our composure and a strict neutrality.
The bishop: “Madame Riano, I hope, under God, you are well and in good case.”
Madame Riano (flaunting her fan savagely): “Thanks be to God, I am well, your Grace. Your Grace167looks a little peaked. I hope your Grace has not been ill.”
Now his Grace was in the bloom of health, and nothing vexed him so much as any hint that he was otherwise. So he answered tartly that he was very well, and then, addressing Gaston Cheverny, his Grace asked a question which made us all jump in our chairs.
“Monsieur, to touch upon things in which the ladies probably take little interest—what is the news from Count Saxe in Courland? I hear that he has turned tail and is running for his life!”
At the bishop’s intimation that the subject he wished to discuss was above the feminine comprehension, thunder sat upon Madame Riano’s brow; but when he plunged into the abyss her countenance cleared as if by magic, her mouth came wide open. I believe she would not have taken a thousand crowns for that moment’s pleasure.
Count Saxe did not change countenance one whit. The rest of us grew pale, except Jacques Haret, who turned and winked rapturously at Madame Riano, wagging her head-dress of feathers in an ecstasy of delight. As for Gaston Cheverny, he did me then and there the only disservice of his life. Pointing to me, he said with the most debonair manner in the world:
“There, your Grace, sits Captain Babache, who commands Count Saxe’s body-guard. It would not become me, nor any one else, to speak of Count Saxe’s affairs in the presence of Captain Babache.”
Yes, the rascal said that, and sat there smiling and stroking the lace upon his wrists, while I yearned to give him a clip over the head with my strong right arm.168And Count Saxe appeared to enjoy my discomfiture, and actually laughed in my face. However, I summoned all my composure and replied to that fool of a bishop that Count Saxe was the undoubted choice of the Diet and the nobility, and still held the rescript of election. And the Duchess of Courland, Anna Iwanowna, a brisk and homely widow, wished to marry Count Saxe, and as he had no mind to put his head in the noose, he had abandoned his enterprise for the present, to be resumed when convenient.
The bishop, with Count Saxe for his text, launched into a criticism of all the campaigns of the ancients and the moderns, and the blunders he committed gave Madame Riano and us the most acute enjoyment. I saw the little priest’s eyes twinkle as the oration proceeded. Nobody interrupted the bishop, and he closed by pointing out all the mistakes of the English at Agincourt, where there is no doubt they drubbed the French handsomely.
It was then time for supper, which was announced by Peter, and we proceeded to the dining saloon. It was an agreeable supper. The bishop’s harangue had put us all in a mirthful humor, and the wine of Ximenes was of the sort described in the Scriptures, as making glad the heart of man. Although the bishop knew nothing about war, he was an excellent judge of wine, and had due respect for the Ximenes. There was skirmishing all during supper between his Grace and Madame Riano, but it was understood that no pitched battle would take place until we went to cards, the field of the cloth of green having been their chosen battle-ground169for thirty years. Madame Riano was the very devil at cards, and the bishop was not far behind her.
It being cold in the great red saloon, we sat, for cards, in the little yellow room, where a huge fire blazed. We were at primero, the whole party of us. The stakes were small, but the fire and fury with which the bishop and Madame Riano played against each other was something remarkable. Charges and counter charges, sarcasm, ridicule and innuendo were freely bandied between them. Victory perched first on one banner and then on the other, but I must say the lady got rather the best of it. I should say that the bishop was the better strategist; but for determined, head-long valor, Madame Riano surpassed him.
We had been playing over an hour, when a sudden wild, loud roaring was heard in the chimney, the door was burst open, and a swarm of frightened servants rushed in, crying the house was afire. At once, each of us, except Madame Riano, laid down his cards, in some consternation; but the Scotch lady, without so much as taking her eyes off her hand, remarked coolly:
“’Tis nothing but the chimney catching afire, a common enough thing in Scotland. But these foolish Brabant people know nothing about fireplaces, and are frightened at every blaze they see.”
It turned out to be truly nothing but the blazing soot in the chimney, accompanied by a great roaring, with flames coming out of the chimney’s mouth and sparks flying. The roofs being tiled, there was no real danger, but as Madame Riano said truly, the people in the Low Countries, knowing nothing of open fireplaces with170blazing fires, were in a state of wild alarm. Nevertheless, we could not sit still under the circumstances, but proposed to investigate. Francezka went with us. She was pale, but collected. The bishop was for going with us, being frightened, if ever I saw a man—he was a Netherlander and as ignorant of open fireplaces as the rest of his countrymen—but Madame Riano gibing at him for his pusillanimity, he resumed his cards with such composure as he could, and Madame Riano proposed they should play the game out together. We left them, therefore, seated at the table, Madame Riano quite unconcerned at the commotion, and the bishop, a little white about the chops, but standing to his game like a man.
Meanwhile, in our absence from the room, the excited and panic-stricken servants had, without any authority, opened a vast tank of water, which was on the top of the house, and a flood began to pour down the chimney of the little yellow room, where Madame Riano held her unwilling enemy. Quite unconscious of this, Count Saxe and the rest of us watched the fire burn itself out harmlessly enough; old Peter managed to quiet the frantic servants, and we returned to the yellow room. Then the sight that met our eyes can never be forgotten by any of us. The burning soot had tumbled down the chimney, and if the bishop and Madame Riano had left their play long enough there would have been no damage done to anything.
I do not believe Madame Riano was so absorbed in her game as not to know what was going on, but I am pretty sure she had in mind the punishment of the bishop. A strong odor of burning wood pervaded171the room; before the flood came down the chimney there had been many falling cinders, and these had set the wainscoting smoldering just behind the bishop’s chair. The floor had been flooded, and Madame Riano, her skirts tucked about her, had drawn up her feet to the seat of her chair and sat there as cool as any warrior on the eve of battle. The bishop’s feet were in the water. He held his cards tightly, but his eye roved around and lighted up when he saw us enter, Count Saxe and Francezka in the lead. Just as we came in the smoldering wainscoting blazed up brightly. Gaston Cheverny, with his hat, dipped up water enough to put out the blaze. The bishop started and turned half round, but was recalled by Madame Riano, saying in a voice of menace and of mockery:
“Come, your Grace. It is your play. Don’t be scared by a trifle like this. My faith, you would make but a poor figure in Scotland, where we never stop our game for such trifles as fire and flood.”
At that moment Regnard Cheverny earned the bishop’s undying good-will. Taking a jug of water from one of the distracted servants, who was still running about wildly in the corridor, he emptied it full upon the card table, on which a spark or two had dropped. The bishop, too, got a drenching—for which I saw gratitude writ large on his face.
“Madame,” he said, to his antagonist, “I, too, have but slight regard for fire and flood when it interrupts a game, but necessity and my rheumatics compel me to retire and change my garments.” Which he did, and appeared no more that night.
When the bishop had taken himself and his bedraggled172dignity off we burst involuntarily into laughter, Count Saxe and Francezka leading. Even the little parish priest joined us. Madame Riano scowled at our laughter, until Count Saxe, with his usual good judgment, told her we were laughing at the bishop, at which she screeched with delight.
I was not surprised next morning to find that the bishop was leaving earlier than he expected. He departed in the same state in which he arrived, but I was irresistibly reminded of a conquered enemy who has been accorded the honors of war.
173CHAPTER XIVTHE DRENCHED HEN
We remained the rest of the month at the château, being minded to depart the first week in December. The time passed as before with satisfaction to all. Gaston Cheverny was to remain in Brabant until the new year, when he was to join us in Paris. We knew not what Regnard’s plans were; if he knew them he kept them to himself. I had rather expected Regnard Cheverny to travel with us, and made sure that Jacques Haret would never lose the chance of getting to Paris free of charge, as he might have done with us, for Count Saxe traveled splendidly, with led horses, and one more person would make but little difference. But to my amazement he made no proposition to go with us. There might be good reasons for Regnard Cheverny’s determination to stay where he was. He, with his two servants and five horses, was quartered at Gaston’s house; and very pleasant quarters they were, for Regnard had every privilege of the master of the house and no responsibilities whatever. His furnishing of Castle Haret was an excellent excuse to keep him near Mademoiselle Capello. He asked Count Saxe to apply for additional leave for him, which was easy enough to get; but a young officer who wished promotion as174much as Regnard Cheverny did, and no more aspiring man ever lived, was likely to be forgotten if he remained away from Paris too long. So, I took it, he had a strong motive for staying in Brabant.
I often wondered what Jacques Haret’s feelings must be, when Regnard, as he often did, talked openly about the new plans for Castle Haret. But Jacques showed his usual cool and unruffled front. It is astonishing how many good and even great qualities a man may possess and still be a scoundrel of the first water. Jacques would sometimes take a laughing but advisatory tone with Regnard.
“Do not, my dear fellow,” he would say, “be eaten up with ambition to shine before kings. I remember once, in my childhood, the Duc d’Orleans, the king’s brother, came to Brabant, and was to dine at Castle Haret. All sorts of things were to be done. In the lake there was to be an island, from which concealed music played. But this island, mind you, was to move about. It was a thing of poles and beams extending from a boat, with twelve stout rowers, who were hidden by plants and vines. Old Peter here, then a young man, contrived it, and my father expected to receive a court appointment for that island. Well, the duke came, was entertained at dinner, ate the wing of a chicken, was taken to the lake and did not notice the island moved until my father in an agony called his attention to it. Then the duke went back, slept until supper time, looked for about ten minutes at some fireworks that my father had ordered all the way from Paris and had near ruined himself by—and left the next morning, with an influenza, which his Highness175swore he had got at Castle Haret. My father got nothing except the influenza, for all his money and pains. So do not you, my young friend, try your luck with princes.”
Regnard did not like this speech, and replied tartly that the Chevernys had generally succeeded where the Harets had failed; which was true enough.
I continued to be puzzled to know why Jacques Haret should remain. Gentlemen of his kidney need a great town to operate in, not a far-off province. And what would he live on? For Gaston Cheverny, however hospitable he might he, would not allow Jacques Haret a permanent footing at the Manoir Cheverny; and besides, Gaston would shortly follow us to Paris—and he was not a rich enough man to pay for Jacques Haret’s company on the way. There was little question about Jacques Haret’s means of livelihood for the present, for we knew well enough that the excellent wages paid old Peter found their way into Jacques Haret’s pocket. And not only that, but one day, going to Peter’s cottage, to make some inquiry about our horses, I noted Lisa, the dove-eyed girl, at work upon a fine cambric shirt—finer than any I, Babache, ever wore, or expect to wear. It was not for old Peter certainly; and if not for him, it must be for Jacques Haret—and my surmise turned out to be true.
At last the time came for us to saygoodbyeto the château of Capello, and to start for Paris, that town of many devils, some of them women.
On the evening before our departure, all of us who had left Königsberg together, and Jacques Haret, assembled at the château. Count Saxe and I were to176take the road for Paris at daylight. All expressed regret at our separation; we had been associated closely for three months, in battle, in siege, in flight, and in sweet repose; and we parted with those feelings of regard that our mutual vicissitudes would naturally inspire. We had an evening of pleasant converse; Gaston Cheverny sang for us, not forgetting the song that he and Francezka loved so much—O Richard, O mon roi—and Francezka accompanied Gaston on the harpsichord. Jacques Haret was, as usual, the life of the company, and Regnard Cheverny was not eclipsed by any one present.
Our last farewells took place in the red saloon. Madame Riano paid us the handsomest compliments possible, and expressed the hope, or rather the conviction, that she would have the pleasure some day of entertaining us at her ancestral seat in Scotland, under the rule of Scotland’s lawful king—for so she called Prince Charles Edward Stuart. She represented that this ancestral seat, somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, was a far more magnificent place than the château of Capello, or the Hôtel Kirkpatrick. Madame Riano always pictured Scotland to us as a land flowing with milk and honey, of unparalleled richness and splendor, of stupendous wealth lavishly expended. I have sometimes been told the contrary of this. Our healths were drunk, to which Count Saxe responded as only he could respond. We toasted the ladies, drank to our reunion, and when the clocks were striking twelve, we said adieu.
I can never forget Mademoiselle Capello on that night: her beauty, in which archness and pensiveness177alternated, her cheerful hope of meeting, together with her sincere regret at parting, the shining of her dark eyes, the rope of pearls round her milk-white throat, the shimmer of her yellow satin gown—all—all were in my mind waking and sleeping, for long afterwards. She gave me her hand to kiss in farewell, and then, holding my rough palm in her two velvety ones, she said to Count Saxe:
“Will you promise me, Count Saxe, if ever I need Babache, you will let me have him?”
“I promise you, Mademoiselle,” gallantly replied Count Saxe. “I could not refuse you even the most valuable thing I have; and if that day comes, I only ask that Babache may serve you as faithfully as he has served me.”
All of which was sweet music to my ears.
At daylight next morning we were in the saddle. As we rode out of the courtyard in the pale December dawn I saw a light in Francezka’s chamber.
We took the familiar road past the Italian garden, the statues showing ghostlike in the cold gray light, the lake a sheet of ice. Soon the château of Capello was behind us. The two Chevernys joined us a mile from the château and rode with us a stage. Count Saxe was cheerful, as always, and spoke with enthusiasm of again seeing Mademoiselle Adrienne Lecouvreur. She was one whose money a man might lose, and if honorably lost, might safely face. Is not that high praise?
At the end of the first stage the Chevernys bade us adieu. It was but for a brief time with Gaston, for however he might cherish a lady in his heart, his duty as a man came first; and with a small estate, it behooved178him to be very active in his profession of arms, that he might not be known as a laggard and sluggard. Count Saxe contemplated the buying of a regiment as soon as a fit opportunity came—he shortly after bought the regiment of Spar—and Gaston Cheverny must needs be on the spot, if he wished, as he needed, promotion. Regnard’s ampler fortune made him freer than Gaston, but he was not a man likely to forget his own advancement. We saw them depart with regret, and then increased our own pace. We traveled rapidly, and on the third evening after leaving the château of Capello, our horses’ hoofs clattered against the stones of Paris. Oh, that fateful town! I have always had a fear of it—a dread of its fierce people, women as well as men; and though I was born there, I think I never spent a comfortable day there after I cut my milk-teeth.
Instead of going to the Luxembourg, where it was understood quarters were reserved for Count Saxe, he went to a small inn and preserved his incognito for the present. As soon as we had supped, Count Saxe sent me to see Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, to ask for an interview. I went to the Théâtre Français, and being recognized—for it is not easy to forget so ugly a man as I am—I was permitted behind the scenes.
The play was that veryHerod and Mariamneof Monsieur Voltaire’s that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur had played two years before, which Jacques Haret had so cleverly burlesqued, and in which Mademoiselle Capello had been so rashly brilliant. From the wings I watched the house—well lighted, for the king’s Majesty was there, looking frightfully bored in the royal box—and a mob of fine people. I presumed, from seeing179Voltaire’s piece played, that he was at last home from England, and sure enough, there he was, sitting in a box. He had but lately arrived, as I afterward learned. He looked well dressed, well fed and very impudent. The people seemed to relish his presence, for after the second act there were cries for him, to which he responded. He was sitting with some ladies of rank—catch that notary’s son appearing in public except with the great! But I admit he wrote some good things.
I was distressed to see the changes that two years had made in Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She was paler and slighter than ever, and although she acted her part with sublime fire and energy, it was plain that the soul within her was driving her frail body as the spur drives a tired horse.
At the end of the second act, after the people had shouted themselves hoarse with delight, I asked to be shown to Madame Lecouvreur’s dressing room—for she was no longer able to go to the foyer during the interval between the acts, so a snuffy old box keeper told me. I knocked at her door and she bade me enter.
She lay on a couch, and was panting with fatigue. The paint on her face made her look ghastly at close range. By her sat Monsieur Voltaire; and I will say that I felt a softening of the heart toward him at that moment which I had never known before. Those fiery eyes of his were full of tenderness and soft pity; he had left his fine friends for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, and sat by her, fanning her. And when he spoke to her his voice had more of the human in it than one could have thought.
“Come, come, Mademoiselle,” he was saying, “you180must not imagine yourself ill. If you do, what will become of me? Who will make the world believe I can write plays, if Adrienne can no longer act them?”
A mournful little smile came upon Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s reddened lips, and she answered:
“You do not need me, Monsieur, to prove that you can write comedies or tragedies or anything else. All the muses adopted you at your birth, and if ever Adrienne Lecouvreur is remembered it will be because she was chosen by you sometimes to play the immortal parts you created.”
There was not one word of flattery in this, I knew; each uttered the eternal verities.
Then I appeared.
When Mademoiselle Lecouvreur saw me she sprang up with a miraculous strength—she knew that I was theavant-courierof Maurice of Saxe. I had no mind to deliver my master’s message in Monsieur Voltaire’s ears, but he knew what my coming meant, and scowled at me. He was furiously jealous of my master with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur.
I thanked Mademoiselle Lecouvreur for her kind greeting; her poor hands trembled so when she took the note my master had sent that she dropped it. Monsieur Voltaire handed it to her, and saw plainly the awkward writing in it—for I make no pretense that Count Saxe could have earned his living as a writing master. But although Voltaire must have guessed it all, he forbore to gibe at the letter. Love and pity had made him almost human.
There was, however, no room for him or me either in the room then. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur longed181to be alone with her treasure of a few scrawled lines, and both of us went out. The door passed, we were in the foyer. That door shut out our truce, and Monsieur Voltaire, in the presence of a number of persons, undertook to make me his butt on Count Saxe’s account.
“So, Captain Babache,” he said, “we hear that Count Saxe is on his way from Courland, and he is probably in Paris now.”
This put me in a cruel predicament, for Count Saxe did not wish his arrival known until he had seen the king; but Monsieur Voltaire was the man for putting people in cruel predicaments.
I mumbled something and looked about me for an avenue of escape. I never was ashamed to run away from an enemy too strong for me. But Voltaire blocked the way for me, his eyes blazing with merriment—those eyes that burned a hole in one—and a number of persons collected about us. The foyer was crowded, and wherever Monsieur Voltaire was he became a beacon light; no one could help watching him or listening to him, unless, of course, Count Saxe was present.
“I am considering,” said Monsieur Voltaire, with a wicked grin, “of making a new comedy—something on the order of a roaring farce. Count Saxe’s expedition to Courland will make excellent material. First act: Count Saxe going forth with Captain Babache and three hundred Uhlans, to conquer the universe. Second act: Count Saxe conquering the universe and getting clapped into a closet in the Grand Duchess Anna Iwanowna’s palace at Mitau, where, I hear, she and her waiting maids and a little dog kept him prisoner182for a month, from whence Peggy Kirkpatrick at last released him. Third act: Count Saxe arrives in Paris. Is sent for to relate his adventures to his Majesty. Majesty weeps—that is to say, laughs until he cries. Count Saxe begs to be sent to the Bastille until the town is done laughing at him. Majesty cruelly refuses. Count Saxe threatens to kill himself, and goes and eats a couple of cold fowls. Epilogue: spoken by Babache in the character of Bombastes Furioso. Messieurs, you will see that I am a prophet.”
“Monsieur, if you are a prophet,” I replied, near choking with chagrin, “you may recall your own definition of a prophet. When the first knave met the first fool, then there was the first prophet!”
There was laughter at that, but greater laughter still when Monsieur Voltaire proceeded to inform the crowd that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur had taught Count Saxe all he knew, except war, of which no one could teach him anything, and spelling, which he never could learn. He also chose to quote my master as saying that in his youth he was exactly like the devil, as he always learned what he was not told to learn; and the people present continued to laugh uproariously. They were of that class of persons who would have laughed just as readily at Monsieur Voltaire had my master been there to hang the notary’s son on the peg where he belonged.
In the midst of it the door to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s room opened, and she herself softly called me to her. I went, still smarting at the laughter and the heartless banter of those Paris people who thought it fine to laugh at Monsieur Voltaire’s gibes at Count Saxe. Oh, what I have not suffered for my master183through that upstart son of a notary! And yet, I can not deny that the fellow had great parts and shining wit!
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur bade me to tell Count Saxe to come to her house after the theater. With her usual goodness she asked concerning my health and welfare. No gentler, kinder heart ever beat than Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s.
I slipped back to the inn and gave Count Saxe the message sent him by Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. He had an interview with her that night at her house. When he returned he looked more serious than he had done at the prospect of losing Courland, for he saw that the world would soon have to part with that true heart and noble artist, Adrienne Lecouvreur. He said only a few words about her, but they came from his heart of hearts. I am aware that some people say he had no heart, but I, Babache, know better; else would I have died like a felon the day I first spoke with him face to face.
Presently, as we sat together in his dingy room at the inn, after the midnight bells had spoken, he said:
“Babache, I have found out enough since I have been in Paris to show me that I must see the king before twenty-four hours are over. The court goes to Versailles early to-morrow morning. Arrange that we go there to-morrow afternoon in good state.”
With that he tumbled into bed. I was up at daylight, preparing for the journey. I wished for Gaston Cheverny then—he would have been of infinite service to me. My master had a magnificent gilt coach stored in Paris, and also twenty liveries of green and gold. I184had to get these things out, have them dusted and overhauled, find six horses for the coach, and others for the outriders—in short, do the work of a week in a day. But it was done nevertheless; and at two o’clock on the next day Count Saxe set forth with an equipage and retinue worthy of him. I rode in the coach with him, and we reached Versailles before sunset.
It was a cold, bright, December afternoon, the sun near sinking—we were determined to arrive before sunset, lest our enemies should say we had sneaked in by night to avoid being seen. But we rolled up to the foot of the grand staircase, with a rattle and a roar, and a color and a shining which showed that Maurice of Saxe was not avoiding any man’s eyes—or woman’s, either.
Now, my master had what is called the grand entrée; that is to say, he could go to the king whenever he wished. So, without saying “by your leave” to anybody, he stepped out of his coach and began ascending the grand staircase. There were numbers of people about, and all of them stared at him, and many spoke, Count Saxe returning their salutations cordially. We mounted leisurely. Midway the stairs we met Cardinal Fleury, with his private chaplain, descending. The cardinal was a mild-mannered old man, and seeing Count Saxe, he stopped and spoke to him.
“You are back from Courland, then, Monsieur,” said the cardinal, politely. “No doubt you are pleased to be once more among polite persons. I hear the Courlanders are very wild and wicked people, with no fear of God.”
“Your Eminence, we are all of us great sinners, as185well as the Courlanders, that is the truth,” answered Count Saxe, “and I will leave your Eminence to meditate upon that grand truth. Good evening.” And with that he went clamping up the staircase. I saw, out of the tail of my eye, the cardinal stop and laugh to himself. The story flew all about Versailles, and people were chary after that in offering real or pretended condolences to Count Saxe.
We reached the king’s anteroom, where the usual crowd of do-nothings and good-for-nothings was assembled. The women at Versailles always reminded me of butterflies and humming-birds. They crowded about Count Saxe like bees about a honeysuckle, but he artfully excused himself, and made for the king’s door with such an air of command that the lackeys thought he was sent for by the king. Of course he was instantly admitted, and he directed that I follow him, which I did.
The king was waiting for the queen to go to supper, and looked bored and impatient. He was a handsome, stolid,laisser-faireman, who, by not doing anything, contrived to get as much evil done as the worst king that ever lived; but he was rather a respectable sort of man at that time. Several gentlemen were in the room when he entered, and none of them dared open his mouth for fear of adding to the king’s irritation. The instant, however, my master appeared, the king’s countenance cleared. He greeted Count Saxe in the warmest manner, and asked that he would come to the royal closet as soon as supper was over that he might hear of all that had happened in Courland. My master thanked him in suitable terms. Then the queen entered, and her186greeting was as cordial as the king’s. If the queen, poor soul, hated anybody, it was the Russians, whom she reckoned the despoiler of her father, the King of Poland. So there was much of painful interest to her in what Count Saxe had to tell.
It was then time to go to supper. Imagine the feelings of those people who wished to see Count Saxe humiliated, when they beheld him walking along the grand gallery, the king talking to him with the greatest animation! The queen claimed him of the king at supper, and he was treated more like an Alexander returning victorious than as a drenched hen as the old Scotchwoman had predicted.
My master told me that the king, in the private interview, asked concerning Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello, and was mightily diverted with the story of Madame Riano and the bishop. His Majesty was not well pleased that so great an heiress as Mademoiselle Capello should remain away from his court.
We stayed the night at Versailles, and next morning when we returned to Paris, it was to take up our old quarters at the Luxembourg. It was not exactly a pleasant home coming. Count Saxe had looked for another sort. But he was the last man in the world to repine at fate.