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Old Peter waited on us, as usual, at supper. There was something in his response to my inquiry after his health which was more cheerful than I had seen in him for years. I was not surprised, therefore, when Francezka whispered to me, during Peter’s absence from the room, that poor little Lisa had returned.
Madame Chambellan was still of Francezka’s household, but being, as I think, incurably lazy, she kept her room and asked to be excused to us, which we cheerfully granted.
When supper was over it was still warm enough to go out of doors, so Francezka led the way to that well-remembered spot, the Italian garden, and there, under the solemn yew trees, and looking down upon the somber lake, dark, although the twilight was still mellow, we sat and talked with the joy and peace of friends after a long separation. Bold, of course, was of the party, and continued to honor me with his friendship.
The first thing Count Saxe asked Francezka was, if she had any news of Gaston. Francezka shook her head.
“But I have not given up hope; if I did I should throw myself into the lake. And, after all, what does any search amount to, after my discovery that my lord was alive and present in a place which had been searched a dozen times in three months? Could any wife give up hope after that? No! All I can do is to wait and watch and hope and pray and work, for work I do, that when my husband returns he may find a wife to his taste. I read somewhere lately that Hesiod, an old Greek, said that the gods have placed labor as a sentinel over virtue. As long as I work and stay quietly at317home no one can slander me, no one can accuse me, and I can live my own life of work, study and prayer.”
Count Saxe looked at her in silent admiration. There was something heroic in the steady fight this woman was making for her love. She told us that she still spent a great part of her income in promoting the search for Gaston Cheverny. She acknowledged that much of this money went to deceitful and designing persons, who professed to have information to sell which was no information at all, but as Francezka said coolly, she would rather spend her fortune in that way than in any other. Then she told us about Lisa’s return.
“Jacques Haret, it seems, had deserted her after six months,” said Francezka, “and poor, doglike Lisa followed him for almost a year from place to place, not to force herself on him, but only to get a glimpse of his face. Think of such love being wasted on Jacques Haret! Think of such devotion to him as old Peter’s! Well, Lisa, at last, came face to face with Jacques Haret. He spoke to her, gave her a silversnuff-boxin default of money, and when she threw it away before his face, the only act of spirit I ever knew in her, Jacques Haret laughed at her. That stung even her patient soul.
“She fled from him, and in her despair thought to drown herself. She was stricken with remorse at her thought, however, and little by little the desire to kill herself departed. Then the longing to see poor old Peter and her home overcame everything, and she turned her face toward Brabant. It took her long, of course, to reach here; she was quite on the other side of Paris; she had to live and to work, but with steady318purpose she came toward Brabant. One evening, in the late winter, when Peter went home, he found Lisa sitting in rags by the fire. She fell on her knees before him and was forgiven in a breath.
“Next morning Peter came to me, and, with tears, implored me not to send Lisa too far away. He was overwhelmed when I told him she might stay in the cottage. Poor Lisa! If all sinners were as penitent! Father Benart is kind to her, and the poor soul works and prays. Some of the people in the parish are indignant with Father Benart, and with me, too, for countenancing Lisa, but they have not so far ventured to speak to me on the subject. If they did—” Francezka turned her head with an air that showed that neither sorrow nor disappointment had impaired the lofty martial spirit she had inherited from the Kirkpatricks.
She also told us that Madame Riano was absent upon her tour of visits, but would return within a fortnight. That night, before we slept, Count Saxe told me he did not propose to remain long enough to encounter Peggy Kirkpatrick.
319CHAPTER XXVA DISCOMFITED BISHOP
Next morning, as usual, I was up early, and walked down to the village. There I found Father Benart, the good little man, just coming out of the church. He told me he had got word that his brother, the bishop, was coming to visit him and Madame Cheverny that day, and he knew a sharp disappointment was in store for the bishop when he should find Madame Riano absent. Then Father Benart asked me some very intelligent questions about Count Saxe’s exploits in the Rhine campaigns. As we talked we walked along a narrow road by a field, in which some women were at work, digging and planting. Among the workers I recognized at once the unfortunate Lisa. She was poorly but cleanly clad, and although it was plain she labored hard, she was inexpert, and did not accomplish a great deal.
All of the women, except Lisa, were coarse peasant women, with stout arms and legs, broad backs, and but little inferior in physical strength to men. Lisa, on the contrary, was more delicate, more thin and pale than she had ever been before. She worked steadily, neither turning to the right nor to the left, not even when one of the women pointed to her and uttered a jeer, which was greeted with coarse laughter. Her320pale face colored faintly, but she made no response, going on with her work. Father Benart opened his mouth to call out a reproof to the women, who joined in taunting the unfortunate girl, but changed his mind.
“No,” he said aloud, “it is just that she should bear her punishment, and this public shame may save some other girl from the same downward path, but God is more merciful than man.”
While we were standing in the road beside the field we saw a great, lumbering coach approaching, which the little priest at once recognized as that of his brother, the bishop. His Grace had not been expected until the afternoon, but here he was at eight o’clock in the morning. I suspected the bishop had not enjoyed a very good lodging the night before. When the coach drew near we saw the bishop sitting in it alone. As soon as it was close enough it was stopped, and the bishop called to his brother, invited him to step within, and recognizing me as the Tatar prince with whom he was acquainted, extended the same civility to me. We both accepted and mounted into the coach, which proceeded toward the château of Capello, where his Grace said he was going on a particular errand. I fancied the bishop preferred the cookery of the château to that of Father Benart’s housekeeper.
His Grace had sharp eyes, and had observed the scene going on in the fields, about which he inquired. Father Benart told him it was Lisa, with whose story the bishop was perfectly acquainted.
“That is one of the things that I wish especially to speak to you about,” said the bishop to Father Benart, in the tone of a schoolmaster and without regarding321my presence in the least. “My brother, it is with grief that I learn of what has been going on in your parish of late, of the sin and evil behavior.”
“Alas, my brother,” responded Father Benart gravely, “there is always sin and evil behavior of some sort in this parish, and I greatly fear, until mankind is totally changed from what it has ever been, that a certain portion of sin and evil behavior must abide with us.”
The bishop scowled.
“I fear you do not precisely understand me, brother. I refer particularly to the case of Peter Embden’s niece, who, I hear, has returned here, and has not only had all her sins forgiven, but forgotten, as it were. And I recognize the girl yonder flaunting her shame in the face of honest women.”
Father Benart silently pointed out of the coach window to Lisa in the distance, her thin form outlined against the bright sky of a May morning. She was a picture of patience and penitence. The bishop, however, although he was not a cruel man, loved to scold, and proceeded to harangue Father Benart, who listened patiently and replied:
“The unfortunate girl is a shining example of God’s grace. She tells me—and I have ever found her truthful, having known her from her infancy—that finding herself deserted by that villain of villains, Jacques Haret, she had but one thought—to drown herself—and, as she walked along the brink of a river with this thought in her heart, God’s light came to her; she saw it would be but to heap sin on sin, and a voice within her bade her return to her uncle, who had suffered so much for her sin. And so, struggling against the Spirit of322Evil, which made her dread this place worse than any in the world, she came back; came back half starved, half clothed, and arriving at nightfall, went to Peter Embden’s door, and offered to go or to stay, as he should wish. And he, a gentle and forgiving man, bade her, as did our Lord and Saviour, to sin no more, and took her again under his roof. Then, coming early next morning to ask of me what he should do, being greatly troubled in his mind, I said to him to treat this poor sinner as he himself would wish to be treated at the Last Day. So he has given her bread and shelter since.”
“Very reprehensible,” cried the bishop. “Such lapses should be punished, punished with severity, and Madame Cheverny, wilful and impractical woman that she is, disdaining advice from all, abetted you in this, for the girl could not have remained in Peter’s house without Madame Cheverny’s consent.”
“True,” said Father Benart. “Of course Peter was obliged to ask Madame Cheverny’s consent. I did not even think it necessary to remind him of that. And as to Madame Cheverny’s asking advice, I know of no one who has managed affairs so successfully as Madame Cheverny. We might all of us ask advice of her in many things.”
The air of humility with which the little priest said this convinced me that he was a wit disguised in his rusty cassock. The bishop did not relish the implication in his brother’s speech, and resumed with some choler.
“I presume that headstrong woman, Peggy Kirkpatrick, who wishes to be thought Jove in petticoats,323went about the parish counseling all the young women to follow Lisa Embden’s example.”
“I can not inform you on that point, brother,” replied Father Benart, “I have not cognizance of all Madame Riano says and does.”
“She is a great trial of my patience,” said the bishop. “She is the thorn in my flesh like unto the one that St. Paul prayed seven times that he might be delivered from. I should come oftener to the château of Capello, but for the unpleasant chance of meeting Peggy Kirkpatrick.”
“You will not meet her this time, brother. She is in Luxembourg.”
At once the bishop’s countenance fell, but he recovered himself sufficiently to express satisfaction that Madame Riano was in Luxembourg. He then went on to say, taking me as well as his brother into his confidence, that one object of his visit was to induce Francezka to give up all hope of her husband’s return, and, putting on mourning, to comport herself as a widow should. I could not help compassionating the bishop when he said this, knowing what he was likely to receive. He consulted with Father Benart whether he should admonish Francezka in public or in private. Father Benart reflected a moment before he answered. We were then driving along the splendid avenue of lindens toward the château, which sat in fairy beauty on its terraces, the morning sun gilding its white façade, the canal sparkling in the light, the grass freshly green—all, all, lovely to excess. After a pause, Father Benart spoke:
“It is a painful and delicate subject, brother, and324but little can be safely said upon it. I think it best, perhaps, if you are determined to speak, to do so in the presence of a third person.”
The little priest told me afterward, that he was afraid, if the bishop undertook to harangue Francezka in private, he would get such a reception that his ears would burn for a week; and he looked to the third person to restrain Francezka’s tongue, which was somewhat free on all occasions.
By that time we had dismounted from the coach. Francezka was not awaiting the bishop at the top of the terrace, which seemed to annoy him. He forgot that he had arrived some hours in advance of the time.
Count Saxe, however, was strolling about enjoying the fragrance of the morning. The bishop had not seen him since our return from Courland, and, by some accident, had never been enlightened as to his real name and rank. It was not without secret amusement that I introduced him to the bishop, who instantly recognized his old acquaintance. His Grace was a moving sight at the moment. His face fell, his eye wandered aimlessly around as he muttered to himself:
“Count Saxe—Count Saxe—and is it possible I did not know that he was Count Saxe?”
“I think not, Monseigneur,” replied Count Saxe, “else your Grace would not have criticized my expedition into Courland so freely before my face.”
The bishop’s chagrin was a little mitigated by Francezka’s appearance at that moment. She greeted him courteously, apologized for her delay in appearing, and had old Peter to show the bishop to his apartment, where he might repose himself until dinner time.325Count Saxe made some excuse to be absent from dinner, and when the hour came, only Francezka, the bishop, Father Benart, Madame Chambellan and myself sat down together.
As soon as it was over, and we had retired to the red saloon, the bishop intimated he had something of a particular nature to say to Francezka.
“Then, will your Grace say it here?” said Francezka, who knew the bishop’s propensity for haranguing, and reckoned, as Father Benart had done in her own case, upon Father Benart to restrain the bishop. She continued: “All of the friends present are close to me, and conversant with my affairs—hence, no harm can come of your Grace’s speaking openly.”
I saw the calmness of her manner, and her air of gentle expectancy somewhat disconcerted the bishop, who perhaps found women disconcerting creatures.
“Madame, my friend,” began the bishop, following the advice of Horatius Flaccus, and plunging into the middle of things, “I have come upon a painful errand. Reproof is always painful to me.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
As Francezka said this, there was a gleam in her eyes like laughter. And Père Benart took out his handkerchief and coughed violently.
“Reproof, I say, is painful to me,” repeated the bishop blandly, “but I should be a renegade to my duty, if I spared you, my child, in order to spare myself. First, I must complain of the actual encouragement you give to vice by permitting that niece of Peter Embden’s to remain in his house, which is your property.”
“I do it, your Grace,” replied Francezka, sweetly,326and with a glance at Father Benart, “by the express advice of my director.”
And then, with folded hands, she sat demurely looking down, and leaving Father Benart to shoulder the burden alone. The good bishop saw that he had two recalcitrants to deal with instead of one; so, like other weak, well-meaning men, he resorted to bluster when reason did not suggest itself to him.
“It is my opinion,” he said, raising his voice, “that Lisa Embden should be sent out of this parish—sent to some city, where her past is not known, and where she can give no scandal.”
Francezka turned sweetly to her accomplice, and said:
“You hear that, Father Benart? The bishop looks to you to enforce this.”
Father Benart said not a word, but raising his eyes to the ceiling, seemed to be absorbed either in prayer or in uncomplimentary speculation about his brother. The bishop, who was not quite a fool, saw that he had not gained his point. He then charged again, but this time against another position.
“We will speak later of this affair of Lisa. To come now to something more nearly concerning yourself. While your loyal devotion to your husband, and your constant expectation of his return, do your heart infinite honor, Madame, it is not equally flattering to your head. As Swift, an English writer says, reason goes to cuffs with imagination, and fancy gets astride of judgment. For, distressing as it is to me to say it, I must tell you that Monsieur Gaston Cheverny will never return.”
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Francezka grew a little pale at these words, but rallied after a moment, speaking courteously.
“Such is your Grace’s opinion. But you can not expect Gaston Cheverny’s wife to be the first to give up hoping for him.”
“By no means. But—Madame Cheverny—you are a widow—and you should conduct yourself as such. You should put on mourning, and place the affairs of your husband before the courts, that they may be settled. In short—pardon the form in which I put it—but you are a widow and should conduct yourself as such.”
“In that case, I should be at liberty to marry again,” coolly remarked Francezka. “Would your Grace recommend me to that?”
The bishop fairly jumped from his chair.
“Great God! No, Madame! It would give frightful scandal!”
“But, Monseigneur, you say that I am a widow—that I should wear mourning. At least be consistent.”
The bishop, swelling with wrath, rose and walked twice, thrice up and down the room. I fancied he was saying in his mind—Was there ever so vexatious a creature as this Francezka? She never had any proper respect for authority! And there sat that easy young brother of his, smiling at his discomfiture—the discomfiture of a bishop!
Francezka remained silent for a little while, and when she spoke it was with seriousness.
“Your Grace asks me to give up the hope on which I live. I can not do it. My husband may be dead, but I have not been able to secure the smallest proof of it.328It has been four years since he disappeared. But we know of strange disappearances lasting much longer. And can you ask me—his wife, who adores him—to believe him dead unless I have proof of it? No! a thousand times no!”
She rose and her face and eyes were flooded with color and light, as she stood facing the bishop.
“Do not again speak to me of putting on mourning. When I do that, then indeed is life over for me—all hope, all joy, forever dead. And do you suppose I care that idle people wonder at me? I am too busy to care for anything but my husband’s return; I have my estates to manage—a heavy task for a woman. And I am determined that if my husband returns, he shall find not only a great estate to his hand, but an accomplished wife to his mind. Look at this proof of my study and endeavor!”
She threw open the door which communicated with the little yellow room, where she spent most of her time. The walls were lined with books, and there were several musical instruments in the room.
“There do I read and study daily. Gaston Cheverny was ever fond of books—fonder than I, carried away as I was with the pleasures of life. He must often have felt the want of knowledge on my part. He shall not feel it so, when he returns. And does your Grace see yonder harpsichord? When my husband last saw me, I played but fairly well on it. Now, I spend a part of every day before it, and I am a skilled performer. And I dress every day in silk—for Gaston’s sake. For he may come to me at any moment, and I do not wish him329to find me a frowsy creature, but a wife worthy of him. To be that, I must be ever well dressed, well read, well behaved—such, I hope I am.”
The flood of her vehemence arrested the bishop’s impatient walk. Father Benart sighed a little, as any one might, at this poor, human heart of Francezka’s, laid bare, and beating desperately against the fate that seemed closing around her. Neither one of them spoke immediately, nor did I. No one of us present knew how to answer Francezka. After a considerable pause, the bishop said, not unkindly:
“I perceive my counsel has been in vain. I must depart.”
Francezka, then, mindful of her duties as chatelaine, pressed him to remain, or at least to take some refreshment before leaving. To the last he agreed.
Peter, in response to a ring of the bell, brought a tray, with wine and glasses. At the first sip of wine, the bishop’s countenance cleared. He was a judge of wines and that in his glass was worthy even of the Bishop of Louvain.
“This is admirable—the best of the Mosel vineyards,” he said.
“Yes,” sweetly replied Francezka. “I stocked the cellar last year with good wine at a reasonable price—” which she named.
The bishop blinked his eyes at her. How came it, that she, a woman, should have so good a head? And being practical in the purchase of wine and the management of affairs should be so impractical concerning her missing husband? However, the bishop would depart,330so he said adieu to us all, and accompanied by Father Benart, went away, to spend the night at the priest’s house.
I made no remark about the bishop’s visit, but I saw that it was not without its effect on Francezka, in spite of her spirited protest to his Grace. She was more silent all of that day than I had yet seen her, and there was a heart-breaking look in her eyes that went to my heart, and also to the heart of the dog, Bold; for, seeing her pensive, he rose from his place at her feet, and laid his head, with a little whine of sympathy, upon her lap. For once, Francezka forgot to notice him. Her eyes were fixed on something afar which yet she saw not, and I heard her murmur:
“Oh, my tired heart!”
Father Benart told me afterward, the conclusion of the bishop’s concern about Lisa. The little priest did not tell it me exactly as I repeat it; but what I had seen of his Grace supplied all details. His defeat at Francezka’s hands determined him on punishing somebody, and Father Benart and Lisa being convenient, they became the natural objects of the bishop’s righteous indignation. In the evening, after his arrival at his brother’s house, the bishop told Father Benart that he felt it his duty to speak to Lisa Embden—he was fearful that the girl’s soul would be lost for want of counsel and reproof. Father Benart, without protesting, said that he would send for Lisa in the morning. Next morning, when the bishop was having his breakfast in the garden, Lisa appeared. This brazen creature, as the bishop chose to esteem her, looked anything but brazen. With every indication of privations undergone,331and with her poor clothes, Lisa was a very good exemplification that the wages of sin is death.
The bishop calling up his sternest accents said:
“I know what your sin has been—are you truly penitent for it?”
Lisa made a faint sound, indicating her penitence.
“And are you willing to do penance for it?”
Lisa inclined her head, and trembled.
“Your sin has been very great. Your behavior no doubt was light, such as to encourage Jacques Haret or any other evil man.”
Lisa raised her eyes to the bishop’s face, and said gently:
“Sir, I can not say that. However wicked I was, at least I was not wicked in that way.”
“But you must have been,” replied the bishop, with the calm confidence of ignorance. “And the misery you endured while persisting in your sinful courses, was God’s punishment.”
“But, sir,” said Lisa, still calmly, “I was not miserable then. I was the happiest of God’s creatures.”
“Impossible!” cried the bishop, starting from his chair, as he had done the day before, in the interview with that other obstinate woman, Francezka Cheverny.
Lisa did not contradict the bishop, but the bishop saw that his denial of the fact had not really affected that fact.
“Do you mean to tell me,” thundered the bishop, “that you were happy in the society of your partner in guilt?”
“Yes, sir.”
The bishop dropped back in his chair. What problems332were these parish affairs anyway! Here was a girl, persisting in saying she had been happy in guilt, when the bishop knew—or thought he knew—that all sinners were miserable!
“But at least you are not happy now?”
“No, sir.”
“And why?”
“Because,” replied poor Lisa, with the utmost simplicity, “I can never see Monsieur Jacques Haret again.”
“You may go.”
Lisa turned and walked rapidly away.
Soon after that I passed through the village, and noticed the bishop’s coach in front of the priest’s modest house. The two brothers were coming out of the door. Father Benart was saying:
“There are many inexplicable things in a country parish, my brother. It is not in my power to make Lisa Embden, or any other creature, feel happiness in the pursuit of good. If I can keep them a little out of the path of evil, it is all I can hope for.”
“I am of the belief,” cried the bishop, “that one self-willed and unruly woman like Peggy Kirkpatrick can put insubordination into the head of a young woman, like Francezka Cheverny—Francezka, in her turn, can implant it in her dependents. There seems to be a general lack of discipline among the women in your parish, brother.”
“True,” replied Father Benart, “and I take it that Madame Riano is to blame for Lisa Embden’s lapse from virtue.”
The bishop glared at his brother—Father Benart333standing, smiling and blinking in the sun. The bishop then noticed me, but I was no restraint upon him, for he plunged into a long and severe discourse upon the evils Father Benart was bringing upon his parish by allowing the women in it to do pretty much as they pleased. Father Benart meekly excused himself by saying that he could not help it. The bishop, however, showed that he had not a bad heart, by leaving a dozen gold louis, which he directed should be spent on the poor of the parish—at the same time sternly commanding that not one penny should be spent on the chief of sinners, Lisa Embden. Father Benart accepted this dole with a twinkle in his eye and solemnly promised that Lisa should not have a penny of it.
But a few days more remained of our stay. It passed quietly, in sweet and gentle converse, and with books and music. The change continued in Francezka after the bishop’s visit. He was a man of little weight, and she had frankly treated him as such, but his belief that Gaston Cheverny was no more, which she had treated with scorn, had yet left its impress on her; perhaps because people of more sense than the bishop had been more guarded and tender with her. But when we bade her good by, she said to us:
“Remember, Count Saxe and Babache, if you are my friends, you will never forget to make inquiry of each and every person you meet, from whom it would be possible to hear of my husband. For myself, once, every day, shall I go to the spot in the Italian garden which overlooks the highroad, to watch for my heart’s desire—and if he never returns—”
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She paused and her eyes filled, and she quoted from some book she had lately been reading:
“Man is based on hope; he has, properly, no other possession but hope; this habitation of his is named the place of hope.”
Her eyes, as she said this, grew dark with melancholy, but there was still an undying courage shining in them. Poor, poor Francezka!
335CHAPTER XXVICOME AND REJOICE
We went on to Brussels; but though my body was in Brussels, my soul was still at the château of Capello. I had not the slightest doubt in my own mind that Gaston Cheverny was dead, and the spectacle of this poor Francezka, with her passionate faithfulness, unable to part with that lingering ghost of hope, was enough to touch any heart. It deeply touched Count Saxe’s. He was the last man on earth to forget that through devotion to him Gaston Cheverny had been lost, and I believe he would have given his right arm could Gaston Cheverny have been found.
By the time we got to Brussels, the women in Paris had found out where Count Saxe was, and a bushel of love letters awaited him—which spoiled that place for us. We went as far as Dresden, and going to Strasburg, returned to Paris by that road, without passing near Brabant. In fact, two whole years passed without my seeing Francezka; and when I saw her—but no more—
Many things happened to Count Saxe in those years, the most important being the gift of the Castle of Chambord with an income to support it, and the promise of being made Marshal of France if he were successful336in the war which was bound to break out soon, and actually did break out in 1741. This gift of Chambord was made in January of 1740. The king always had a fear that he might lose Count Saxe’s services, for the Courland business haunted my master—that dream of a throne and a crown never quite left him. For that reason Louis XV determined to attach Count Saxe permanently to France; and this royal gift of Chambord, with its vast estates, its forests, fields and parks, made Count Saxe at once the ruler of a principality.
There had been some hints of this, and Count Saxe had told me privately that he would not accept any gift from the king, unless coupled with the promise of the marshalship in the event of a successful campaign. I can say of my own knowledge that Count Saxe would rather be Marshal of France than to own Chambord, with Versailles and the Louvre thrown in as makeweights.
On that January day, when Count Saxe was sent for to Fontainebleau to receive this kingly present, I was with him. He was summoned to the king’s closet by Marshal, the Duc de Noailles—the one who always called my master “My Saxe.” As soon as Count Saxe disappeared, I was left in the anteroom with the mob of ladies and gentlemen; they flocked about me. They knew that a great honor for Count Saxe was impending, and by some strange logic, they persuaded themselves that they were entitled to share in it, and they looked upon me as a shoeing horn. I was “good Babache” to people I had never seen before. My health, all at once, seemed to become of consequence to everybody at Fontainebleau; and the proverb that a beggar,337on falling into a fortune, has neither relations nor friends, was speedily disproved. I found I had hosts of friends, and no doubt could have found some relations if I had tried. Courtiers are very childlike creatures after all. The continual frank pursuit of their own interests brings them back to the starting point of a savage, who does not see or know anything beyond to-day and its wants.
Among the waiting crowd was Monsieur Voltaire. I had seen him several times in the preceding two years. He always greeted me civilly—a tribute I think to the poor lost Adrienne, whom none who knew her could forget. On this day, however, Voltaire eyed me somewhat superciliously, and I protest I relished it by contrast with the smirks and bows and smiles and honeyed words lavished upon me by others in hopes of an invitation to Chambord.
My master remained with the king a full half hour. When he came out, he was accompanied, as when he went in, by the old marshal, Duc de Noailles. As soon as I saw Count Saxe’s face, I knew that something more and better had befallen him than a life interest in a great estate. His eyes, the brightest and clearest in the world, sought me out, and by a look, he brought me to his side, the people making way readily enough—real princes cheerfully taking the wall for this Tatar prince born in the Marais! When I got quite close to my master, he whispered in my ear:
“Marshal of France, if successful!”
I felt myself grow hot with joy. Marshal of France! How much greater was that than a huge pile of stone like Chambord!
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The Duc de Noailles was then giving out the news, and, turning to my master, the white-haired marshal embraced him as a brother in arms. But I had been the first one told by my master.
The ladies and gentlemen all showed great joy and complaisance. They knew that Count Saxe was not the man to do things by halves, and that at Chambord the gay days of Francis the First and theescadrons volantswould be gloriously renewed. I watched Monsieur Voltaire, as with his wonderful and unforgettable eyes he gazed upon Count Saxe and probably reflected on the difference of the reward given a successful general and a great wit—for I am not denying that Monsieur Voltaire possessed a very considerable share of wit. He was among the last to congratulate my master, but he did it finally, winding up a fine compliment with this:
“And now, Monsieur, I presume you will be elected to the seat in the Academy. You shall have my vote. You can always spell victory—and what matters the rest?”
This was the meanest allusion possible to my master’s never having time or inclination to devote to such common things as spelling. But Count Saxe came back at him thus:
“Oh, no, Monsieur Voltaire. I am not a candidate for a seat in the Academy. I am pledged to support a friend of mine for the vacancy.”
All the people pricked up their ears and Monsieur Voltaire was the most eager of them all.
“My candidate,” said Count Saxe very impressively, “is Captain Babache”—here he whacked me on the339shoulder—“a prince of the royal blood of Tatary, who can spell like any clerk, and write a better hand than any academician, living or dead, ever did.”
Monsieur Voltaire was a picture. The people present shouted with laughter—Monsieur Voltaire never was very popular at court—and my master grinned, and I felt myself grow weak in the knees with all those laughing eyes fixed on me. It was said afterward, that some of the Academicians were sore over this joke of Count Saxe’s. I had my turn at Monsieur Voltaire shortly after, for having occasion to write him a note in my master’s name, I directed it in full to “Monsieur François Marie Voltaire, Member of the French Academy”—which he was not until some time afterward—“at the house of Madame du Châtelet, on the Isle of St. Louis, Paris.” “Voltaire, Paris,” would have taken any letter straight to him, but I chose to assume that very explicit directions were necessary to reach him, as if he were quite unknown, and difficult to find. It made him very angry, so I heard, and that was what I meant it for.
The whole of that winter and spring, I spent running to and fro between Paris and Chambord, for it is no easy thing to get in order such an establishment as Count Saxe set up, in that vast palace. There were four hundred rooms, and thirteen grand staircases, to say nothing of the smaller ones, and there was stabling for twelve hundred horses. The king had given Count Saxe permission to increase his body-guard of Uhlans, in view of the war known to be coming, and all these men and horses had to be assigned to their proper quarters, and provided for otherwise. The hunting establishment340alone required the services of more than a hundred men; for there were wolves and wild boars to be hunted besides smaller game, in the forests of Chambord, and the plains of Salon. It is in this region that Thibaut of Champagne, so the peasants believe, follows his ghostly hunt. Often, at midnight, the winding of his horn echoes through the darkness of the forest, and the cry of his dogs from the nether world rings to the night sky—so say the peasants. I never saw or heard this supernatural hunt.
With the internal management of the castle I had nothing to do. Beauvais was promoted to bemaître d’hôtel, and a hard enough time he had, losing, in one year, a very good head of hair over it. The only authority I was made to assume was over the pages of honor. There were ten of these brats, all dressed in yellow silk breeches and waistcoats, and black velvet coats, and they gave me more trouble, grief and perplexity than my whole battalion of Uhlans. Will it be believed that these little rascals in yellow silk, of whom the eldest was barely fourteen, kept me perpetually in anxiety about fighting duels among themselves?
They would beg, borrow or steal rapiers, and sneaking away by night or in the early morning, would fight on the edge of the moat on a little embankment, from which they were extremely likely to tumble into the water, if they missed each other’s swordpoints. I could not cure them of it, but whenever I caught them I cuffed them soundly. They made great outcry over this, being of the best blood of France. But when they ran with their tales to my master—particularly one little Boufflers, who was about to run me through—my master always341told them that I was of the royal blood of Tatary; so it was rather an honor, than a disgrace, for me to lay hands on them.
Let it not be supposed that all these labors and perplexities put Francezka out of my mind for one hour. Nor had Count Saxe forgotten her. He caused me to write to her more than once, and delicately intimated a desire that she would honor Chambord at some time with her presence. I little thought when I wrote that letter that Francezka would be likely to see Chambord. But events were moving silently but swiftly, and when I least expected it—when Francezka’s sad fate seemed fixed; when her life had apparently adjusted itself finally, a great, a stupendous change was at hand. It came suddenly but quietly, and the news of it met us at the last place and from the last person one might possibly expect. It was May, when being overtaken by sunset on the way to Paris, and the horses being tired, Count Saxe and myself stopped at a little roadside inn, just one stage from Paris. Count Saxe had not even a servant with him, thinking to spend only a few hours in Paris and then to return at once to Chambord.
The inn was a plain, but comfortable place, with good wine, and excellent plain fare. After supper, Count Saxe, being weary, went to bed, the innkeeper valeting him, while I remained out of doors. The evening was softly beautiful. The sun was slowly disappearing; it was not far from eight o’clock, and the sky was all red and gold and amber. The rich and quiet landscape was not unlike that of Capello, though far from being so rich and so lovely. It was the sweet hour at which I always thought of Francezka, the hour342she always kept her vigil in the Italian garden—a vigil that had seemed to me to be taking the form of remembrance of the dead, rather than expectation of the living. And knowing exactly what she was doing at that hour often produced in me a sense of nearness to Francezka.
On this evening she seemed to hover near me, and it was not the Francezka I had last seen, the bravely patient, the undyingly courageous; but the Francezka of her first wild, sweet youth, high-hearted, all fire and dew, laughter and tears, haughty and merry—the Francezka who claimed happiness as her right. And with this presence near me, and her voice ringing in my ears, I was suddenly brought back to this earth by seeing before me the unwelcome face of Jacques Haret.
I had not seen the scoundrel for four years, and never wished to see him again. He was sitting at a table in the garden of the inn—for I had unconsciously wandered from the orchard into the garden. He looked more prosperous than I had ever seen him, being well dressed all over, and for the first time evidently in clothes made for him. I was for passing on with a brief word, when he stopped me.
“Have you heard the great news?” he asked. “No, of course you have not. Gaston Cheverny has been found. I compute that he reached the château of Capello this afternoon—probably at this very hour.”
The earth began to rock under my feet, the heavens broke into long waves of light, as if the oceans and a million voices were shouting in my ear at once. In the midst of all this, Jacques Haret’s cool, musical voice continued:
“Yes. He should reach there about this time. And343a tragedy may have preceded him—Madame Cheverny may have driven a nail into the eye of Count Bellegarde, as Jael did to Sisera, or cut off his head and put it in a bag, as Judith did that of Holofernes. For Bellegarde—the greatest fool alive—told me that on this date he meant to go to Capello and make a formal offer of his hand to the supposed widow, and by the blessing of God he hoped to own Capello. I have just come from Brabant, you see. I advised Bellegarde to make his will and to repent of his sins before going on such an errand, for Madame Cheverny has the spirit of all the Kirkpatricks in her beautiful body, and is dangerous when roused.”
While Jacques Haret was speaking, I recovered my composure, although my soul was in storm and tumult, but I could not ask one of the thousand questions burning upon my lips. Then I saw a figure approaching, hatless and unpowdered, and wrapped in a bed coverlet. It was Count Saxe. He had not gone to sleep, and hearing through his open window Jacques Haret’s tale, had sprung from his bed and rushed into the garden. Next to Francezka, Count Saxe, of all the world, wished Gaston Cheverny to be found for reasons easily understood. He called out as he stalked forward in his bed coverlet:
“Do you know anything else about it?”
“Nothing,” replied Jacques, thrusting his hands in his pockets; “but it has ruined Bellegarde’s chances of living at Capello, the palace of delights.”
“And some one else has come back to Capello,” I added. “Lisa, Peter Embden’s niece.”
Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Jacques Haret344show any shame at the mention of the unfortunate girl’s name, or of poor old Peter’s. Count Saxe, however, standing a little way off, and gesticulating in his coverlet, cried loudly:
“Jacques Haret, you are the blackest villain, cheat, scoundrel, rogue and rapscallion yet unhung. The jail yawns for you, the gallows yearns for you. May they both get you!”
“Thanks, Monsieur,” replied Jacques Haret; “I am as God made me—and He makes men different. As Monsieur Voltaire said of your Excellency, ‘God has not seen fit to give wings to the donkey.’ God has not seen fit to make me like the founder of La Trappe. That is all.”
Count Saxe turned to me:
“Get post-horses, Babache. We must go to Paris this night; no doubt there are letters for us. This news, if it be true, is worth a hundred thousand crowns to me.”
The innkeeper got horses for us, and we started for Paris in a ramshackle chaise. Jacques Haret watched our departure with the greatest interest and entirely at his ease.
When I was stepping into the chaise, I called out to him, as he stood on the grass, in the shadowy light:
“I have not time now to give you a good beating, Jacques Haret. But when next we meet, I promise it to you, and will let nothing interfere with my engagement.”
“Thanks,” replied Jacques, “I have been promised not less than a million of beatings and have not yet got the first one. Adieu.”
As we jolted along through the May night, all sorts345of agitating thoughts poured into my mind about Francezka. She was at that moment, probably, in a heaven of her own making; for, be it observed, I doubted not in the least that Jacques Haret knew what he was talking about. I was somewhat surprised that he knew in advance of Gaston’s arrival, but that was easily accounted for. Gaston would not travel incognito, and the news must have flown in advance of him.
Count Saxe, lying back in his corner of the chaise, talked of Gaston, of his manliness, his courage, his charm; and of Francezka, whom he could not praise enough. I saw that a cloud had passed from his life with Gaston’s return. He told me that Francezka’s face haunted him, and the absence of any reproach on her part for the imprudence which led to Gaston’s capture went like a poniard to his heart. We reached the Luxembourg before midnight, and were abroad by daylight. I, myself, went to the café of the Green Basket, where news was to be gathered, and found that wild rumors were afloat concerning Gaston Cheverny’s return. Within the next two days we got positive confirmation of it, and, also, a letter from Francezka. It was written in a trembling hand, unlike her usual firm, clear writing. It ran thus:
Count Saxe and dear, faithful Babache:My best beloved has returned to me. Come and rejoice with me.Francezka Cheverny.
Count Saxe and dear, faithful Babache:
My best beloved has returned to me. Come and rejoice with me.
Francezka Cheverny.
That was all; none of her other names and titles,346scarce one superfluous word—but a letter written in the very ecstasy and palpitation of joy.
It took Count Saxe not an hour to fix a day for our departure for Capello, and I wrote a letter telling Francezka when we should arrive; and trying to tell her how deep was my joy in her joy.
Within a week we rode for Brabant—only myself and Beauvais with Count Saxe—and traveled leisurely in the pleasant spring weather.
What Jacques Haret had told concerning the poor Count Bellegarde was true. He, the most absurd creature alive, who had believed for years that this glorious creature was his for the asking, had come to the château of Capello that May afternoon, and had made Francezka a formal offer of marriage. It had been easy enough to dispose of the poor gentleman. Francezka’s temper was naturally warm. In this case, her heart eating itself with despair, her nerves racked with hope deferred, she had turned like a lioness upon the unfortunate Bellegarde. He had fled from her indignant presence, and from the wrath which shone in her eyes and blazed in her cheeks; and Francezka, trembling and tempest-tossed, had, in her turn, fled to the Italian garden, where she could be alone. For she needed to be alone to face the specter which now took shape before her. It was no less than her dead hopes, clad in their grave clothes, which told her that Gaston Cheverny was no more. And while she walked slowly up and down the path, with this horror walking beside her, she looked up, and, behold! There stood Gaston Cheverny in the flesh.
Of what she said or did, Francezka had no memory.347When she first became conscious of thought, she was lying in Gaston’s arms, in an agony of sobbing and crying, and he was soothing her, and lavishing upon her every tenderness that love could devise. And after a time, when the first great shock of joy was over, Francezka rallied and became herself again—brave, resolute and loving. And then they looked into each other’s eyes with rapture, and Gaston cried:
“We can never again be apart beyond the touch of each other’s hand.”
And after an hour spent in paradise, Francezka and Gaston walked hand in hand to the château, the servants and dependents were summoned, and Francezka, kneeling among them, with her hand on Gaston’s shoulder, humbly gave thanks to God for having restored her best beloved to her. The news spread like wildfire, and roused the entire country. The next day, when Francezka and Gaston publicly gave thanks in the church, half the province was present.
Gaston was, of course, besieged with inquiries concerning the vicissitudes which had befallen him. They turned out to be quite as strange as might have been expected. The wound on his head had been severe, and had caused him great suffering, and, what was worse, had brought upon him long periods of forgetfulness. He had no recollection of anything that had happened to him after being struck by the Austrian bullet, and could not recall even the incident of the little village in the Taunus, where he had been seen three months after his capture. His first connected impressions were, on finding himself in Holland, and next, he knew not how, on a Dutch ship bound for Batavia. After nearly a year he348had reached Batavia, and then began the struggle to return to Europe. He had written repeatedly to Francezka, and to his friends; that is, scrawled as well as he could, with his left hand, for his right hand, although it had no outward mark of weakness, was quite unfit for writing. He could not explain the cause of this; it was one of those blanks in his memory, in which some of the most painful as well as some of the dearest of his recollections were erased.
Being bred to the trade of a soldier, he knew no other means of livelihood and he found it hard, in his wanderings, to keep body and soul together. He was alone in a far country, unacquainted with the languages, and further borne down by those physical and mental ailments which only mended in the course of long years. Only two things remained ever clear and unclouded with him: one was, the remembrance of Francezka; the other was, a fixed determination to return to Europe. By degrees, his mind recovered its poise and his body its health; but seven years were consumed from the time he was snatched away from his country, from his love, his health, his understanding, until he was again restored to them.
Some of this we heard before we left Paris. Of course, the women would not let Count Saxe depart in peace. The Countess Vielinski followed us with post-horses as far as Mézieres, and Count Saxe only saved himself by decamping in the night, galloping out of one gate of the town, as Madame Vielinski’s berlin rolled into the other. And yet this man is called a gay Lothario!
Everywhere on the road people were talking of349Gaston Cheverny’s wonderful return. The number of persons who knew that he must eventually come back was very large—I believe I did not see one single person who was not convinced all along that Gaston would be found. And the country rang with praises of Madame Cheverny’s constancy and devotion. Especially did this come from the people who had declared Francezka to be wildly visionary and had severely condemned her course from the beginning.