187CHAPTER XVTHE LOST SHEEP
On the first of January, 1728, my master again took up his abode in his old quarters at the palace of the Luxembourg.
And how did he employ himself? Chiefly withamusettes, as far as I know. This answer I have made many thousands of times. I always have to explain whatamusettesare. They are not young ladies of the ballet, or anything of the sort, but very complete military toys, with which many scientific experiments may be made. Count Saxe was the first man to do this, and he had whole cabinets full of small brass cannon, and toy arms of every description, with which he made useful and serious improvements. And these toys were hisamusettes. But was that all he did? For I have been asked that also many times. Well, he studied much—more out of books than was commonly thought; and he went often to the theater, and only occasionally to court, albeit the king doted on him so far as Louis XV could dote on any man. Philippe de Comines has said that there is but one thing more severe on a man than the favor of kings, and that is their enmity. This is a great truth, and my master acknowledged188it when I read it out of the book of Philippe de Comines.
The king would not let Count Saxe out of France except with extreme reluctance, and for short periods; but kept him, for five mortal years, standing, as Count Saxe said, like an equestrian statue, with one foot always uplifted to march, but never marching. Now, if any one wishes to know what else Count Saxe was doing during those five long years, let him ask some one who knew him better and was more in his company than Babache, his captain of the body-guard of Uhlans. I swear I knew nothing on earth of anything concerning Count Saxe, except what is put down in this book. I know that the women ran after him enough to drive him to drink, had he been so inclined. How much attention Count Saxe paid them in return I have not the slightest notion, and I never was the man to pretend to know what I did not know.
In January of 1728 Gaston Cheverny joined us. We had scarcely established ourselves in our old quarters at the Luxembourg, when one evening, while the snow lay deep on the streets of Paris, the door to my room, next Count Saxe’s, burst open, and Gaston Cheverny, gay and bold, dashed in.
I was rejoiced to see him again, and only grumbled that he had not arrived before to aid me in many troublesome matters, like that of providing an equipage for Count Saxe at a night’s notice; but he took my rating with laughter. The evening was cold, and a fire blazed upon the hearth, before which Gaston stretched his legs and pulled off his boots, replacing them with fine shoes of Spanish leather. We had only been separated189four weeks, but we had many questions to ask of each other. Gaston, as a soldier, was eager to know of Count Saxe’s plans. I told him of the project to buy the regiment of Spar, which was shortly after carried through, and of the king’s evident determination to keep Count Saxe in his service.
“Good!” cried Gaston; “I knew I made no mistake when I cast my fortunes with Count Saxe. Let but the drum beat on the Rhine, in the Pyrenees, or in Savoy, and we shall be on the march within twenty-four hours.”
Such is the way ardent young men talk.
Then I asked what had been burning on my tongue ever since he entered the room. What of the ladies at the château of Capello—meaning Francezka, but naming Madame Riano first.
“Madame Riano is the same Peggy Kirkpatrick. The warfare between her and the Bishop of Louvain is grown more bloody and desperate than ever. Quarter is neither asked nor given. Madame Riano has told the story of the bishop being near frightened out of his wits by the burning out of a chimney, and declares he was so panic-stricken he had to take to his bed that minute. The bishop preaches openly at Madame Riano, doing everything but calling her by name from the pulpit.”
And then I spoke the word both of us had longed to hear.
“And Mademoiselle Capello?”
It was as if the sun had blazed out of twilight, Gaston Cheverny’s face glowed so.
“She is in great beauty, perfect health and happiness.190She desired me to ask of you not to forget her; that she remembered you daily.”
So did I remember her daily.
“And you have gone away and left the field to your brother and rival?” I said.
“Babache,” replied Gaston, coming and sitting on the arm of my chair, his arm about my neck, “the afternoon before I left I sat with Francezka—I call her that to you, but to no other man—I sat with Francezka in the Italian garden at the foot of Petrarch’s statue. I had a volume of Petrarch, and read to her that sonnet from the poet’s heart beginning:
Sweet bird, that singest on thy airy way.
“I had often read it to her in that spot—and I reminded her that it was the last, last time for long—perhaps forever—that we should sit in that place and read that book of enchantment together, when—Babache, will you promise me on your sword never to breathe what I tell you?”
I promised; lovers can not keep their own secrets, but expect others to do it.
“When I had finished reading the sonnet, Francezka remained silent. I looked at her, and the big, beautiful tears were dropping upon her cheeks. Babache, can you imagine the exquisite rapturous pain of seeing the woman you love weeping at the thought of parting from you?”
He got up and walked about the room, and sat down, this time opposite me.
“You understand, Babache, she is not yet quite seventeen.191In another year she will be her own mistress; but I think she regards as sacred her father’s injunction not to marry for two years after her majority. Nay, I believe she wants those two years of freedom. All this does not frighten me—but—her fortune will be very great, and that frightens me. Mine is but small. Had we but succeeded in Courland! If I could but give her glory in exchange for wealth. And—Babache—the kindness of her eyes—those tears were for me—” he got up again and walked about frantically, like your young lover. I saw he was not really very miserable, but had persuaded himself that he was.
“You will not find many men balking at her fortune,” said I. “And remember: Mademoiselle Capello is in danger of sharing the usual wretched fate of heiresses, to be sold like a slave in the market. You, at least, love her.”
“Love her—” he pranced about wildly, protesting his love. He was but two and twenty, after all; but under this effervescence, I saw a deep and true passion that possessed him body and soul.
Presently he calmed himself and talked seriously of Francezka. I had no doubt, although he preserved a manly modesty about it, that Francezka, impetuous like himself, wilful, proud, but loving, had given him much greater encouragement than a tear or two at his reading a sonnet of Petrarch’s to her. But with that strain of sober sense, and that mastery of the will which I had so often noticed in Francezka’s wildest dreams, and which I always attributed to her Scotch blood, she meant not to throw away her liberty rashly. She might lap her soul in Elysium, and dream dreams, and entertain love192with magnificence, but she always knew where her footing was, and what she actually did would not be waited on by repentance.
Then I made inquiry about Regnard Cheverny.
“My brother, I think, has made up his mind to take service with the Austrians under Prince Eugene, and I believe he will in time become an Austrian. He is still at Castle Haret, and Jacques Haret—ah, the scoundrel! I can scarcely tell you without swearing of his latest villainy. Lisa—poor old Peter’s niece—”
“Has he carried off the old man’s one ewe lamb?” I cried.
“Yes—that poor, submissive girl.”
Of all the villainies I had ever known up to that time, this of Jacques Haret seemed to me the worst. I had seen the seamy side of human nature often—too often. I had seen the rapine of camps, the iniquities of a great city; but this action of Jacques Haret’s shone hideous alongside all I had ever known.
Gaston Cheverny continued, his wrath and disgust speaking in his face and voice.
“I wondered why Jacques Haret should remain in Brabant. I allowed him to stay at my house—may God forgive me! I thought he could not find much evil to his hand; but it seems, like Satan’s darling, as he is, he made evil. For the girl was perfectly correct until he met her, and there was not the slightest suspicion of any wrong-doing until, one morning, less than a fortnight ago, when old Peter arose, he found she had gone. He ran at once to my house, having had, I fancy, some latent fear of Jacques Haret. I was wakened from sleep in the wintry dawn by the sound193of the old man’s crying and moaning at my door. He had gone to Jacques Haret’s room and found he had decamped.
“I opened the door, and there stood the old man—he would have fallen but that I held him up. He could utter but one name, the tears meanwhile drenching his poor, wrinkled face:
“‘Lisa! Lisa! My little Lisa!’
“Some intuition came to me. I said:
“‘And Jacques Haret?’
“The old man nodded, and then fell against the doorpost. I asked if anything could be done. I would myself with pistols pursue Jacques Haret if required. I was likewise enraged on my own account that so vile a use should have been made of my hospitality.
“‘Nothing can be done,’ replied the old man, in a terrible voice—terrible because of its echo of despair. ‘It is I—I who am to blame. All said that my other two nieces were bad—that they, and not I, were to blame—but now it is proved that it is I who should be judged. I made Monsieur Jacques welcome in my poor house. I made Lisa tend him. Now who, knowing his power over a poor and ignorant girl like my Lisa, can fail to see that it is I—I—who am the great sinner. I made the temptation for them—if Lisa’s soul is lost, it is I who should be everlastingly punished.’
“What could one say to that, from a broken-hearted poor old creature? However, I promised him and myself, too, that if ever I met Jacques Haret, if it were at the gates of hell, or if it were in the presence of St. Peter, I would have one good blow at him. Then the old man’s grief took on the aspect of strong despair.194I walked with him through the fields to the château of Capello, for he was not really able to go alone. When we reached the terrace, there was Mademoiselle Capello. She was ever an early riser. She ran toward us, and Peter uttered but two words, ‘Jacques Haret—my Lisa,’ and all was known. Mademoiselle Capello put her arm about the old man’s neck—yes, the faithful old serving-man was embraced by that tender, loving heart.
“‘Dear Peter,’ she said, ‘Lisa will come back—she will repent—doubt not that—and she shall be welcomed as the lost sheep who was found by the Good Shepherd, and restored to the sheepfold. But, for Jacques Haret, there shall be no mercy. Peter, I declare to you, I feel strong enough at this moment to fly at Jacques Haret’s throat and strangle him—and do God service thereby.’
“‘Mademoiselle,’ said I, ‘command me. This old man is not the only person Jacques Haret has injured. I, too, have a mortal injury to avenge—for he was my guest.’
“‘Avenge it, then,’ she said, her eyes sparkling—‘vengeance is mine, saith the Lord—but I take it, God selects His instruments from among men. And I shall also ask that Captain Babache keep an eye open for that wicked man—’”
“I will,” I interrupted.
“‘And it shall go hard if he be not punished,’ she said.
“When Madame Riano heard of it she was for mounting a-horseback and going in search of Jacques Haret. One thing, however, we may reasonably count on—that Jacques Haret shall one day pay for this.”
195
“Undoubtedly,” I replied.
We spoke more on this melancholy business, and talked on other things, and then Gaston Cheverny went to pay his respects to Count Saxe in his room; but Count Saxe was out—gone in pursuit of knowledge and virtue, I fancy.
In that month of January began a life of tedium for us which had few mitigations. A young man, like Gaston Cheverny, full of spirit but with little money, was under many disabilities at Paris. His wit and fine person made him to be sought after by those who knew him already, but he was not by nature a carpet knight. No soldier of Hannibal enjoyed Mantua more than Gaston Cheverny would have enjoyed Paris in winter after a summer’s campaigning; but to sit, kicking his heels day after day, was irksome to him. Being a proud man, it did not please him to expose the smallness of his fortune when it could be helped, so he, with me, lived a life which we often compared to that of the monks of La Trappe. We read much—Gaston, in especial I believe, mastered by heart every poem on love printed in the French language and many in the Italian, Spanish and English languages. He likewise achieved a great number of songs, and actually composed some himself; but of these last, I have heard better, I must acknowledge.
The Hôtel Kirkpatrick was unoccupied and closed, the entrances and windows boarded up. There was no talk during all that year of Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello returning to Paris. I heard often of them through persons passing from Brussels to Paris. Mademoiselle Capello, out of her abundant kindness,196often sent me messages of good-will—nay, even a pair of gloves wrought with her own hand—a favor I never heard of her doing to any gentleman; for she was chary of her favors to the great. She told me, years afterward, that standing so much alone in the world as she was, and the hunted of fortune seekers, from the first she ever relied upon me as one of her truest friends. And she was justified.
Gaston Cheverny kept up a constant correspondence with his brother, for never at any time did their rivalry for Francezka seem to interrupt the brotherly intercourse between the two Chevernys. They were very far from being Mademoiselle Capello’s only suitors, that I knew. Gentlemen went in search of her and her fortune, from Paris, from Brussels, even from London and Vienna; but all came back chopfallen.
So crept away the winter, the spring, the summer, the autumn. And so went another year, and 1730 dawned, a year memorable for the loss of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She, too, showed me a condescension beautiful and worthy of her. She did not lack for friends among the greatest during her fading away. Besides my master and Monsieur Voltaire, was my Lord Peterborough, a great, tall devil of an Englishman, with a head on his shoulders and a heart in his bosom, who made some fine campaigns in Spain. Count Saxe and Monsieur Voltaire had a tacit agreement to visit Mademoiselle Lecouvreur on different days, although I believe the sense that she would soon be lost to both of them softened their feelings one to the other. All this time Mademoiselle Lecouvreur could still act, three times a week; but when she was197not at the theater she was usually in her bed—and always patient, gentle and smiling. She had not always been so patient. I have been told that, her sister once impudently demanding money of her, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur threw both shoes at her. But as some one has said, “Death lights up a terrible flambeau in which the aspect of all things is changed.”
Great crowds attended all of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s performances at the Théâtre Français; and in spite of her weakness, the fire of genius carried her through her parts with a supernatural strength. When it was over, though, she was no more the great artist, but poor, ailing, dying Adrienne Lecouvreur. On the days when she lay on her couch in her chamber, she was sometimes kind enough to ask for me. When I would go in I would be asked to take a chair within theruelleand she would talk to me with her old kindness. Often her mind went back to her childhood days; for this woman was far above the paltriness of being ashamed of her origin, as Monsieur Voltaire was. She once said to me, Count Saxe sitting by:
“Babache, how merry we were as children—though we were often ragged, and I, for one, had not always as much as I would have liked to eat. But we were not troubled with governesses or masters, were we, Babache?” She laughed as she said this, her beautiful tired eyes lighting up.
“Indeed we were not, Mademoiselle, and I believe the children of the poor are, in general, happier than the children of the rich,” I answered.
Count Saxe, a king’s son, who had been brought up at court, listened to the recitals of us, the children of198the poor, and I believe, learned some things he had not known before.
Not even Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s sad situation could disarm the jealousy of the women who envied her Count Saxe’s devotion. There was one of them, the Duchesse de Bouillon, who, like Jacques Haret, was one of the devil’s darlings, and kept shop for him. Every night that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur acted, during that last winter, Madame de Bouillon was present blazing with jewels, and with the air of gloating over the great artist who was already serenely looking into the quiet land. This duchess was a handsome creature, and a Circe; she turned men into beasts.
Whenever Mademoiselle Lecouvreur played, there was always a great attendance of her friends—although for that matter, all Paris was her friend. It was amazing how this woman’s spirit mastered her body. When she would be carried to and from her coach, tottering as she stepped upon the stage, the very first sight of the sea of sympathizing faces, the roar of many approving voices, seemed to pour life into her veins. She would become erect and smiling—at once Art and Genius appeared like sustaining angels to her—and she would resume her power as a queen assumes her scepter.
Toward the end of February it was plain she was going fast. Monsieur Voltaire and Count Saxe were with her every day, now only choosing separate hours for their visits. One mild March evening, at the door of her house in the Marais, I met Count Saxe coming out. He had a strange look on his face. I asked if Mademoiselle Lecouvreur would be able to act that night.
“No,” he said. “She will act no more.”
199
He passed on, without another word. I noticed how pale he was. He walked to the corner of the street, where a splendid coach was waiting—Madame de Bouillon’s coach. That woman watched for him and waylaid him on his way from Adrienne’s house.
I turned and walked away. The night was bright and mild, and the stars were out. A short distance off, I came face to face with Monsieur Voltaire. I had never liked this man, but in one aspect, and that was his earnest devotion to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. Something like sympathy made me stop him and say to him that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur would not act that night—nor any more I feared.
He gazed at me with those black, burning eyes of his, and then as if speaking to himself, repeated those lines of Ronsard’s about Mary Stuart:
Elle était de ce monde où les plus belles chosesOnt le pire destin;Et, rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses,L’espace d’un matin.
His voice was music when he spoke these words, for he felt them. I remained silent, and, after a while, he turned to me and taking me by the arm, said:
“Babache, you are an honest man. Come with me.”
200CHAPTER XVITHE SETTING OF A STAR
We returned arm in arm to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s house. It had not occurred to me to present myself uninvited, but without a word I followed this man, who had something compelling about him. We went straight to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s door, and the maid, who was watching, let us in.
Adrienne lay in her great purple silk bed, pale, but looking more weary and sad than ill. I had often seen her look worse. She greeted us kindly, and the shadow of a smile came into her face when she saw Monsieur Voltaire bringing me in. He seated himself by her, and tried by gentle raillery to interest her, but it was in vain. For the first and last time, she let fall some words of lamentation about the fate which was coming upon her with giant strides. But she made a brave effort to rally her soul, and even forced a smile to her pale lips. The curtains were withdrawn from the window, and the soft beauty of the spring night shone in the half-darkened room. Monsieur Voltaire began to describe this soft beauty to her as only he could describe it; but she seemed careless of it and said:
“I saw it but a little while ago—and thought how unlovely it was—the moon looked brazen and haughty,201like some of those fine ladies who come to see me act when they have nothing better to do. The stars seemed more unfeeling and farther off than ever, and they are always unfeeling and far off—and the first object that met my eyes was an enemy in health and beauty and splendor—while I lie here dying.”
Then I knew she had seen Count Saxe beguiled into Madame de Bouillon’s coach.
“But,” she cried, her voice ringing sweet and clear, as if in perfect health, and raising herself with surprising strength, “they will see that I am not yet gone. I will act once more. Yes, Voltaire, the good God will let me act once again. I know, I feel it. Do you hear me, good Babache?”
Monsieur Voltaire replied to her that he hoped the good God in which she trusted would let her act many times more. I suppose I appeared like a lump of clay, because I was so overcome with remorse at Count Saxe’s action in going off with Madame de Bouillon, that I could not say a word.
“It will be in Phèdre—a part worthy of the greatest artist in the world. It has sometimes been said I knew how to play that part. If ever I could play it, I shall show this when I play it—the next and the last time. Monsieur Voltaire, I charge you to go this night to the director of the Théâtre Français and say to him that I shall be ready to play Phèdre four days from now, as announced.”
“I promise with all my heart,” cried Monsieur Voltaire, “and talk not of its being the last time—oh, Adrienne!” He stopped, choked by his emotion, and not a word was spoken for a time.
202
“Mademoiselle,” said I, seeing my betters keep silence, “those who have once seen you in that part can never forget you. Often, in those dreary days in Courland, in anxious nights upon the island in Lake Uzmaiz, my master, Count Saxe, would recall the noble beauty of those lines as you spoke them—and many other of those plays in which you had bewitched the world.”
Poor soul! I knew what would give her a moment’s ease.
“Did he then, remember me?” she said in a soft voice, like music. Monsieur Voltaire spoke not a word; he loved her too well to grudge her these few crumbs of comfort.
Seeing she was interested, I began to tell her some of the incidents of our flight from Uzmaiz. I told her of our sojourn at the château of Capello. She remembered Francezka well; and the mention of these things turned the sad current of her thoughts.
“What a charming, gifted creature she was,” said Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, “and how amusing it was, Voltaire, for you, the author, and me, the artist, to see our greatness as we thought it, so burlesqued that night in the little out-of-doors theater! However, that quick transposition showed the child had vast power and originality. And Jacques Haret—what has become of the creature?”
I replied, with truth, that I neither knew nor cared, not wishing to wring Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s tender heart with the story of Jacques Haret’s latest villainy.
We remained an hour. Several times I would have left, but Monsieur Voltaire detained me by a glance. At last, when Mademoiselle Lecouvreur was inclined203to sleep, we departed. Once outside the door, and under the shadow of the tall old houses, Monsieur Voltaire grasped my arm, and said in a voice full of tears:
“Captain Babache, we are watching the setting of a star—we are seeing the Pléiade as she is gradually lost in the universal abysm. Soon, Eternity, with its unbroken, derisive silence, will lie between Adrienne and all whom she loves and who love her—” He suddenly broke off, and went his way in the night.
Before I slept, I repeated every word of what had happened at our interview, to my master, and Madame de Bouillon did not get him in her coach again. After that he spent every hour that he could at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s house. He and Monsieur Voltaire no longer avoided each other. There was the truce of God between them for the few days that Adrienne Lecouvreur remained on earth.
Few persons believed that she would be able to play again, but the mere hint of it crammed the Théâtre Français to the doors on that last, unforgettable night. Gaston Cheverny and I had secured seats in the pit of the theater. Gaston had been admitted to the honor of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s acquaintance and admired her at a distance, like a star.
There was a breathless excitement in the crowd, something in the air of the theater seemed to communicate excitement. It was like that tremulous stillness which seems to overtake the world when the earth is about to be riven asunder, and volcanoes are making ready to explode in oceans of fire and flame and molten death.
Not one more person, I believe, could have been204packed into the theater five minutes before the curtain rose, except in one box that remained empty—the box of the Duchesse de Bouillon. I looked around for Count Saxe, and caught a glimpse of him afar off in the crowd—then he disappeared. Again I saw him passing quite close to me. By some accident, he wore a full suit of black that night—black velvet coat, and black silk small-clothes—perhaps to render himself less conspicuous; but he was a man to be noted in a crowd because of his beauty, even if he had been the veriest oaf alive—or marked out for a great man, if he had been as ugly as I am. That night he was like a perturbed spirit seeking for rest and finding none; unable to drag himself away from that last touching and splendid vision of Adrienne Lecouvreur, and yet, almost unable to bear it.
Everybody in the theater knew to whom that empty box belonged—it was to the worst enemy of Adrienne Lecouvreur. The story had gone forth that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s illness had come from poison administered by the Duchesse de Bouillon, out of jealousy of Count Saxe. It is true that Madame de Bouillon would no doubt have poisoned anybody whom she thought stood between her and Count Saxe; and it is also true that the young Abbé de Bouret confided something concerning Madame de Bouillon’s schemes to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, one night, in the gardens of the Luxembourg. The Abbé de Bouret was quickly silenced by alettre de cachetand the Bastille by the powerful De Bouillon family—but beyond that, I think no one knows. The public however, was ready to believe anything against Madame de Bouillon in its passion205of regret over losing Adrienne Lecouvreur; and Madame de Bouillon’s brazen defiance of this sentiment in coming to the theater to witness this last farewell of Adrienne’s to the public which had loved her so well, was bitterly resented.
In the midst of an oppressive silence, one minute before the curtain rose, Madame de Bouillon appeared in her box. She was quite alone. As she seated herself, she displayed upon her beautiful white arm, a miniature of Count Saxe, set in diamonds. I dare say she stole it. She sat there, smiling and unconcerned, with every eye in the theater turned on her with hatred. But then sounded the three knocks which herald the rising of the curtain, and the play began.
When the time came for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur to appear and the first glimpse of her as Phèdre in her classic garb was seen, a frantic roar of applause went up—men shouting, women weeping their welcome. It was plain that she was very ill, but likewise every human soul in that house knew that she would go through her part. I will not speak of her acting that night: how she brought us to tears, and plunged us into despair and pity and horror at her will. But there was a climax, the essence of all feeling when she advanced to the front of the stage, and, fixing her beautiful, despairing eyes on Madame de Bouillon, repeated those immortal lines in a voice that might have been that of an accusing angel.
Je sais mes perfides,Œnone, et ne suis point de ces femmes hardies,Qui, goûtant dans le crime une tranquille paix,Ont su se faire un front qui ne rougit jamais!
206
How shall I describe what followed? The pity, fury, and despair that filled all hearts; the cries, the maledictions directed toward Madame de Bouillon; the tears for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur; the passion of regret, the tears, the words of endearment lavished upon her. When I came to myself after a period of frenzy, Gaston Cheverny had thrown his arm about my neck and was weeping like a woman. The Duchesse de Bouillon had vanished. Héreault, a lieutenant of police, had told her he could not answer for her life if she remained in the theater. Adrienne was still on the stage, supporting her frail body by leaning against an urn, and tears were dropping upon her cheeks; she looked like some fair effigy of patient grief. She wished to live—and she was so soon to die! I know not how the play ended, or if it was ended at all when the curtain went down.
An agitated crowd blocked all the streets leading to the theater. Adrienne’s coach was waiting to receive her. Presently, there was a sudden rush. Adrienne was being supported to the coach, and in the arms of Count Saxe—for she was more carried than led. A murmur of approval, of relief, of sorrowful satisfaction ran through the multitude. Adrienne, the paint washed from her face, was of a deathly pallor, but her eyes were full of light and joy. She was to die, but yet to die as she would have wished, with Count Saxe once more her own, won in triumph from her enemy, and the affectionate plaudits of the public which ever loved her, ringing in her ears.
Count Saxe caught sight of me in the crowd, and made a signal to me. I forced my way to the coach,207and got on the box with the driver. Then, glancing back, I saw Monsieur Voltaire and the Earl of Peterborough spring upon the footman’s running board behind. The people gave one single loud cry of approval, and then amid the tears and farewells of thousands, Adrienne Lecouvreur was borne away for the last time from the Théâtre Français, of which she had been the chiefest ornament.
When we reached her house, Monsieur Voltaire and Lord Peterborough sprang down, opened the coach door and let down the steps. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur laughed a little when she saw what manner of footmen she had; she was then in perfect peace, and could smile and even laugh. Monsieur Voltaire took her in his arms and carried her up the long stairs to her apartment, Count Saxe following. Their jealousy was dead and about to be buried in Adrienne’s grave.
I went up the stairs and sat in the anteroom. Within Adrienne’s chamber there were my master, Monsieur Voltaire, Lord Peterborough, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s sister, her two faithful servants and the doctor. There was a strange quiet for so many persons. The windows were opened, letting in the mild air of the spring night. Beneath the windows, a vast, silent and sorrowing crowd stood through the night, while the moon and stars watched and waned. The eastern sky grew rosy, and the long lances of the sun’s advance-guard tipped the roofs and spires with glory. While I was watching this miracle of a new day, I heard the door to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s room open behind me. I caught one glimpse of Monsieur Voltaire as he leaned weeping over the pillow whereon Mademoiselle208Lecouvreur’s head lay, naturally as if she had fallen asleep. Her face was turned a little toward the window, and one hand, half open, lay outside the coverlet—as Count Saxe had dropped it last. He came out of the room. I saw that he was almost as pale as the dead Adrienne; for she was dead, the beautiful, the loving, the generous, and gifted. He walked steadily enough toward me; then suddenly tottered. I helped him out of the room, and below and into a coach. He spoke not one word as we drove toward the Luxembourg, but wept—oh, how he wept!
I left him in his room, alone with his grief and his remorse. I went to my own. At my writing table sat Gaston Cheverny, writing, his tears dropping upon the paper. I believe everybody in Paris wept when Adrienne Lecouvreur died.
“I am writing an account for Mademoiselle Capello,” he said; then laid down his pen, when he saw by my face what had happened.
Four days later Adrienne Lecouvreur was buried at midnight. I was among the few at her interment. Monsieur Voltaire managed it all, with a delicacy, a tenderness inexpressible. Those who say that man could not love, knew not the nobility of his love for Adrienne Lecouvreur. When her will was opened it was found that nearly all of her property was left to the poor.
The death of Adrienne Lecouvreur made an epoch with my master. Except her, he had not been fortunate in the women he had known best; and there were no more, for him, like Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. He209never again spoke to the Duchesse de Bouillon. In that, he was unfailingly true to the memory of the woman who had loved him so well.
This was in March of 1730. It seemed to me as if the days were growing heavier, and Paris drearier, every week that passed. Not that Paris is reckoned a dreary town; particularly in the spring and summer, when everything is in full leaf and flower, and the whole population is out of doors all day in the yellow sunshine and half the night under the laughing moon and merry-twinkling stars—for the people of Paris think that the moon was made for their chief torch-bearer, and that the stars were set in the sky that Paris might be supplied with a handsome set of girandoles. But I was not of that mind. For a long time after Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s death, Count Saxe never spoke her name. He longed to be away from Paris. In June, the King of Saxony, his father, was to form a great camp at Radewitz, and Count Saxe, to his satisfaction, was invited to attend. So, preparing for that event, in which he was to take a considerable part, gave him some distraction during that sad springtime of 1730. I wished him to leave Paris, too. I never thought the air of that town agreed with his constitution.
Gaston Cheverny, as became a young man whose blood runs quick and red, liked the springtime. He had not enough money to go to court often, which he would have liked, so he put up with humbler pleasures. I do not believe he could, to save his life, pass one of those impromptu balls on the corner of the street, where the people, young and old, dance to a210pipe or a fiddle. He always joined in, and as he danced with grace and skill, the little milliners’ girls and the merry old women always liked to have a fling with him.
We made many excursions on foot as well as on horseback, in those hours when Count Saxe had no need of me. We often loitered past the deserted garden of the Hôtel Kirkpatrick, where the lilacs and syringas drenched the air with perfume as on that spring afternoon, four years before. Gaston would say to me:
“See yonder balcony—it was from that balcony Francezka bade me good by. And look—the very guelder rose-bush by which I once spoke with her, on coming to pay my respects to Madame Riano! I can conjure up that charming Francezka as if she were before me now!”
So could I.
By the artful subterfuge of sending Madame Riano the news of Paris, for which she thirsted, Gaston had been lucky enough to keep in constant communication with the château of Capello. Madame Riano often used Francezka as her amanuensis, and I grew to know her clear, firm handwriting well. Her letters were written at Madame Riano’s dictation, but it was plain that Francezka managed to express in them her own thoughts as well as Madame Riano’s. She often spoke of Regnard Cheverny.
“Monsieur Regnard was with us yesterday, at our fête champêtre.” And “Monsieur Cheverny is reading a Spanish story to us, which I understand quite well, although I have scarce spoken ten words of that language since I was a child.” And once—oh, blessed letter!—she said, “My aunt and I desire our regards to Captain Babache. Tell him, as I know he is a poet211in his heart, if not with his pen, that there is a beautiful poem being made now by a lady in Brabant. The lady is Mother Nature—period, this present springtime. It is a play in several acts. I watch it daily from the Italian garden. It is a comedy, with some tragic aspects—for Nature has her tragic moods. The comedy is in the birds and the laughing river, and the leaves and blossoms. These last are defying their cruel old father, Winter, as they come out in spite of him, at first shyly, and then boldly, to be kissed by their lover, the sun. The lake remains always tragic; it never laughs nor even smiles, but is always sadly beautiful, like Niobe, poor, childless one. This is all for Captain Babache. And so Mademoiselle Lecouvreur is no more—and how are we all impoverished by her loss!” And much more of the same sort.
In June we started for Radewitz, near the Elbe. Thirty thousand soldiers were assembled there, many royalties, including the King of Prussia and the Crown Prince Frederick, afterward known as the Great, and every pretty woman in Europe. It was a huge, royal fête champêtre, in which the river Elbe seemed to run with champagne. I had expected it to be a practice camp, and so made preparations with pleasure for Count Saxe to go.
Gaston Cheverny was overjoyed to go, for several reasons; one was, that our road would lie directly toward Brussels, and he would have a chance to stop at his own house, and so, to see the lady of his love. As soon as it was known that we were going, we received kind invitations from Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello to become guests at the château. It was not212possible for Count Saxe to accept, however, and Gaston got only a week’s leave, departing from Paris in advance of us and joining us at Brussels. My master seeing I was disappointed in not stopping at the château on our way, promised that I might stop on our return in July; and with this I was satisfied.
Gaston Cheverny left Paris the middle of May—he was in the highest spirits, as well he might be. The morning he set forth, I rode with him to the barriers. He had a good horse under him, he was to see the lady of his heart, he was then to take part in a great military pageant, beautiful to the eye of a soldier—he was, in short, a very happy young fellow, and forgot that his purse was light. He rode away along the highroad, waving me farewell, and I returned to work like a Trojan to get my master’s escort in trim for the journey. I was glad for Count Saxe to be away from Paris then. Those who think that he was not grieved at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s death, or did not silently lament her, know not the man. But a soldier must take arms against his sorrows, as against his enemies.
Another week found us on the road to Brussels. The very night of our arrival there, Gaston Cheverny turned up; and with him was his brother, Regnard.
Regnard, as usual, was handsome, smooth, well dressed and well equipped with horses and servants to make a good appearance at Radewitz. He was far better off externally than was Gaston; but the same brotherly feelings which made him perfectly at home in Gaston’s house, made Gaston free of Regnard’s servants and horses. The two brothers lived upon the same terms of amity and cordial intimacy as always, in spite213of the fact that as they were now men, and not youths; and as Mademoiselle Capello was her own mistress, their rivalry had become far more serious.
After supper at the inn, I left Regnard with Count Saxe, while Gaston and I walked together upon the city ramparts, under the soft dark skies of the summer night. It was plain, without the telling, that his visit to Brabant had been highly satisfactory. He gave me a kind message from Mademoiselle Capello, and also one from Madame Riano. He told me that Francezka had developed the same capacity for affairs which marked Madame Riano; and to the surprise and chagrin of the wiseacres who expected to see everything at Capello at sixes and sevens under a woman’s rule, hers was the best managed estate in the province. She had stewards, but looked after them herself, not being free from a fondness for ruling. Old Peter was still her right hand man, but aged and inexpressibly sorrowful at the humble tragedy of the lost Lisa. Jacques Haret had not since been seen in those parts; and Gaston Cheverny had given his word to Mademoiselle Capello that the next time he saw Jacques Haret, the scoundrel should have a double dose of punishment on old Peter’s account, as well as on Gaston’s own, and Francezka seemed mightily contented with the idea. Revenge, as well as all the other elemental passions, was a part of Francezka Capello’s nature.
Madame Riano, Gaston said, was the same Madame Riano, but a late fantasy of hers was giving Mademoiselle Capello some anxiety. Madame Riano had been seized with a raging desire to go to Scotland. She had a notion that the time was ripe for another214uprising against the Hanoverians; and I believe that woman was capable of raising the clans and marching at their head to recover for Charles Edward Stuart the throne of his ancestors. This sudden passion of Madame Riano for Scotland was very embarrassing for Mademoiselle Capello, because it would almost force her to seek the protection of a husband, as she had no intention of forsaking her home in Brabant. I do not think this decision of Madame Riano’s seemed to trouble Gaston Cheverny very deeply, although he candidly admitted what the consequences would be. It was plain, however, that his prospects in that quarter were such as to warrant his taking a certain risk; and I believed he played fast and loose with the ladies slyly encouraging Madame Riano to go to Scotland, while ostensibly urging her to remain in Brabant. I asked him if his brother had yielded the field to him.
“By no means,” he replied, “but the only way to make him yield is to carry the lady off. There is no waiting game to be played in love—one must be ready to take the hazard of the die at any moment. My brother is not my only rival—there are scores of others; but I do not count up my chances of failure—I only count my chances of success. Oh, Babache, if Francezka Capello should exchange her dower for the smallpox, it would make no difference to me—” and he quoted to me that sonnet of Master William Shakespeare’s, in which the poet makes it clear that true love is not Time’s fool.
We started next morning, in beautiful summer weather, which lasted us until we reached Radewitz.
What shall I say concerning the splendors of that215place? The temporary palaces, built of painted and gilded canvas, adorned with pictures and statues, and surrounded with gardens and shrubberies, where kings and princes were served from gold and silver plate; where after the most magnificent military pageants all day long, at evening came soft and dulcet music, concerts and serenades and even operas; where all the splendor and beauty in Europe seemed gathered together. It was like the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and it lasted for a whole month. I sometimes wondered why, among the great number of ladies present, there should not be Mademoiselle Capello and Madame Riano; and one summer afternoon, my question was answered, for rolling along the highway, toward a fine country mansion, where many guests were entertained, I saw a splendid traveling coach, well horsed and with outriders. The liveries were not the purple and canary of Madame Riano, but a superb crimson and gold. In this coach sat Madame Riano, and by her side, Francezka Capello—Francezka, in the very flush and flower of her exquisite beauty.