246
“Do you think, boy,” he replied, “that I employed the gracious minutes that Francezka—I mean Mademoiselle Capello—allowed me, in talking to her of another man?”
“Then,” cried Gaston, rising half in mirth and half in anger, “I will myself see Mademoiselle Capello and hear from her own lips whether she has forgotten me.”
“We do not propose to give you time to make excursions,” replied Regnard, laughing good-naturedly. “Your Berwick has to dance a branle first with Prince Eugene, and he who would dance with such a partner must be very active and keep his wits and his legs ready.”
Gaston sat down again, and did not lose his good temper. But Regnard told us further that Madame Riano was really going to Scotland. She had got it in her blood, and was likely to leave any day. Mademoiselle Capello had been forced to engage adame de compagniein the person of Madame Chambellan, some relation of Count Bellegarde’s, and as near milk and water as he. I surmised that Francezka was not likely to choose for herdame de compagnieone able or desirous to cross her.
After an hour or two I was called to attend Count Saxe, and the brothers were left alone. They seemed as affectionate as ever I saw brothers. I heard their voices as they spent the hours in converse in Gaston’s room. Toward morning, in the ghostly half light which precedes the dawn, they left the house together, taking a boat at the foot of the garden. I watched them as they passed down the old garden path to the river. Their arms were around each other’s shoulders, schoolboy247fashion, and both of them wore long dark cloaks, for the hour before the dawn was chill. Never were two figures more alike than Gaston and Regnard Cheverny, and there was not the smallest difference in their gait and bearing. I think the mother who bore them would scarcely have known them apart, as I saw them walking away in the pale hours of the morning. A boat awaited them at the foot of the garden. The river rolled dark in the gray half light, half darkness, and a ghostly mist lay upon its bosom. As the boat containing the two brothers was pulled into midstream the creeping mist enveloped it for a moment, then a wandering breeze driving the mist away, the boat became again visible. Some singular interest fixed my eyes upon those two figures in the boat, trying to distinguish one from the other. But, to my chagrin, I could not do this. Presently the mist enveloped them wholly.
Gaston returned within an hour. I told him of the effort I had made to tell him and his brother apart at a distance. He said that Regnard and himself had much sport with the boatman, and also with the sentry, by merely changing cloaks, so that their uniforms could not be seen.
The next evening, as I was reposing myself on the balcony after a hard day’s work, Gaston Cheverny burst upon me. He looked like a bridegroom, he was so radiant.
“I start for the Low Countries to-morrow,” he cried, giving me a whack on the back that nearly knocked me off my chair. “I have just met Count Saxe coming from the Duke of Berwick. The marshal wishes to know if the Austrians are observing the neutrality they248engaged for in the Low Countries. There have been some disturbances, especially the burning of houses, like mine, for example, which excite the duke’s suspicions. He wants a trusty person, well acquainted with the country, to find out the truth, and Count Saxe offered me. I ride to-morrow. I may remain as long as I think necessary, but my duty compelled me to say that I could find out all there was to know and return within a fortnight. I shall see Francezka, and, Babache, only fancy Regnard’s chagrin when he finds out, after my return, that I have lainperduin Brabant for two weeks!”
I had no time to fancy anything then, for Count Saxe was calling me. We worked until late that night on the instructions for Gaston Cheverny. Early in the morning he set out alone, not even having a servant with him. He promised me to give my everlasting remembrance to Mademoiselle Capello. It was, of course, impossible for him to take with him his dog, heretofore his inseparable companion. I was to have charge of Bold in his master’s absence. I locked the creature up in my chamber, and attended Count Saxe during his morning duties. When I went to my chamber at noon I was vexed to find the dog had disappeared. The fastening to the door leading to the balcony was indifferent, and marks showed that the dog, by scratching and pawing, had got the door open. A reward was offered for him at once, but as he did not appear, I felt sure he had managed to join his master.
The fortnight was a busy one; the Duke of Berwick and Prince Eugene were not men to let the grass grow under their feet. It was too late to attempt operations249on a large scale that season, but with an active general no day is lost. Two weeks to the day on which Gaston Cheverny had left Strasburg he rode up to Count Saxe’s quarters and dismounted.
I happened to be waiting at the door for Count Saxe, and so saw Gaston Cheverny when he flung himself off his horse. Although it was in the dusk of an autumn evening, I saw, as well as felt, that Gaston Cheverny radiated happiness. There was something in the grasp of his hand, the ring of his voice, which proclaimed the man with joy in his heart. At the same moment he arrived Count Saxe also rode up. At once he took Gaston Cheverny within, when, with my pen to record, Gaston gave an account of what he had discovered. Although there was no actual proof of treachery on the part of the Austrians, the mysterious burnings continued. Some attributed these dreadful events to private malice, but it was remarkable that every château, house or barn burned belonged to a French sympathizer. It was thought likely to be the work of a band of fanatics, which made it still more alarming. Gaston Cheverny gave his opinion that in the case of the burning of his own house and outbuildings, it was a case of revenge on the part of Jacques Haret.
Gaston Cheverny having told all he had found out, and some impudent duchess or countess coming to claim Count Saxe—no doubt, against his will—Gaston and I were left alone. He sprang up, caught me by the arm, and cried in a ringing voice:
“Babache, I am the happiest man alive. But come out of doors. This room stifles me. I want to look at the stars—like Francezka’s eyes. I wish to breathe the250perfumed air of the garden, because all beauty—all perfume is like her.” He dragged me out into the beautiful old garden, with its tangled shrubbery, its grass-grown walks, its myrtle trees, showing black against a pale night sky, and the great river rolling past. I thought he would at once make me some great confidence, for I had no doubt that he had won Francezka’s love. But instead of that he began to recite to me that poem, adored of lovers, by Houdart de La Motte to Célimène, in which the poet yearns to be the flower that reposes on the bosom of his beloved, the passing breeze that kisses her cheek, the nightingale whose sad notes detain her in the myrtle groves, the fair moon by which the shepherds bring home their flocks. There is in every language I have known a great poem with this thought, common to all hearts that love, running through it, but I like this one of Houdart de La Motte’s the best. When he had finished repeating the lines, with great beauty of voice and meaning, I asked him:
“Did not Mademoiselle Capello send me a message?”
“A thousand. Babache, Francezka loves you with all her heart. She told me, at our last conversation, that she could never think of you without remembering that night in her girlhood when she was taken to the Temple, and from that moment she has reckoned you the most faithful of friends.”
“And how do you stand with her?” I ventured to ask.
“I can not utter a word concerning that. Only to you, Babache, will I say that I am happier than I ever dared to hope.”
251
“At least you can tell me how Francezka is situated.”
“Oh, yes. Madame Riano has really started for Scotland. She left two days after I got to Brabant. I saw her five times before she went. She promises to return within a year. Francezka now has with her Madame Chambellan, but she is old and feeble, and I know not how long the arrangement will last.”
Here was news indeed.
“Francezka has another friend at hand—good Bold. The rogue got away evidently, and when I was full five miles from the city gates I heard him panting behind me. His tongue was out, and he would hardly have lasted much longer at the pace he was going, had I not found him and picked him up.”
I then explained how the dog had escaped.
“As I was secretly in Brabant,” continued Gaston, “of course, it was impossible to keep the dog with me. It was out of the question that I should give him away to any chance person willing to take him, so I made straight for the château of Capello, where I knew he had a friend in Francezka. I left him with her, as a guardian and protector, and a reminder, too, of his master. He remained willingly in Francezka’s sweet company, being ever a dog of the soundest discernment. I feel no jealousy; Francezka is welcome to my dog, as she is to me.”
I could not make out what Gaston’s footing was with Francezka, but that he was assured of her love I no longer doubted. Well, this was as it should be. The difference in their fortunes was but accidental; in all252else they were equals. It must be an agreeable feeling to know one’s self equal to any and all the world, except in this matter of fortune. I never had that feeling. I know myself to be a man, with all a man’s faculties, but this world of ours seldom lets a man forget from whence he sprang.
Gaston Cheverny further confided to me that he expected to be permitted to return to Brabant for a while as soon as we went into winter quarters, but before the leaves fell from the trees this beautiful dream of hope vanished. This time it was the Duke of Berwick who used Gaston’s services. During our fourteen months in Courland Gaston had picked up some knowledge of the various Polish dialects, for he was a man of quick perception and given to learning. The Duke of Berwick needed such a man in Poland and East Prussia, and within a month from the time of Gaston Cheverny’s return from Brabant he was sent to Poland and East Prussia on an errand that might last a month and might last a year.
He went gallantly enough. It was not pleasant duty, and he showed to me alone the deep chagrin it caused him not to revisit Brabant, but he was not a man to refuse any duty assigned to him. He only asked to be allowed to remain long enough at Strasburg to take part with his regiment in the capture of Kehl. This was accorded him. Marshal, the Duke of Berwick, took Kehl in October, thus administering a beautiful slap to the Austrians, and as soon as that was done Gaston Cheverny set out upon his errand.
253CHAPTER XXFORGING THE CHAIN
In November we went into winter quarters. I was much in hopes that Count Saxe would remain in Strasburg the whole winter, but the women in Paris would not let him. They besieged the king to send for Count Saxe; they nearly worried Dangervilliers, the minister of war, into a madhouse, demanding that he order Count Saxe to Paris. Cardinal Fleury declared that his days would be shortened by the importunate ones, who implored him for Count Saxe. Is it any wonder, I say, that Count Saxe was no anchorite with all this adulation and flattery bestowed upon him—with women throwing themselves at his head and at his feet? He went to Paris.
We reached Paris in January and remained until May. It was an unusually tedious time for me, because I had not Gaston Cheverny with me. There was but little for me to do. My master wrote his own love letters—he had few others to write—so that I had many hours at my disposal. There was a young baggage of an actress named Verières, who tried to play the poor lost Adrienne Lecouvreur’s part to Count Saxe. I know not whether she succeeded or not.
I heard several times from Gaston Cheverny. He254was still in Poland, over the border first of East Prussia and then of Russia, traveling from place to place, following the instructions of the Duke of Berwick. Every month he expected to be allowed to join his regiment, but something more was always found for him to do. He was promised, however, that he should not be detained in Poland longer than the first month of the campaign.
The campaign, however, was unusually late in opening. Marshal, the Duke of Berwick, reached Strasburg in March, but found everything in confusion. Luckily, the enemy was in no better case than we. It was May before it became necessary for Count Saxe to start for the Rhine.
We traveled by way of Brussels, and I made a request of Count Saxe which had been burning in my heart all the winter. It was that I might stop, if only for a night, at the château of Capello. To this, as the most indulgent of masters, he readily agreed.
It was on a May day, in 1734, that I saw the château of Capello, after four years of absence. It was late in the afternoon, and the shadows were long in the boscages of the park and upon the fresh green terraces of the château. As I drew near I looked toward the Italian garden, and there I saw a figure pacing to and fro, which I at once recognized as Francezka. A dog was at her side, and in him, too, I recognized an old friend—Bold.
I threw my bridle to a servant at the foot of the terrace and went straight to the Italian garden. As I entered it, Francezka was walking meditatively up and down the box bordered walk, where stood the well remembered255statue of Petrarch, the sun dial and the stone bench. Her eyes were bent upon the ground, and I saw her well before she noticed me. She wore a gown of crimson brocade with a muslin kerchief crossed over her white neck; and she had on dainty shoes with red heels—her favorite affectation. I had heard that Francezka gave great scandal to the ladies of Brabant by wearing silks and satins every day, which was contrary to their custom. Francezka, however, had a well-developed taste for luxury, which came with her warm Spanish blood.
The dog saw me first, and ran forward with a yelp of pleasure. Francezka heard him and raised her eyes to mine. If ever any one in the world showed joy at seeing Babache, it was Francezka then. She advanced a step, and when I kissed her hand, she laid her other hand on mine, while the warm tears dropped from her eyes. It is something to have the loving friendship and confidence of such a woman. She told me many times how glad she was to see me—told me so with her eyes as well as her voice—as we walked up and down together. She was lonely since Madame Riano had gone. It was her fate to be more admired by men and envied by women than loved by either, and that is one reason why I think my devotion was dear to her. She told me as much then. I asked her if she was happy with Madame Chambellan.
“Madame Chambellan is a good soul; but, dear Babache, she is like that simpleton, Bellegarde. How am I ever to stand her?”
From the moment Francezka began to speak, I became conscious of a touching and beautiful change256in her; an angelic softness had come upon her—a softness most seductive which she had often assumed, but which now seemed a part of herself. Before I had been ten minutes in her company, I saw this change had gone deep. There had been in her nature ever since I knew her a note of triumph. She could not remain unconscious that she was the favorite both of nature and fortune. Her active and penetrating mind had been occupied since her early years in planning her own destiny, which was hers to decide. Other young girls had their destinies decided for them, but Francezka knew, from her childhood, that she would one day be mistress of herself and her fortune. This had given her an exultant air, pretty and charming enough, but after all, what is so becoming to a woman as humility? And this sweet new humility of Francezka’s was more winning than I can say. The whole expression of her lovely face had changed. Her eyes, instead of sparkling like stars, were soft, and had the quiet beauty of a lake by moonlight. They had a supplicating look. Francezka was yearning for something, like other human beings, and so, was more nearly like the rest of the human family. We sat together on the stone bench, the lake lying cool and somber before us; night seemed to have come upon it although the sun still blazed in the west. The dog licked my hand, and showed great friendship for me, and I told Francezka how ingeniously he had escaped from me at Strasburg to join his master.
“Well,” replied Francezka, demurely, “no one can blame Bold for running away to join such a master.257I have read in old Homer somewhere that Achilles tells Agamemnon he is as impudent as a dog. If it is impudence like Bold’s, Agamemnon might have taken it as a high compliment.”
To this frank expression of admiration for both Gaston Cheverny and his dog, I said:
“I have had letters from Gaston Cheverny within the month. Perhaps you have heard later?”
For answer Francezka looked at me for a whole minute in silence, her eyes glowing with fire and dew and with a smile as soft and beautiful as a summer dawn, and meanwhile, the eloquent blood hung out its banners in her cheek. Then suddenly, her graceful figure drooped, and she hid her face upon the dog’s head, which lay upon her lap. I was astounded; I had never seen Francezka overcome with bashfulness before. I sat silent, watching her. She trembled, and in a little while the red blood crept from her cheek, into her white neck under her muslin kerchief. Some instinct told me that this soft tumult referred to Gaston Cheverny, and that his fate and Francezka’s were now forever linked together. I said no word but waited until Francezka raised her blushing face and spoke.
“Babache,” she said, “I made Gaston promise that he would keep from every human being the secret between us—and I confess, in the agitation of parting, I overlooked my good Babache—but I can not keep anything concealed from you, when your kind eyes are fixed upon me. When Gaston was here—secretly—in September of last year—we were married.”
She said it calmly, but with an undertone of the258deepest and serenest joy; and rising, and once more wearing that look of happy exultation which had been hers, she added:
“I am Gaston Cheverny’s wife. Ought I not to be the happiest creature on earth?”
I rose, too, and kissed her on the brow, the cheek and the hand, with the greatest reverence. When I could speak, which was not at once, I said, with the deepest sincerity:
“Nothing could be better than for you to have Gaston Cheverny for a husband. Knowing him, my heart rejoices for you—not only for what you have gained, but for what you have escaped. Ah, Francezka”—I used her name without knowing it at the time—“when I remembered the horde of fortune-hunters who surrounded you—when I thought that you might give the treasure of your love to some man who would make merchandise of it—my heart grew cold within me. But Gaston Cheverny would take you in your smock—that I know.”
“I know it, too,” she answered, with a gleam of her old laughing spirit. “All that I fear for the future is Gaston’s supersensitiveness about my fortune—but that I hope I have wit enough to manage. I shall never make him anything but simple in his tastes. He thinks my fondness for luxury childish, and he will endure it good-humoredly, but I know him well enough to understand that he is a soldier and is as superior to luxury as Cato himself.”
“Tell me all,” I said.
We seated ourselves, and Francezka told me, with259many eloquent pauses, with smiles, with shining eyes, with blushes, her short love story.
“It was in September of last year that one day I sat where I am sitting with the volume of Petrarch, out of which Gaston had often read to me, upon my lap. I was thinking of Gaston at that moment—yes, thinking of him and longing for him. And more, I will affirm, that I have never seriously thought of any other man but Gaston since that night at the prison of the Temple. Babache, I have loved him ever since I loved you!” She said this with such an air of innocent devotion—Francezka might change, but she could not cease to be Francezka; and she had this way of saying sweet things to all whom she loved. “And as I read, I yearned so for Gaston, that I spoke his name aloud twice, and then, as if in answer to it, I looked up, and Gaston was sitting on the bench beside me. Perhaps, like the rest of the Kirkpatricks, I am superstitious, for I was afraid it was what my aunt calls a ‘wraith,’ and I trembled and caught his hands, thinking he would melt away into the air. Now you are laughing, Babache, but remember, I am not incredulous like you French—I am Scotch and Spanish—”
“But Gaston did not melt away. He grasped your hands—and—”
Francezka again hid her face upon the dog’s sleek head, and with her face so averted continued—
“He took my book away from me, and although I protested, he read some things I had written in my Petrarch—some things meant for no eye but my own—Gaston read them and interpreted them. He told me260he had not meant to make known his love to me until he had achieved something to put us more on an equality, so he said—foolishly, I think—for it is not what a man does so much as what he is; and he was looking forward to promotion in this campaign,—and thinking then—then he could speak—when, seeing me so moved, and reading what I had written in my Petrarch, and all—I know not how it came about—but we were married secretly before twenty-four hours.”
There was a long pause here. Francezka passed the silky ears of the dog through her fingers, and looked into his tawny eyes, but her thoughts were evidently in the happy past. There was no sound in the still May evening, except the faint, mysterious moan of the lake.
“Truly,” she said, after a while, “I know not how our marriage came about, except that we loved each other and sought an excuse to bind us, one to the other. The excuse was, that my aunt was going to Scotland at once, and I was to be left alone—for Madame Chambellan is scarcely a guardian for me. Gaston and I had already determined to be married, before we spoke to my aunt. She, with her usual keen sense, reminded us of the threat that had come, no one knew whence, or how, of any roof that Gaston might have, being burned to the ground—and also, of the many châteaux and houses belonging to French people which had been burned. She suggested, therefore, for the present, that the marriage be kept secret—if we were bent on being married—as Gaston would be leaving in a few days, and his return would be uncertain. To that we agreed—Gaston calling himself a blockhead for not thinking of the usefulness of secrecy for a time. We were married261in the village church by Père Benart, at sunset. No one was present, except my aunt, Madame Chambellan, and old Peter. I made a fête for the village people, so they were all in the fields, dancing and feasting and no one saw us go or come from the church. It was a beautiful day, but at sunset, while we were in the church, a terrible thunderstorm came up. That frightened me a little; it did not seem a good omen.”
“And this world is governed, not by the laws of God and Nature, but by omens,” I replied gravely. Francezka did not laugh at this. Truly, as she said, she was not without superstition.
“Gaston comforted me, and I soon recovered my spirits. My aunt left next day for Brussels, on her way to Scotland. Gaston remained with me a week. Old Peter and my good old Elizabeth, who is Peter’s sister, managed to keep Gaston’s presence a secret. We had one week of perfect happiness. How many of God’s creatures, think you, can say as much?”
“Few,” I replied. “Certainly not Babache, captain of Uhlans.”
“The recollection of that week of happiness is a treasure that can not be taken away from me. Even the gods can not recall their gifts,” continued Francezka. “My marriage seems to me like a covenant made in a dream. My happiness, however, was very real. Gaston was in the country some days longer,” she went on, “and we had three brief meetings. Once, with old Peter, I rode to Brussels by night, to spend one half hour with Gaston—he was only stopping long enough to get fresh horses—and he came here for an hour to bid me one last farewell. When we parted, it was with262the full expectation of his return in November, when our marriage was to be proclaimed, and we were to go to Paris for the winter.
“When the campaign opened, I was to follow Gaston as early as possible, for he was determined not to leave me at Capello after it was known that I was his wife, until the war should be over. But, as you know, he was sent far away. You know, Babache, I am not the woman to swerve a man from his duty. I love Gaston’s honor even more than I love him. And so, hard as the separation is, I thank God that he is the man to choose his duty first. I felt that at our parting—which, like our meeting, was in this Italian garden. I love this spot more than ever now, because from here I can see the highroad, along which Gaston will return to me. Here, Bold and I come once every day, generally at sunset, to watch for the coming of the master of both of us. It is one of my cherished fancies—superstitions, I suppose you would call it—that in this spot Gaston and I shall meet again. I shall see him and, and he will know where to look for me. Bold thinks so, too,—don’t you, my dog?”
The dog actually seemed to nod his head in assent, as Francezka gravely interrogated him.
“Gaston said to me, when he gave me this dog, ‘I give you one of my best friends. Remember me as he does—for dogs never forget. In the virtue of constancy, dogs are superior to men.’ So, Bold and I love and remember our master every hour in the day, and joyfully await his coming.”
Francezka was young, and full of hope. The thought that Gaston might never return to her did not appear263to have darkened her mind once. Presently, her face, so full of peace and hope and joy—for in perfect love there is peace and hope and joy—grew clouded. She gave me a sidelong glance, and then said, sighing a little:
“But there is something else, something which occurred this very day, that has troubled me. I can tell you, but I know not how to tell Gaston. Yet,I musttell him some day.” She paused again, and I waited patiently for her to continue. “Perhaps it is known to you,” she said, blushing more deeply, “for Regnard Cheverny made no secret of it—”
“That he wished to marry you?” She nodded.
“I have ever been cold to him, as a lover—though, for the past months, when he has been several times at Castle Haret, I have been kind to him, remembering that he was Gaston’s brother—and I think he misunderstood me. Often, when he has been to see me—and urged his suit more with his eyes, than with his words—I have felt frightened—and you know, I do not come of a race of cowards. There is something to frighten one about Regnard Cheverny, he is so cool, so quiet, so debonair when seeking his own will; not light of heart like Gaston, nor full of sudden fury, nor impatiently renouncing what does not please him—but Regnard pursues his object steadily, like Fate. Well, then, this day, not two hours ago, as I was taking my afternoon walk in this garden, and living over the hours I have spent with my husband, I looked toward the highroad, and there, I thought I saw him coming. I watched, with my heart almost leaping out of my breast—but, presently, I knew it was not Gaston—but Regnard. I264saw him disappear under the hill, and ride up to the courtyard—and then he was walking toward me across the grass.” She stopped suddenly and asked me:
“Have you noticed how much alike Gaston and Regnard have become?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle—or Madame Cheverny, I should say.”
Francezka’s face dimpled into a rosy smile.
“It is the second time to-day that I have been called Madame Cheverny. It is the charmingest name in the world, I think.”
She continued, her face becoming grave:
“When Regnard was bowing before me, I saw the resemblance more than ever—and I drank in his words, because his voice is so much like Gaston’s; yet, I do not see how any one could take one for the other. Bold was with me—he never leaves me—and he annoyed me by snapping and snarling at Regnard—no mistake on good Bold’s part of any one for his master! Regnard seated himself with me on this bench in the very spot where Gaston had sat last autumn, and I was trying to lose myself in dreaming that it was Gaston and not Regnard who was with me—when something he said brought me to myself with a shock. For he—” She stopped, and I said:
“He told you of his love. Tell me all, Madame.”
Again I saw that girlish flash of pleasure pass across her anxious and pleading eyes. Francezka had something undyingly childlike in her composition.
“He told me of his love so quickly I could not stop him—but I was indiscreet in one thing. When he told me he regarded my fortune as less than nothing, Idid265whisper into Bold’s ear, loud enough for Regnard to hear—‘So say they all—except’—the exception I meant was Gaston. He is the only suitor I have yet had, who did not assure me that my fortune was nothing to him. Regnard overheard me—and I saw he was angered. He would not be stopped, although I rose and put up my hand, and turned my back. But at last, I said to him:
“‘And your brother, Monsieur?’ for, of course, Regnard knew that Gaston loved me. When I said this, I turned my eyes full upon him, because I wished to intimidate him. He colored a little, but said, coolly: ‘Madame, I am not wanting in brotherly affection, but in these matters my brother and I are as man to man.’”
It was just what I had heard Gaston say, nearly seven years before. Francezka resumed:
“Then I said to him, without the least tremor in the world, and feeling myself thrilled with joy and pride at the telling—‘Monsieur, I am, and have been for nearly a year, the wife of your brother, Gaston Cheverny.’”
Being a natural actress, Francezka went through this scene so that it was as if it were all happening again. She rose as she spoke and actually grew taller, and her voice, although low, had a ring of joy and exultation in it when she repeated the words, “I am the wife of Gaston Cheverny.”
Still standing, she came nearer to me—I had risen too—and kept on:
“I have not words to describe to you Regnard’s countenance at that. It was not disappointment; it seemed to be only the most overmastering rage. It is his nature to bear a secret disappointment stoically, but266he knew that Gaston must hear of what had passed—and besides—he had paid me court more steadily and assiduously ever since I was fourteen than Gaston himself—for Gaston, you must know, has had periods of jealousy and pique, and for months together, has sometimes refrained from writing to me or seeing me. Not so Regnard. The words that would inflame Gaston to anger, Regnard would pass with a cool smile—I liked him none the better for it. But he was not cool then. He said in a suppressed fury:
“‘Madame, you have perhaps forgotten, that in the time you have been my brother’s wife, you have had many declarations of love from me, and possibly from other gentlemen. True, I made not mine in set words, as I have done this day—but it would have been as well to have confided the secret of your marriage to me before this.’
“I was more angry than he at that—but Babache, no woman can help pitying a man who loves her, ever so little, if it but be true love—and I believe Regnard loved me truly in his way. I replied to this, therefore, with anger, but not without pity. ‘You made me no declaration in words, Monsieur,—and you must remember that every dictate of prudence recommended in these uncertain times, that my marriage with your brother be kept secret for the present, at least.’
“‘If prudence was your chiefest consideration, Madame,’ said Regnard, with a bow, ‘I wonder that you married my brother at all.’
“Babache, that would have angered any woman on earth, and as you know, I am not the most long-suffering person in the world. So I said: ‘Oh, no, you mistake267me, Monsieur. My chief object was to bind your brother to me—for I love him so much that I could not bear the thought that he should go away without forging a chain that would bring him back to me!’”
Francezka, still unconsciously acting her part, said this with such a depth of feeling, such love, devotion, admiration for Gaston Cheverny expressed in every tone of her voice, every glance of her eye, that it must have been wormwood to a haughty, jealous and disappointed man like Regnard Cheverny. And I made not the slightest doubt that she rather enjoyed Regnard’s humiliation.
“I perceive, Madame,” I answered, “that ladies can be cruel as well as pitiful to a man who loves them.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Francezka, sitting again, and leaning her head pensively on her hand. The dog had not stirred a foot from her in this time, and was watching her with a human look of love and intelligence in his tawny eyes. “And then Regnard, mastering his rage, said to me:
“‘I thought your coldness to me came from a careless and heedless indifference of an untouched heart. Now I know it to be the steady deception of a woman already a wife. I could not forget this if I would, and I would not forget it if I could. I have the honor to bid you adieu, Madame Cheverny.’ And he walked off, looking so like Gaston! And then I suddenly began to feel frightened at being frightened—do you know that feeling?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It is the form that fear takes with the brave.”
“I had thought,” said Francezka, “that I was exempt268from fear, and now I find it is my lot, just as much as any one’s, to feel fear as one feels heat or cold or thirst. But fear is the most terrible thing on earth. And now, Babache, I have opened all my heart to you. It has been so comforting!”
We talked some time longer. As it seemed the likeliest thing in the world that I should see Gaston Cheverny shortly, it was agreed that she should prepare a packet for me that night, which I would take with me next morning.
The purple twilight had fallen before we quitted the Italian garden, and went to the château. Old Peter was glad to see me, and at supper I met Madame Chambellan, the ancientdame de compagnie, warranted not to interfere in any way with those she was supposed to watch over. She promptly went to sleep as soon as supper was over, when we went to the little yellow saloon. This room, Francezka had lined with books. I found she was fast becoming learned. Her naturally active mind must exercise itself on something in solitude, and she seized upon books and music with avidity. I found out that nothing so far had been heard of poor Lisa, although Jacques Haret had been seen of late in Brussels. Francezka was firmly of the belief that the burning of Gaston Cheverny’s house had been instigated by that scoundrel of a Jacques Haret, in revenge for the beating Gaston had given him.
We remained late, and after old Peter had shown me to my former chamber, I had some wakeful hours. I sat at the window, looking out upon the gardens, the lake, all bathed in the mellow moonlight of a May night. And I saw certain things by “the moonlight of memory.”269So Francezka’s wild heart had found rest at last, and it rejoiced me. But deep in my own heart was the sense of loss—the loss of those dreams wherein Francezka was mine. One often suffers more from the loss of the ideal than the real. And feeling this, I fell asleep, sitting at the open window, and had the loveliest dream I had yet had of Francezka. When I awakened, the moon had gone down, the air had turned chill and I was oppressed with that strange feeling which comes from physical discomfort when one is asleep. A light glowed from Francezka’s window, and I saw her graceful figure bending over her writing table. She wore a white negligée of some sort, and her long dark hair flowed free. She had probably risen from her bed to add something to the packet she was preparing for Gaston. Soon her light was put out, and tough soldier though I am, I was glad to get into the great, soft bed provided for me.
I was to start at sunrise, and when my horse was led out next morning, Francezka was down to bid me good by. She gave me a thick packet for Gaston, saying:
“Tell him I am well, and as happy as ever I can be, away from him. And that to see you, Babache, was as good as medicine to the sick. Do not forget that, I charge you.”
When I parted from her, she wore a smile of happy expectancy—a look of jocund hope was in her dewy eyes. I never saw that expression again on the face of Francezka Capello.
270CHAPTER XXITHE SERVICE OF A FRIEND
I joined Count Saxe at Brussels. I had only been away from him thirty-six hours, but when I presented myself before him he clasped me in his arms and cried:
“Babache, I am nine times as glad to see you as the Duke of Berwick was to see me, the time he told me he would rather see me than the reinforcement of three thousand men he had asked for!”
Was it strange I loved this man?
On reaching Strasburg, my first inquiry was for Gaston Cheverny; and to my great joy, I found he had returned. It had been determined by the Duke of Berwick to send Count Saxe’s regiment, with certain others, to Hüningen, a good day and a half’s march from Strasburg, and Gaston Cheverny, with other officers, was at Hüningen already.
When we rode into town, the night had fallen. We found without trouble the house where our officers were quartered, and riding up to the door, dismounted—and there stood Gaston Cheverny.
It had been more than six months since I had seen him, and he had not had a Mantuan winter of it; but he looked singularly well, and was overjoyed to be with271the clear-the-way boys once more. He led us into the house, where supper was already on the table, and the other officers were assembled. At the first chance I had, which was when we were about to sit down to table, I handed Gaston the packet given me by Francezka. At once he said to Count Saxe:
“Sir, I beg that you will excuse me while I read my letters brought me by Captain Babache.”
“Since when have you eaten, Gaston Cheverny?” asked my master.
“At noon, Monsieur.”
“And you are not hungry?”
“I am as hungry as a wolf.”
“Then sit you down and eat, and not until you have supped shall you read a single line of love.”
Gaston, very sulky, sat down. Count Saxe and the rest of us laughed at him. Gaston still sulked, but managed to eat a good supper, and drink his share of wine. He did not smile until near the end. Count Saxe, raising his glass, drank to a pair of bright eyes in Brabant, at which the young man chose to smile; and after drinking the toast was suffered to depart with his treasure.
Count Saxe not needing my services, I presently went to Gaston’s room. He was seated at a rude table, with a single candle on it, devouring Francezka’s letter. He put it in his breast when I entered.
“Now,” he cried, joyfully, “tell me all about her—every word, every look of hers while you were with her. And she writes me that she has confided all to you.”
“She did—and whenever I called her Madame Cheverny, a smile like the morning shone upon her face.”
272
His face, too, was glowing, and he said:
“You see, there was nothing to be done but that we should be married. We had, so to speak, no choice.”
To this I answered:
“Madame Cheverny gave another reason to me; she said it was because she loved you so much she could not let you go away unpledged to her.”
Gaston laughed a joyous laugh, and then I told him faithfully all Francezka had said and done while I was at the château.
“And did she say anything of my brother? For I know that he has seen her many times since I have,” Gaston asked, after we had talked together for a long time.
Count Saxe always said there was something between my eyes which told just what was passing in my mind. I was not prepared for this question of Gaston Cheverny’s; it confused me, and I showed it.
“I see,” he said, after a moment. “Regnard has been pursuing Francezka. But, no doubt, she has told him, as she was quite at liberty to do, of our marriage. It is only the public knowledge of it that would place her in jeopardy. Well, the secret is safe enough with Regnard. He is deeply chagrined. I feel for him, because he is my brother; but in love and war, one must learn to face defeat.”
Then he asked after his dog, and all I had to tell him contented him very much.
By that time it was ten o’clock. It was Gaston Cheverny’s custom, as well as mine, to walk a little out of doors every night before we slept, so we walked together on the bank of the river. The night was sultry273and starless; it looked as if there would be rain on the morrow. All was still and sleeping in the little town. In our own quarters, a low stone house, there was no light. Count Saxe was weary with his long day’s ride, and had gone to bed immediately after supper. The other officers had followed his example. It seemed as if the whole world slept, except Gaston Cheverny and me. We walked up and down the river bank under a lowering night sky speaking but little, and that mostly of Francezka.
Gaston had the same golden hopes that Francezka had. Beautiful visions of their future life arose before him. He was full of a noble enthusiasm for his profession and looked to achieving distinction as a counterbalance to Francezka’s fortune. Like Francezka, he seemed to have fallen into that dazzling error that Fate was under bond to favor them.
When, at last, we turned our steps toward the house, Gaston stopped for a moment on the threshold, and said:
“But what if misfortune befall? Francezka will no more forget me than I shall forget her—and when I forget her, may God forget me.” These were his final words.
I went to my chamber, and was soon asleep upon my camp bed. I awakened about two o’clock in the morning with a strange feeling that something disastrous had happened. The rain was falling heavily—a summer rain that fell in great drops musically upon the thirsty ground and the trees in full leaf. So strong was the feeling of apprehension upon me that I rose quietly, slipped on my clothes, and opened the door to Count274Saxe’s room. He was lying in his bed, sound asleep. The window was wide open—for the night had been uncomfortably warm. It occurred to me how easy it would be to kidnap Count Saxe; there were but three sentries about the place, the rest of the small body of twenty soldiers being quartered some distance away, to guard the hay stores.
I determined to speak to Count Saxe next morning, upon the rashness of remaining at Hüningen under those risky circumstances. I had often laughed behind Madame Riano’s back at what she called presentiments, but this sudden waking, this seeing, all at once, a very present danger which had escaped everybody’s notice, seemed to me uncomfortably like those supernatural warnings which Madame Riano was always talking about. However, I concluded to take perfectly natural means to satisfy myself there was no danger brewing, and so went to Gaston Cheverny’s room. It was quite dark, and I lighted a candle with my flint and steel. He was not in his bed, and it had not been slept in. A chair, in which he had evidently been sitting, was pushed back from the table, on which were papers and a letter sealed and addressed to Francezka. The one window of the room, which looked upon the river, was wide open, and as I went to it, above the steady downpour of the rain I heard some faint noises on the river bank.
I went out, and called to the sentry, giving the countersign. There was no answer—for there was no sentry. I gave the alarm instantly, and at the same moment I heard distinctly the grating oars in their rowlocks, and the sound of a boat pulling off from the shore.275Lights shone in the house. Count Saxe, half dressed, was the first person out of it. The other officers came running with lanterns. We found the three sentries lying on the grass at some distance from each other, bound and gagged. By that time, the guards at the hay ricks, a quarter of a mile off, had seen the commotion, and were on hand. At once, the river bank was searched. Every man was accounted for, except Gaston Cheverny; but in a few minutes, a squad of soldiers returned from the river bank hauling a young Austrian officer with them. His uniform was all mud, and his face and hands were liberally besmeared. He was at once taken within the house, to be interrogated by Count Saxe, and he was, without exception, the most cheerful looking prisoner I ever saw. As a soldier flashed a lantern into his eyes, we saw that his countenance was wreathed in smiles.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said to us all, standing around him, Count Saxe in the middle, “I have pleasure in introducing myself—” this, with the jauntiest air in the world—“I am sub-Lieutenant Brohl, of his Imperial Majesty’s Hussar Regiment of Baronay, at your service. I see no general officer here—” Count Saxe, being only half dressed, might have been anything—“but we have made a fine haul, and got our prize away, too. The boat is on the other side of the river by this time.”
“Kindly explain yourself further, Lieutenant Brohl,” said Count Saxe, coolly.
“With pleasure,” remarked Lieutenant Brohl. His debonairness reminded me of Gaston Cheverny’s, at the same age, for the young Austrian was little past276twenty. “You have got me, a sub-lieutenant—caught, because I would not delay our boat in getting off with the finest quarry yet secured in this war.”
Count Saxe and the rest of us waited to hear this laughing prisoner explain matters still further.
“We, of the regiment of Baronay, determined to immortalize ourselves by carrying off Count Saxe—and we succeeded. He is, by this, landed on the other side of the river, and in the hands of Prince Eugene, and for ourselves who took him, our fortunes are made—mine, a prisoner, as well as those who escaped—for when my comrades would have delayed the boat for me, I cried to them to pull out into the river, beyond pistol shot, and never wait for me—if they had Count Saxe—and him they have.”
“How did you get him?” asked Count Saxe.
“Very cleverly, Monsieur. We landed from the boat, unseen and unheard in the rain and darkness. There were but eighteen of us, all told. We managed to secure all three of the sentries—you should have had at least six—and Count Saxe should never have slept a night in this unguarded place. We then slipped into the house, of which we had a plan, with Count Saxe’s room marked there—” he pointed to Gaston Cheverny’s empty room. “The window of the room was wide open, and it was quite dark, but we could see that Count Saxe had fallen asleep before his writing table—”
“His writing table,” murmured Count Saxe. “He is not much of a writer.”
“The candles had been blown out. We surrounded him, and put a pistol to his head, and he wakened with a start. We said to him, ‘We want you, Count Saxe,277only. We have force enough to carry you all off—the house is surrounded, and we can bag every one of you—go with us quietly and we will let the small fry off. But we are prepared for a fight, if necessary, knowing you are but a handful.’ Then Count Saxe said, quite coolly: ‘I see there is no use in resisting. Let me but secure some private letters—’ which he proceeded to do, as well as he could in the darkness, and with the pistol still at his ear. My captain said to him—’I wonder, Count Saxe, that so experienced a general as your Excellency should have been so imprudent as to come here with scarce a corporal’s guard behind you.’ ‘True,’ answered Count Saxe, ‘but I am paying for my folly, as you see. I am ready, gentlemen.’ I never saw a man take his fate more pleasantly than Count Saxe—he delayed not a moment. He is now our prisoner, while I am yours—but I fancy we have rather the best of the bargain.”
We looked at each other, and Count Saxe said:
“That fellow, Gaston Cheverny, has infinite readiness. He saved the whole of us, and he shall have his promotion as soon as he is released. Meanwhile, my dear Lieutenant Brohl, make yourself entirely at home. You are a gallant young man, and I shall have pleasure in exchanging you for Captain Cheverny, waiving the difference of rank. So, both of you will get credit out of this night’s performance, although you did not get Count Saxe, for I am Count Saxe!”
I never saw such a change of countenance as came over that poor little sub-lieutenant. He caught the idea in a moment, that the Austrians had been badly fooled. I felt really sorry for the poor little fellow. His278eyes filled with tears, his lip trembled. He was a gallant boy and we all felt sorry for him. Count Saxe had him conducted to Gaston Cheverny’s vacant room, sent him some champagne, and assured him that his conduct should be brought to the attention of Prince Eugene.
The rain had not ceased, but day was sullenly breaking. I thought, before nightfall, Gaston Cheverny would be with us again. I did not dream of what Destiny was preparing for him, of which this was but the overture. Count Saxe, with that noble candor which was a part of his character, frankly admitted his imprudence in remaining at Hüningen, and declared that Gaston Cheverny should be amply rewarded for saving him; for there is no doubt the Austrians would have carried Count Saxe off, if they had only got into the right room.
As soon as the little Austrian lieutenant was up and dressed, I went into the room he had occupied to secure Gaston Cheverny’s papers until he should return. I felt sure that his pretense of securing them was only an ineffectual ruse to gain time. I found nothing on his table of the least consequence, except a letter to Francezka, sealed and addressed. Of this I took possession.
By nine o’clock in the morning, Count Saxe sent me across the river with a flag of truce, to Prince Eugene’s headquarters, to arrange for the exchange of Lieutenant Brohl for Gaston Cheverny. I was instructed to waive the required number of common men to make up the difference in rank, if that point were raised.
On reaching the Austrian lines, I was politely escorted to headquarters, where Prince Eugene, that little279great man, that mighty hunchback, received me courteously. I handed him Count Saxe’s letter and he took off his hat while reading it. He then said to me:
“Nothing has been heard of the expedition since it left last night. We feared the whole party had been captured.”
This was surprising, but Prince Eugene suggested, as the most probable event, that, in the rain and darkness, the boat had been carried down the river, and it might yet be some hours before it was heard of. It was arranged that at the first information on either side, we should communicate with each other.
I returned to our own side of the river, a little puzzled, but in no way alarmed at the disappearance of the party, for so fate blinds us when she is about to deliver her heaviest strokes. But search was made in good earnest. Within twenty-four hours every man of the party was accounted for, except Gaston Cheverny. As Prince Eugene had surmised, the boat had drifted a long distance down the river in the darkness, with the wind and tide both urging it on. At daylight an attempt was made to land on the Austrian side where there was an outpost, and before the character of the expedition was found out, several shots were fired on the boat and a bullet made a slight wound in Gaston Cheverny’s head. Their greatest danger came after they were recognized, for in attempting to land, the boat had been upset, and every man in it narrowly escaped drowning. All had been saved, however, and three of the Austrians declared that they had seen Gaston Cheverny after they reached the shore. But beyond that, no one could tell anything. They had280found out he was not Count Saxe, and in the confusion of the boat’s upsetting, and the struggle for their own lives, they had lost sight of their prisoner. This was perfectly satisfactory to us for a time. We supposed that Gaston, seeing his chance, had quietly walked away from his captors. We expected him every day for a week, and to facilitate his return, Count Saxe released Brohl, the lieutenant, with the understanding that Gaston Cheverny was to be set at liberty as soon as found. But he was not found, nor was there any sign of him.
A man can not vanish like a ghost, said Count Saxe; so he set to work with a good heart, to have Gaston Cheverny sought for. His wound in the head might partly account for his disappearance. He had perhaps wandered beyond the Austrian lines, and being wounded, might have sought refuge in some farmhouse or peasant’s hut, where he would be found. Nothing seemed more likely. Every farmhouse and peasant’s hut, every village, every schloss even, was searched for the wounded French officer, the Austrians assisting; but if Gaston Cheverny had vanished from the earth, he could not have disappeared more completely. I acknowledged that for the first week—nay for two weeks—I was not seriously alarmed. A wounded man on foot can not get out of a certain zone, and that zone was searched as one searches for a gold piece dropped on the floor. But we found not Gaston Cheverny. At the end of two weeks we were fairly puzzled, but by no means in despair. Marvelous things happen in war, and a story of the strange disappearances and stranger281returns of men lost in siege, battle, or reconnaissance, would read like the fables of the ancient mythology.
At the end of a fortnight, I began to see signs of anxiety for Gaston Cheverny in Count Saxe. Perhaps this was because Gaston’s disappearance came from his prompt ruse to save Count Saxe, and there was little doubt that the bigger game would have been bagged but for this ruse. Count Saxe thought constantly of Gaston Cheverny. He not only instituted the most thorough search, but he offered a large reward in money, out of his own purse. Trust Count Saxe to remember the services of a friend! The one thought in my mind was Francezka.