216CHAPTER XVIIAN IMPATIENT LOVER
Why do I always call Mademoiselle Capello beautiful? I can not tell. Her features were only tolerably regular, not even so regular as Madame Riano’s; but Francezka had on her eloquent face the power, if not the substance, of the most dazzling loveliness. She put handsomer women behind the door, at the mere look of her. Everything became her. If she were splendidly appareled, that seemed the best and only dress for her. If she rode a-horseback, with her hat and feather, that was the right thing for her, and when she wore a simple linen gown and a straw hat, we wondered how she could endure to wear any other costume. That, I take it, is the essence of beauty—not that I am learned in beauty, though I am an expert in ugliness.
The coach was stopped, and I hastened to pay my duty to the ladies. Madame Riano’s greeting was kind, Francezka’s more than kind. They were to be the guests of some great people at the fine mansion for which they were bound, during the remainder of the camp—about a fortnight longer. Madame Riano was disposed to grumble a little that so many sovereigns and princes should waste their time in pageants instead217of using their arms to set Prince Charles Stuart upon the throne of his ancestors; but otherwise she was reasonable enough.
Francezka looked scarcely a day older than when I had last seen her two years and a half before. She leaned forward, out of the coach door, one little red-heeled shoe showing coquettishly. A large straw hat, fit for a woodland nymph to wear shaded her dark eyes, now soft, now sparkling. She expressed many wishes to see much of me, and reminded me, as did Madame Riano, that I was due at the château of Capello on our return to France. Presently, the coach rolled away, along the highroad, under the dappled shadows of the linden trees, and that was the only satisfactory interview I had with Francezka that bout.
Gaston Cheverny had not so much as even one satisfactory interview, for, straightway, Francezka was pounced upon by every man who felt the need of fortune for himself or his sons, and every woman who thought the estates of Capello would be desirable in her family. Besides this, there were numbers of young officers who were deeply smitten by Francezka’s own dark eyes, for she was one of those women born to trouble the hearts of men. No young girl ever had more of admiration and adulation than Francezka had, on this her first entrance upon a larger stage than that of a province.
Count Saxe showed her marked, but respectful attention. The Crown Prince Frederick of Prussia admired her openly, and always danced with her at the grand balls given every other night by the King of Saxony. As for the young sprigs of royalty and nobility,218Mademoiselle Capello was the toast of the hour with them, and he that could rob her of her little slipper and drink her health in it was reckoned a hero.
It may be imagined how pleasant this was to Gaston Cheverny, who could scarce come near Francezka for the press. Moreover, Count Saxe attended that camp to work, and he made everybody under him work; so that Gaston Cheverny had not many hours to play the gallant to any one. Regnard Cheverny, who was merely a guest, had all the time he wanted to pursue Mademoiselle Capello, but not even he, the persistent, the tenacious, could charge successfully through the cordon of admirers which always surrounded Francezka now. I saw her sometimes at a distance, dancing at a ball, and looking like a fairy princess out of a story book; or, riding like a lapwing with Count Saxe, and other officers; or again, in gorgeous pleasure parties on the river. But she was like a comet in its brilliant but erratic course through the heavens, and no longer a fixed star, whose orbit is known.
Gaston Cheverny’s misery was extreme. He passed at once from the high heaven of delight to the lowest deeps of wretchedness, because, forsooth, Mademoiselle Capello did not show him the exclusive consideration she had bestowed on him in Brabant. He called her many of the hardest names in the lexicon; one would have thought to hear him rail at her, that she was under a strict obligation not to speak to another man than himself. Count Saxe and I rallied him often, but he grew so savage about it that presently we desisted. Regnard was far more debonair and reasonable,219but I have always distrusted that man who is entirely reasonable in his loves and his hates.
At last the June days came to an end, and with it, the gorgeous pageantry of the camp of Radewitz. In a night the splendid scene vanished. The silken tents, the canvas palaces, suddenly were no more. The fleet of purple-sailed pleasure boats upon the Elbe floated away; the fair green slopes, the gardens created as if by magic were trampled on by thirty thousand men on the march. The highway was choked with coaches and baggage-wagons and horsemen and horsewomen, and the inns on the roads that led from Radewitz were like camps, so many persons being forced to lodge out of doors. Count Saxe and myself, with Gaston Cheverny and faithful Beauvais, the valet, and other servants, scarcely slept in a bed from the time we left Radewitz until we reached Brussels. One reason was, that in common with other officers, Count Saxe was more generous than prudent, and after having lodged with kings at the camp, often he had not the money for a good inn. Then we were glad to take up our quarters in a roomy, clean barn; and one or two of the June nights we slept on the ground in our cloaks, as soldiers should.
In Brussels, my master made known his necessities to his father, the King of Saxony, who sent him a splendid remittance. Count Saxe remained in Brussels while awaiting this remittance, so that he might judiciously determine, in advance, how to spend it; and after it came, he naturally continued there, so as to carry out the intentions so carefully formed.
This time he allowed me to spend in Brabant, and220also gave Gaston Cheverny leave; and Gaston inviting, or rather commanding me to become his guest, we had a whole fortnight at the Manoir Cheverny.
Regnard went to his own castle of Haret. He civilly entreated me to visit him, but Gaston putting in his claim strongly to all my time, I was, very willingly, driven to decline.
We parted from Regnard at Brussels, and rode out in a morning to the Manoir Cheverny. At every step of the road, Gaston swore a new, strong and strange oath, that he was done with Mademoiselle Capello; that no word or act of hers could ever induce him to return to her, no, not if she made her way from the château of Capello to the Manoir Cheverny on her knees. From reproaching her, he turned to bitterly reviling me, because I had not stuck my sword all the way through his body, instead of only about six inches, on our first acquaintance. To this I made irreverent answers as we rode through the pleasant country. It was barely noon of the summer day when we came within sight of the Manoir Cheverny, and at the same time saw the château of Capello sitting, white and beautiful and stately upon its marble terraces and above its fair gardens and green slopes, like a queen upon her throne. We skirted the domain and entered the pleasure grounds of the Manoir Cheverny, and soon were reposing ourselves in the ancient and comfortable old house.
Two or three old servants had been kept in the place, and it was well aired and in good order. Scarce had we sat down to an excellent dinner with good wine, when a letter was brought to Gaston Cheverny. It was from Mademoiselle Capello, and invited us, both in her own221name and Madame Riano’s, to become her guests at supper that evening.
Without one word of apology, Gaston Cheverny dashed away from the dinner table, wrote a letter of acceptance, and came back looking exactly as a man does when he has won the first prize in the lottery, or has just received a field marshal’s baton. In an instant of time, and by a stroke of Francezka’s pen, all of his grievances, his resolves, his fierce resentment, melted away like the mists of the morning. Nobody could complain that Gaston Cheverny was coldly reasonable in his love.
Six o’clock was the hour named in Francezka’s letter, but Gaston’s impatience was so great that we set out a little after five, and spent the time loitering in the great park. If I had thought the château of Capello lovely in the autumn days, more than two years before, when the woods were russet, the earth brown, how much lovelier did it appear in this rare summer afternoon when it was one vast garden of beauty! The green, softly rolling hills, the rich park, the purple woods, the château rising from its emerald terraces, its marble balustrades gleaming white, the fountains plashing diamonds, the lake blue and still and melancholy, the Italian garden like a poet’s dream—my senses ached with so much beauty—but I forgot it all, when, in the sunset glow, I saw Francezka Capello.
The bell in the little village church was clanging musically, as Gaston Cheverny and I mounted the terrace steps. A table was set out in the rose garden by the side of the canal, for anal frescosupper, and there222in the sweet, warm evening air, sat Francezka, dressed in white, a book, her usual companion, in her hands. Madame Riano had not yet appeared. As soon as Francezka saw us, she dropped her book, and ran toward us merrily, like a child, a thin white scarf floating cloudlike behind her.
I think she felt that Gaston perhaps had some cause for complaint of her behavior at Radewitz, for never was woman kinder to a man than she to him at that meeting. And as for myself, one would have thought Babache, the Tatar prince, and native of the Marais, was the Crown Prince of Prussia. She wished to know how my health was, and praised and admired Count Saxe to my heart’s content, and desired to know if I was ready to desert his service for hers.
Thus, warming our hearts with her sweetness, Francezka took us back to the rustic seats by the canal, where Madame Riano now awaited us.
As we had the good fortune to be favorites of that lady, we were well received by her also. Gaston Cheverny was a prime favorite of hers, having won her good will by many warm protestations of his devotion to what she called the cause of England’s rightful king; a devotion which I think Gaston Cheverny very much exaggerated for purposes of his own.
We spent a pleasant hour at supper. Old Peter directed the servants who waited on us. The old man blushed under his tan and wrinkles when I greeted him kindly. I saw that the story of his niece’s disgrace was ever present with him, and my presence recalled the fate of poor Lisa. After supper, when the harvest moon was rising in pale beauty, and the western sky223glowed with gold and amber and green, we walked to the Italian garden. The air of retirement and repose and distance of the spot grew upon me. It seemed a place for sweet meditation. Francezka, pointing to the sun dial, said to me:
“So far, it has had none but sunny hours to mark for me.” She said this with a little note of triumph in her voice; but what young girl situated as Francezka Capello was, at this period of her life, could have remained wholly undazzled?
Below us lay the lake, dark and solemn under the shadow of the cedars.
“Listen,” said Francezka; and listening, we heard that faint, sad murmur of the water, that came, no one knew how.
We spent an hour sitting on the stone benches, under the yew and box hedges, and watching the purple twilight enfold the landscape, as we conversed. Francezka declared we must have some music, and calling in her clear voice, a servant heard and answered her, and brought from the château a Spanish guitar. To this Gaston Cheverny sang. Presently, in response to the silent request of Francezka’s eyes, and an eloquent assent from his own, he sang that song to which I always thought they attached a fond and secret meaning:
O Richard, O mon roi!
Francezka, with her white scarf about her dark head, listened in her favorite attitude, her cheek upon her hand; listened with an air that would have made any man’s heart beat the quicker for it.
224
We did not leave the garden until late, and then it was time for us to go back to the Manoir Cheverny. On the way through the park and fields, under the harvest moon, Gaston Cheverny raved as only lovers rave; but I, of all men, excused him, knowing the object of his love.
The time sped away during that fortnight, albeit I was separated from Count Saxe. We saw the ladies at the château of Capello daily. The extraordinary kindness of Mademoiselle Capello toward me rather increased. It seemed as if she lay bare her mind, her heart, her soul, to me. I was not, and never could be, her lover, but I was her friend. I found out many things about her that I did not know before. One was—whether it were a defect or not I do not know—she had few intimates. She was not only so differently placed, but so different in herself from most young creatures of her age, that she had not much in common with them. She confessed to me more than once that she had been disappointed in feminine friendships.
“When I think I have found a friend and companion I invariably find in the background a brother or a cousin—some one who wants to rule here,” she said to me one day.
“And whenever you find one of the other sex who seems to know what friendship is, does he not also resolve himself into a lover after a while?” I asked.
Francezka laughed and blushed.
“All, except you,” she answered. “That is why I turn to you with so much confidence, Babache. You alone of the whole wide world, as I know it, can I call my friend, without any admixture of love or flattery. You225alone ever found fault with me, or told me my way was not a reasonable way.”
“But I can not now recall ever having dared to find fault with you, Mademoiselle,” I said, cudgeling my brains.
“Oh, it matters not exactly in words; but I know you would find fault with me, if you thought I was wrong, and would tell me so, though I can not bear to be told of my faults—and so I love you”—and then she laughed, as I did, at her own peculiar logic.
Regnard Cheverny by no means allowed his brother a monopoly of Mademoiselle Capello’s company, but duly appeared, after a few days. I watched Francezka’s behavior to him and came to the conclusion that in spite of the entertainment she derived from his company, she liked him no better than she had two years and a half before. I happened to speak to her one day of the resemblance between the two brothers, which was so marked.
“How can you think that?” she replied. “I never mistake one for the other. One is charming—the other is not.”
That very evening, the two Chevernys and myself being at the château, we sat down to cards with Francezka and Madame Riano. It was stormy outside, and a sudden gust of wind coming, all the lights were in an instant blown out. While we sat in the dark, waiting for the servants to come and relight the candles, Regnard Cheverny spoke, and his voice being so much like his brother’s, Francezka answered him for Gaston, and they talked together, much to our diversion. Francezka did not find out her mistake until the candles226were again alight, and then, instead of laughing, was strangely vexed and offended at the pleasantry played upon her.
Regnard Cheverny, as well as Gaston, was fond of books, and on that ground he could hold his own with Francezka. She had all of the new books sent her from Paris, Brussels and the Hague, including Monsieur Voltaire’s, much to Madame Riano’s horror. Likewise, she diligently studied the harpsichord, having masters from Brussels to instruct her. She loved to be praised for her good management of her affairs, but I was inclined to think that old Peter, whose gray, humble head was full of sound sense for other people’s affairs, deserved more credit for this than he got. One morning, meeting him as I walked through the park, I remarked upon the beauty and order of the estate and congratulated him on having so capable a mistress to serve.
“Truly,” he said, “mademoiselle has a good understanding of affairs, but, in confidence, Captain Babache, she makes her mistakes. I tell her a certain man is lazy, is not doing his work; that I have given him a fair trial, have warned him, and yet he will not work, so I have discharged him. The rascal waylays mademoiselle in the park; tells her a pitiful tale about a wife and seven children all starving. My lady offers to take him back into her service. Oh, no; my rogue does not want that; he wants money enough to get to the next town, where he has a brother who will get him work. Mademoiselle hands him out a gold piece, returns to the château, sends for me, storms at me, and at last permits me, as a favor, to explain to her that the227fellow has no wife, no child, no brother that I know of, but her gold piece will enable him to get drunk and to live without work for a month. Oh, young ladies of fortune are difficult to manage—very. Mine is no worse than others, I dare say. Rather better than some, for at least she knows her own mind.”
I had said no word concerning Lisa or Jacques Haret, but before the old man left me he spoke of his misfortune to me, looking as if he were the guilty one instead of Jacques Haret.
“It was I who was blind—I who should have watched my niece. But I did not—I was much to blame.” The scanty tears of age dropped from his eyes as he spoke. I asked if anything had been heard of Lisa.
“Not a word,” he said, “but I believe, and mademoiselle believes, that as soon as Monsieur Jacques deserts her, Lisa will return.”
So, even poor Peter knew that Jacques Haret would desert Lisa.
Madame Riano was ever talking during that fortnight of her projected journey to Scotland. I saw that the mention of it made Mademoiselle Capello very uneasy. Fearless as Francezka was, she knew better than to attempt to remain alone and unmarried in Brabant, for there was no strain of deep-seated folly in her. She might find somedame de compagnieto take Madame Riano’s place, but that was not an agreeable thought to her, and she was very far from being ready to give up her liberty to any man—just then. She confided to me with secret laughter that her one hope of keeping her aunt in Brabant was, that the war was still on with unabated fury between Madame Riano and the Bishop of228Louvain, and Madame Riano had not yet scored a conclusive victory over her enemy. At present the bishop was trying to get the consent of the government to add to the episcopal palace, and Madame Riano, who loved to enact the rôle of a she-Jupiter, had determined that the palace was already large enough for the bishop, and was preaching a crusade through the country against the proposed improvement.
229CHAPTER XVIIIA VINDICTIVE ROGUE
One afternoon, during our stay at the Manoir Cheverny, Gaston Cheverny entertained the ladies in very good style at an outdoor fête. Regnard Cheverny, of course, was present, and also the handsome, foolish Count Bellegarde, whom Francezka treated with airy indifference. For amusement there was peasant dancing and singing to rustic pipes, and afterward a collation under the trees, at which the servants were dressed in the national costume of Brabant; the national dishes were served, and musicians, concealed in the shrubbery, played and sang the songs and airs of Brabant. It was extremely pretty, the afternoon being bright and soft. When the collation was over, Gaston escorted Madame Riano and Francezka about the house and grounds. There was a handsome drawing-room in one wing, which was seldom used, but was open on this occasion. Gaston led the way to this room, where there was a harpsichord, which he opened that Francezka might play on it. As she fingered the keys with one hand, the other hanging down, she started with a little shriek of dismay. A dog, crouching unseen under the harpsichord, stood with his forepaws on the edge of Francezka’s230chair, while he licked affectionately the little white hand so temptingly within his reach.
“Good dog—wise dog,” said Gaston Cheverny, patting the creature. He was a Spanish pointer, of a reddish liver color, remarkably handsome, with satiny, pendulous ears, and the most intelligent eye I have ever seen in an animal. There are other dogs reckoned more affectionate and intelligent than these Spanish pointers, but I never knew any dumb creature superior to this one, as time strangely proved; for this dog afterward played a great part in the drama of Francezka Capello’s life.
The dog seemed enraptured with Francezka, and she with him. She passed his long ears through her white fingers, the dog giving a little whine of delight, and rubbing his head against her satin gown of the color of spring violets.
“What is his name?” she asked—the first question every woman asks concerning a dog or a horse.
“Bold,” replied Gaston. “And his taste and discernment on this occasion has fixed his fate. I have been debating whether I should take him or his brother, Rattler, with me to Paris, and was until now inclined to Rattler—come out, my dog.”
Gaston hauled Rattler forth from under the harpsichord. He was a handsome dog also, but nothing like so pleasant mannered as Bold. I had noticed the two dogs about the place since my arrival, and had all along recommended Bold as the worthier dog. Regnard Cheverny, on the contrary, believed in Rattler.
“I think Rattler the better dog,” said Regnard, coming forward and patting Rattler, who took no manner231of notice of Francezka, while Bold overwhelmed her with evidences of affection. “But Bold is better adapted to be a Paris dog. He has a taste for luxury, and instead of being satisfied with a good woolen blanket to sleep on, he will persist in taking his ease on the satin sofa in this saloon. He is apetit maîtreof a dog. Take him to Paris, brother, by all means—and give me Rattler.”
At this Bold seemed to realize that Regnard was not his friend, and gave him a look of dislike altogether human, turning his back meanwhile with an air of unmistakable contempt. All present laughed at this dialogue between the man and the dog.
“Bold is bound for Paris, then,” said Gaston, “and you will see how he will give up hispetit-maîtreways and become a seasoned soldier after one campaign.”
Francezka then took her attention long enough from the dog to play some beautiful airs upon the harpsichord. That, if anything, increased Bold’s infatuation for her and recommended him still more highly to his master.
The evening falling, the ladies made ready to depart, after many thanks for their entertainment. The coach was to come for them, but the July evening being inexpressibly sweet, Francezka persuaded Madame Riano to walk the short distance to the château. The arrangement of the walking party scarcely fell out to suit any one. Gaston was obliged to escort Madame Riano, who stalked ahead like a grenadier—never woman had such a stride—with Bellegarde, the most insipid man on the globe, on the other side of her. Francezka was escorted by Regnard Cheverny, whose company she never232showed any pleasure in, and myself. She was civil enough to Regnard, but was most pointedly kind to me, partly from good-will to me and partly from ill-will to Regnard. He took it politely and debonairly, as became a gentleman. But I saw in his eye that he did not thereby for one moment abandon his resolute pursuit of Francezka Capello. Bold accompanied us, and had to be dragged, yelping, from Francezka’s side, when we returned home. This was four days before we left.
The last evening we spent as we had spent many others, at the château of Capello. It seemed to me a momentous parting between Francezka and Gaston Cheverny. Her attitude to him now was that of a young sovereign, who airily bids her lover wait until she is ready to marry him; but Madame Riano’s departure might change all that. I had not the least doubt, if Francezka were compelled to make instant choice of a husband, that Gaston Cheverny would be the man. On the other hand, Madame Riano’s remaining might change Gaston Cheverny, for he was not the stuff out of which patient lovers are made.
At midnight we said adieu. The last sight we had of Francezka was as she stood on the balcony of the red saloon, waving her white scarf in farewell to us. She wore a white gown, and a great resplendent moon overhead bathed her in its silvery radiance. She might have been an angel alighting upon the earth and ready to wing her way back to heaven with the dawn of day. When we reached the Manoir Cheverny I went direct to my bed, but the brothers remained an hour or more in conversation in Gaston’s room. It was near two o’clock in the morning when they parted in the corridor233upon which my chamber opened, and I heard Gaston’s clear voice saying:
“Brother, you have chosen another country than I; we can no longer sayUn Foy, Un Loy, Un Roy, but we need not be any the less brothers.”
“True,” replied Regnard. “Our mother’s father chose another faith, another law, another king, when he left Scotland, wherefore should I not rather be Austrian than French if I like? How many times has this province changed sovereigns? French, Spanish, Austrian, Flemish—I go with the Austrians because I think there is a better chance for fortune and promotion with them. Besides, I ever loved the English, and the English and Austrians will be allied for all of our time. I shall not yet sell Castle Haret—” here he paused a minute; I thought I knew why he would not sell all his landed possessions, which were so very convenient to the château of Capello—“but it depends on events whether I shall occupy it permanently or not.”
Gaston, I fancied, was too proud a man to express any jealousy of his brother’s continued nearness to Francezka, so he replied coolly:
“By all means, retain Castle Haret. You got it for much below its value, and you would do well to keep it; and besides, you will not be entirely Austrian or English either, as long as you retain Castle Haret in the Low Countries.”
Then they parted for the night, and at sunrise we were in the saddle. Regnard Cheverny rode a stage with us, and the parting between the brothers was affectionate. They knew not, when they next met, whether it would be in peace, under the roof of one or234the other, or in mortal strife on the field of battle. Gaston did not forget to take Bold with him, the dog trotting by the side of our horses until he was tired, and then finding a perch, usually behind Gaston’s saddle. Bold was in the greatest favor with his master, after having won the good opinion of Francezka.
Our rendezvous with Count Saxe was at the second stage from Brussels. There we found him awaiting us, with Beauvais and his other servants. He was good enough to tell me that he had needed me for one purpose or another every hour that I had been away, and that I should never get out of pistol shot of him again. We continued toward Paris that same day, and reached it after three days of easy travel. And then began a repetition of that dreary life of the two years past—dreary to me, that is. But no matter how dreary, I remembered the stars in their courses, “everlasting, yet unresting,” and bore the hours as well as I could.
War with Austria was imminent at every moment, although it did not actually break out until the spring of 1733. This prospect prevented Count Saxe from making any further attempt on Courland. He was sought after in Paris and at Versailles as no man ever was before or since—at court, everywhere. There was no Adrienne Lecouvreur to fix his wandering heart upon herself. As for Madame de Bouillon, he hated the sight of her. Monsieur Voltaire was daily rising in glory. The king did not like him, and for all Monsieur Voltaire’s efforts to get on at court, he never could contrive it. I often wondered he should not see that men cast in his mold have nothing to hope or fear from kings; they enjoy a sovereignty of their own on which no mere235hereditary monarch may infringe. Count Saxe knew this, for whatever might be his relations with Monsieur Voltaire, he did not make the ridiculous blunder of undervaluing that notary’s son. There was, however, peace between them after they had stood together at Adrienne Lecouvreur’s death-bed. I think her gentle and loyal spirit breathed peace even when she was no more.
Count Saxe gave much attention to his regiment of Spar, which was a model. Of his lieutenants, none was better than Gaston Cheverny. The personal affection which Count Saxe always had for Gaston Cheverny was extreme, and that was the best guaranty of Gaston’s military fortunes; for Count Saxe would never let a good soldier go unrewarded.
The narrowness of Gaston Cheverny’s fortune made him lead the same life in Paris he had led since he first joined with us. Whether it were choice or necessity, his only intimate friends were myself, and his dog Bold. This dog was to him what I have tried to be to Count Saxe. No man need be ashamed to have his faithfulness and devotion compared to that of a dog of the right character. Bold had some of the noblest virtues of humanity as well as of caninity. He was faithful, honest, watchful, kind, scorned to fight a weaker dog, while presenting a courageous front to one larger than himself; and although a warrior by nature, yet by the excellence of his heart, and the soundness of his judgment, he became a philosopher, not so brilliant as Monsieur Voltaire, for example, but far more consistent.
Once a year Gaston Cheverny visited Brabant, always taking Bold with him. Mademoiselle Capello236remained at her château of Capello, and so did Madame Riano, although she was ever, like ourselves, expecting to be on the march. The time had expired when Francezka professed to be bound by her father’s will not to marry, yet she showed no inclination to reward any of her numerous suitors. She continued to live in gaiety and splendor at the château of Capello, and I imagine rather enjoyed the torments of her lovers. Regnard Cheverny kept up his pursuit of her, so Gaston told me. Regnard had then joined the Austrian service, being a captain in the Grenadiers. He contrived, however, to get leave to visit Brabant at the same time that Gaston did, once a year. The brothers played a very watchful but perfectly fair and honorable game with each other in this love affair, which had already lasted six years. Meanwhile Francezka had not forgotten her friend, Captain Babache, but often sent me kind messages. Through Gaston Cheverny, I knew quite well all that passed at the château of Capello. I was concerned to know what had become of that prince of rascals, Jacques Haret. At last I heard of him, and to my great satisfaction. It was after Gaston’s return from his annual visit to Brabant in the autumn of 1732. It was the first thing he told me, on his arrival, as we walked up and down the gardens of the Luxembourg on a drear November afternoon. He had but just reached Paris.
“God be praised, Babache, I have met Jacques Haret and given him the handsomest drubbing imaginable,” he said.
“Thank God,” I replied.
“It was at a little inn on the border line of France.237Part of the inn is in the Netherlands and part is in France, and a chalk line drawn across the floor of the common room shows you, if you wish, when you are in France and when you are in the Netherlands. One day affairs took me to this little place. There, sitting and drinking in the common room, was Jacques Haret, looking not one whit changed in four years. He was dressed as usual, half shabbily and half splendidly. He greeted me as if he had led the most blameless life in the world since I had seen him last. You know, Babache, besides my own indignation at his shameful breach of hospitality, I had Mademoiselle Capello’s injuries to avenge. So I went up to Jacques Haret and said: ‘Rascal, where is Lisa Embden?’
“‘God knows,’ says he, ‘but what is your interest in Lisa Embden, the niece of a servant, and little more than a servant herself?’
“‘This much,’ I replied. ‘If I had known what was going on while you were staying at my house four years ago I would have broken every bone in your scoundrelly body.’
“‘Oho,’ said he, ‘if that is the way you talk, I suppose you want satisfaction.’
“I told him I did, but not with the sword. You know, Babache, I have a faculty of fist fighting from my Scotch ancestor, and I never meant to degrade my good sword in a contest with a rogue like Jacques Haret. So, reaching over, I caught him by the collar, and gave him then and there the hardest beating I could. We fought all over the room, first in France, then in the Netherlands. Jacques Haret could make but a poor defense. The life he has led does not equip238a man with brawn and muscle, so I had things my own way with him. When I was through, both of his eyes were blacked, his nose was as big as my fist, and there was blood on him. I had not a scratch. He took his injury with that outward calm which seems the peculiar virtue of a rogue, but he showed a quiet vindictiveness which amazed me. I have ever found before this that men who forget benefits easily forget injuries quickly. Jacques Haret is different, for he forgets all benefits at once, and treasures up his injuries. I think it was the fist beating that infuriated him. There are some rags and remnants of a gentleman left hanging to him, and although he would have forgiven completely any hole I might have made with my sword in his carcass, he could not stomach the beating outright. He sat on a chair, wiping the blood from his face, and said to me in a cool, determined voice:
“‘Gaston Cheverny, I am in your debt for this. I will promise to pay you off, with a balance to your credit.’ That was all he said—I scorned to have anything further to say, and mounting my horse, rode off, but I have made a good enemy out of a remorseless scoundrel. At all events, however, it is better than having him profess friendship for me.”
“Quite so,” I answered, “and what did Mademoiselle Capello say when she heard of it?”
“Of course, I did not speak of it to her, but equally of course, she heard of it, and thanked me for it. And she had also heard that Jacques Haret had promised to revenge himself. But she is no more afraid of him than I am. She still hopes and believes that Lisa will239return, but no word has come of her, whether she be living or dead.”
He then told me that Regnard, as usual, had timed his visit to Brabant, so the brothers could be there together, and half laughing and half chagrined, told me that Regnard, in his white Austrian uniform, was very captivating to the eye. And they both desired Francezka, who laughed at all suitors to her hand. Yet there was a cheerfulness about Gaston Cheverny, which showed me that Francezka was not less kind than formerly. Madame Riano was talking with renewed earnestness of going to Scotland, and Gaston based great hopes on that.
But the time of action had arrived, and soon we would all be on the march. In the first days of February, 1733, Count Saxe’s father, the King of Poland and of Saxony, died. He left Count Saxe a fine fortune, and he left war to Europe. The King of France was minded to have his father-in-law, Stanislaus, ex-King of Poland, back on the electoral throne of Poland. Nobody else wanted him there. I doubt if the poor old man himself would not rather have lived and died peaceably at Lunéville. But he must try for it, against the wish and will of Austria. A conflagration in Europe was impending, and meanwhile another one occurred in a small way in Brabant. The sameestafettewhich brought the news of King August’s death, also brought intelligence, gleaned by chance, that in the middle of the night, four days before, every granary, stable and outbuilding of the Manoir Cheverny was burned to the ground; and on St. Valentine’s day of 1733 Gaston240Cheverny got letters saying that the Manoir Cheverny itself was but a heap of ashes. Not a book nor a chair had been saved. The fire occurring in the night, it was beyond control before it was discovered, and by daylight the old manoir was a pile of ruins, only a part of the blackened wall remaining.
Gaston Cheverny received the news early in the morning of a very important day. It was the day on which the king announced to his officers of high rank that any interference on the part of Austria with the election of a king in Poland would mean war. And Austria, it was well known, would interfere.
When the letter telling Gaston Cheverny of his losses was placed in his hands, we were in the act of starting from the Luxembourg for Versailles, accompanying Count Saxe. Gaston glanced at the letter hurriedly, and his face grew pale, but he mounted and rode forward without a word, thrusting the letter in his pocket. It was a cold, bright February morning, and we traveled briskly. Count Saxe called me to his side, and as we followed the road, talked with me concerning the change in his affairs made by the death of the King of Saxony and the impending war. For my part, since the dose I had had in Courland of elective crowns, I had a rooted aversion to them and only pitied the man who would aspire to one of the accursed baubles.
When we were some miles on our way, Count Saxe turned his head, and seeing Gaston Cheverny with a rueful face, riding among the suite, asked me the cause; for Gaston had a natural gaiety of heart, very becoming to a soldier. I told Count Saxe of the ill news Gaston had just received. Count Saxe then called to241him, and on Gaston’s riding up, promised him some recompense in the way of a fortune, that he might rebuild his house, for which Gaston expressed his thanks.
“And there is great joy ahead,” continued Count Saxe, loud enough to be heard by all of the suite, “for we may reckon to be at odds with the Austrians by June, at least.”
With that Gaston’s countenance cleared as if by magic and the youngsters in the suite began cheering with pleasure. We were crossing the bridge near Sèvres, that bridge where Monsieur Voltaire got one of his celebrated canings, and the thought of fighting so pleased Gaston Cheverny that besides cheering loudly with the rest, he stood up in his stirrups, and for very joy flung his hat into the river. The other youngsters followed this gallant example, and except Count Saxe and myself, not a man in the party had a hat when we reached Versailles. Count Saxe told the story to the king, who was vastly diverted by it, and next morning, before we left Versailles, every man who had thrown his hat away in the exuberance of his joy received from the queen the gift of a handsome laced hat. So much for Gaston Cheverny’s flinging his away. He showed a steady and cheerful fortitude under his losses. Besides the actual loss to him, whose fortune was already small, he was deeply attached to his home and his belongings. He told me with a rueful smile that only the fine gateway of the Manoir Cheverny had been spared. There was no doubt in the minds of either of us that Jacques Haret was the guilty one in these crimes.
242CHAPTER XIXTHE HAPPIEST MAN ALIVE
Will it be believed that after the king had in February sent for Count Saxe and other officers to Versailles to announce to them the war, we were not actually on the march until August? There was a song the soldiers sang on the sly during these months, when the king, having said he would make war, seemed loath to begin:
Timide, imbécile, farouche,Jamais Louis n’avait dit mot.
At last though, under those two tough old warriors, Marshal Villars and Marshal, the Duke of Berwick, the French were on the march. Marshal Villars went to Italy and the Duke of Berwick to the Rhine. With the Duke of Berwick went Count Saxe’s old friend, the Duc de Noailles and Count Saxe himself, then camp marshal. The Duke of Berwick was very great as a man and a soldier, and everybody knows the high esteem in which he held Count Saxe—of which I will speak in its true place.
I am ashamed to say what a figure the army made on its march to Strasburg. One result of the camp at243Radewitz, like that at Compiègne some years before, was to make young officers believe that the great game of war was a summer fête. Every captain must travel in his chaise, and there were almost as many cooks and valets and gill-flirts as soldiers on the road to Strasburg. To those who knew that stern old soldier, the Duke of Berwick, it was a certainty, fixed in advance, as to what would become of the chaises, the valets, the cooks and the gill-flirts. Count Saxe knew “ce diable anglais” as Berwick was called. About ten miles before reaching Strasburg he dismounted from his chaise—for he, seduced by the bad example of others, rode in a chaise—and marched the ten last miles with his regiment, that he might get well soiled and dusty when presenting himself before the general commanding.
Gaston Cheverny, who was Count Saxe’s aide-de-camp, had ridden all the way from Paris, with the dog Bold at his heels. We reached Strasburg at an opportune time. It was in the afternoon, and all day long the chaises had been rolling through the gates; some said there were as many as eighteen hundred in the town at the time. Within them were the officers, as dainty and debonair as if just out of my lady’s bandbox. The Duke of Berwick, exasperated beyond words, had stationed himself at the principal gate and caught these gentlemen when they least expected it. We were told that the countenances of these chaise soldiers were a sight to behold when they caught sight of the grim old marshal and noted the terrible look of him. He was a man of few words, but very fierce when roused. He got those young popinjays out of their chaises by244a single glance, which acted like a grenade when the fuse is touched off.
The regiment of Saxe came marching in, however, every officer in his place, and Count Saxe riding at the head of it. When the Duke of Berwick’s eagle eye saw this his countenance cleared as if by magic; he had looked like a thunder cloud before. Count Saxe had sent all the chaises of the regiment around to another gate. It was a pleasant summer afternoon, and the old city by the Rhine shone in the August sun, which likewise showed the dust, so carefully acquired on his accoutrements by Count Saxe. The Duke of Berwick’s greeting to Count Saxe was afterward known throughout the world.
“Welcome,” said he; “I had asked for a reinforcement of three thousand men, but now that you are come, I do not need them.”
My master responded fittingly, and then, very artfully, made an apology for his appearance, alleging the heat, the dust and the condition of the streams—everything was overflowed that year of 1733.
“No apologies are needed, Monsieur,” replied the marshal. “I am pleased to see that you have brought me soldiers instead of the popinjays and dandies which I have heretofore seen.”
Now this was true of Count Saxe’s regiment in spite of the inroads of luxury upon the youngsters, for my old Uhlans were among them, and the whole regiment enjoyed the names of “Clear-the-way-boys,” and “Storm-alongs,” which our Uhlans had earned long since. By way of a reward the regiment was quartered in the town of Strasburg, but near the river bank.245Count Saxe established himself in a small, but comfortable old mansion, surrounded with gardens sloping to the river. I, of course, was quartered with him, and Gaston Cheverny, being aide-de-camp, was also lodged there.
Prince Eugene, of Savoy, was on the other side of the river, and there was courteous communication by flag of truce between the French and the Austrians.
A day or two after we arrived a letter came for Gaston Cheverny from Regnard Cheverny saying that his grenadiers were with Prince Eugene, and Regnard very much desired to see Gaston. It was easily arranged that Gaston Cheverny should meet his brother at Kehl after nightfall, and should bring him to Strasburg to spend the night. It was only stipulated that Regnard should come and go in darkness.
It was a soft September night when Gaston came into my chamber, joyfully bringing Regnard with him. My room was small, but had a large and pleasant balcony overlooking the straggling gardens and the river. Regnard greeted me pleasantly—he looked gallant in his white Austrian uniform. We went out upon the balcony, had wine brought and spent an hour or two together. Regnard had lately paid a flying visit to Castle Haret, and, of course, had been to the château of Capello.
“Mademoiselle Capello was most kind and charming,” he said, “and, by the way, Captain Babache, she desired her remembrance to you.”
“And nothing to me?” cried Gaston.
Regnard smiled—I never liked his smile, in which his eyes took no part.