410CHAPTER XXXITHE BITTERNESS OF DOUBT
My master went to Paris for Christmas, to our old lodging at the Luxembourg. The king was very anxious for Count Saxe to be permanently lodged at Versailles, but my master, by a variety of clever subterfuges, declined to exchange his splendid and spacious apartments at the Luxembourg, for the dog-hole which was all they had to offer him at Versailles. Two thousand persons were lodged in the palace. It may be imagined what sort of lodging much of it was; mere closets for ladies of quality, a landing at a stair’s head curtained off for gentlemen. My master was offered a couple of rooms under the roof for himself, myself and Beauvais. Count Saxe responded that he was not a snail, and required a lodging somewhat larger than himself. He was told that a bishop was satisfied with one room and an alcove for his valet. My master replied that a bishop was a holier man than he. The fact is, my master did not like the everlasting restraints of Versailles. Some malicious people said he preferred Paris on account of Mademoiselle Verières, the actress. God knows. There are always people who can ascribe the worst motives to the simplest actions.
Francezka and Gaston Cheverny spent the winter at411the Hôtel Kirkpatrick. Madame Riano had gone to England then, but only made a brief stay. From thence she went to Rome, and Monsieur Voltaire declared it was for the purpose of getting the pope to put himself at the head of the Kirkpatricks to march to London and wrest the throne of England from the Hanoverians for Prince Charles Edward Stuart. At all events, news reached Paris that Madame Riano had fallen out violently with the Holy Father, as she had done with the Kings of France, of Spain and of England, and was breathing out fire and slaughter against the Holy See.
It was to be expected that Francezka and Gaston should live with splendor and gaiety at the Hôtel Kirkpatrick, and they did; this, too, upon a scale that probably made Francezka’s father, the prudent old Scotchman, writhe in his grave. Balls, masques, concerts and ballets followed each other with dazzling swiftness. A temporary theater was built in the garden on the site of the one where Francezka had made her first dramatic adventure with the baker’s boy, under the management of Jacques Haret. Here were given the best comedies of the day, with Francezka as the star. Monsieur Voltaire was often in the cast, and some of his own masterpieces were given at this theater for the first time.
Nor was he the only wit who frequented the Hôtel Kirkpatrick. Not only wits, but scholars like Maupertius, the two Bernouillis, many poets and literary men, Cardinal de Polignac and Marquis de Beauvau, soldiers like Marshal Count de Belle-Isle, his brother the Chevalier, the Prince de Soubise, the Prince de Clermont, and others, made Francezka’s saloon412shine. She was the extreme of the mode and her saloon became the rage. Monsieur Voltaire went about threatening the ladies, that if they did not look out, Madame Cheverny would bring virtue into fashion. But there was no panic among them, although it can not be denied that Francezka was admired for her virtue as for her wit, and, with such a fortune as hers, neither would be likely to remain under an eclipse.
She was in the greatest demand at Versailles, too, and danced in all of the finest ballets given for the king. She had her English curricle, and with her Englishjokistanding up behind her, was often seen driving in the Bois de Boulogne. She dressed superbly, and was altogether glorious. The same felicity seemed to attend Gaston. The Duc de Richelieu took a violent fancy to him, which, of course, recommended him to the king. He was of all the royal hunting parties. The king loved to hear him tell of his adventures in the East, which were extremely interesting, and Gaston was ever eloquent of tongue. He was gallant to the ladies, and much run after by them, but I do not think he ever gave Francezka cause for a moment’s jealousy. In short, if two human beings might be supposed to walk the sunny heights of joy, it was Francezka and Gaston Cheverny.
Paris was seething during the winter of 1740-41, which preceded the outbreak of the first Silesian war on the part of the great Frederick of Prussia against the greater Maria Theresa of Austria-Hungary. France and Paris were dragged hither and thither, Cardinal Fleury, a peaceful old man, urging that France remain neutral; Marshal Belle-Isle, a genius in war, insisting413that France must side with Prussia. Naturally, the military element wanted war, and when it seemed likely that Cardinal Fleury would keep France at peace, Marshal Belle-Isle went about storming that this old parson would ruin everything. It was understood that no active military operations would take place until the late summer, so the gay dogs of officers and the merry ladies who danced in the court ballets, and flitted about like butterflies in the sun, had to make the most of Paris then. The pace at which they went was killing—and Francezka and Gaston Cheverny were not the last in this race.
One day, shortly before the carnival, there was a great fête at the Louvre, and the courtyard was filling up with magnificent coaches. The finest of all was a gilt coach superbly horsed with six horses, with four outriders in the crimson and gold of Francezka’s liveries. She sat alone in the coach, waiting her turn to drive up to the great entrance. She was, as always, dressed with splendor, and as she sat back in the coach, fanning herself with a beautiful fan that slightly moved the white plumes of her head-dress, I made my way through the crush and spoke to her. She had one of her lackeys let down the coach steps, and I stood on them while speaking to her. I congratulated her on her splendid equipage.
“It is very superb, I know,” she replied, but a shade came over her face. “Is it not trying, Babache, to have one’s lightest word taken seriously? Here is the story of this coach. I had a handsome one—fine enough for any one—but happening to say one day, in pure carelessness, that I should like to have a gilt coach, Gaston414orders this one for me, secretly, and it arrives this morning, to my astonishment. Moreover, in order to do it, Gaston, himself, went without some horses he needs. He is by no means so well mounted as he should be.”
“At least, Madame,” I replied, “few wives have your cause of complaint.”
I noticed then some dissatisfaction in Francezka’s face; the pursuit of pleasure, night and day, is bound to leave its marks on the strongest frame, and the best balanced nerves. I suspected Francezka was in the mood to find fault.
“Yes,” she replied to my last words, “few wives can complain of too great complaisance on the part of their husbands. But it is, surely, not a comfortable way to live, for a woman, to watch and weigh her words with her husband, lest he act upon the most lightly expressed wish. Depend upon it, Babache, a great passion is a great burden.”
Francezka said this to me—Francezka, less than a year after Gaston’s return. Oh, how strange a thing is a great passion after all!
In a minute or two more, I heard Gaston’s voice over my shoulder. He was standing on the coach step below me, and looked smiling and triumphant.
“I see you approve of this equipage,” said he to me. “It is not unworthy even of Francezka.”
I agreed with him; admired the horses—six superb roans—and then the time came to move on, and I sprang to the ground, while Gaston stepped into the coach.
As I walked away, I reflected that the money to pay415for the gilt coach and six came out of Francezka’s estate. But Gaston, I knew, had the management of it; and it is not the husband of every heiress who is satisfied to keep indifferent horses for himself, and provide his wife with six for her coach, and four for her outriders, to say nothing of the finest coach in Paris.
But was Francezka happy? Her air that day did not indicate it, but rather weariness, and disgust of the pleasures she followed so assiduously. It is never a sign of happiness to follow pleasure madly.
In walking and riding about the streets of Paris I kept a lookout for Jacques Haret. I had not forgotten my promise to give him a good beating the next time I saw him, and felt conscientious scruples that I had not done it when I had met him the spring before. But the news he gave me on that occasion was so startling it put my duty out of my head. I had not the slightest doubt that some time or other he would drift back to Paris. Fellows of Jacques Haret’s kidney can no more keep away from Paris than cats can keep away from cream.
So I watched for him, and one evening, soon after the carnival, as I was walking along the Rue St. Jacques, I came face to face with Jacques Haret. It was dusk, but the lamps which hung across the street had not yet been lighted. Jacques Haret was stepping debonairly along, whistling cheerfullySur le pont d’Avignon. I noticed, even in the dim February evening, that he was shabbily dressed, but bore the marks of good eating and drinking on his face. When we came face to face he involuntarily halted. I stepped up to him and said:
“Where will you take it?”
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The fellow knew I meant the beating I had promised. I continued:
“Here in the public street, where we shall be recognized, arrested, and Count Saxe will see that I come to no harm, while you will cool your heels in the Châtelet prison where you belong; or in the Luxembourg gardens which are deserted now, and where I can beat you more at my leisure, but not the less hard?”
“In the Luxembourg gardens,” said the scoundrel, coolly, after a pause.
I have ever admired Jacques Haret’s courage and I admired it now. He knew I meant to thrash him, that I had the strength to do it, and that if he killed me Count Saxe would tear him limb from limb. He had lost that nice honor of a gentleman, which would make a man accept death rather than a blow, but reasoning philosophically, as a rogue often does, concluded to take his punishment as best he might. Kings often reason thus, but few private men do.
We marched along the dark street, Jacques Haret in front, I behind. He resumed his whistling ofSur le pont d’Avignon.
There were no lanterns inside the Luxembourg gardens. When we reached the spot light streamed from many of the windows of the palace, but it did not penetrate the far recesses of the gardens, behind the tall hedges and the summer houses. I motioned Jacques Haret to the farthest corner, behind a grove of dwarf cedars. Once there I began stripping off my coat, and told him to strip off his coat also.
“Now, Babache,” said this fellow, remonstrating, “don’t be unreasonable; it is unworthy of you. Here417I have come with you quietly, and I could have made a devil of a row, except I grew tired of dodging you through the streets of Paris; but really I don’t think it good for my health to take your blows with nothing but my shirt between your fist and my skin.”
It was difficult to be serious with Jacques Haret, although his crimes were serious enough, of which his behavior to poor old Peter and the unfortunate Lisa were crimes in every sense. Nevertheless, I made him take off his coat, which he did, grumbling excessively. And in the shadow of the cedars I gave him as sound a beating as any man ever got on this planet. All the while I was thinking of the satisfaction it would give Francezka to know of it.
He had made no active resistance, although he skilfully avoided some of my hardest blows. He uttered no oath, nor prayer, nor remonstrance; he had long known that some time or other I should give him a beating, that I was physically twice the man he was, and in the way he took his punishment he exemplified that singular form of courage in which a rogue often surpasses an honest man.
When I was through with him he presented a very battered appearance.
“I am now in the class with Monsieur Voltaire,” he said, as he wiped the blood from his nose. “He has had two beatings so far and so have I. But faith! the world is so unjust! It will not sympathize with me as it did with Voltaire. However, he was beaten by the Duc de Rohan’s lackeys, while I was pummeled by a prince, a Tatar prince born in the Marais.”
“I ought to have run you through,” I said, “except418that I am squeamish about taking human life. Now, go your ways, Jacques Haret, but if you do not want this dose repeated keep out of my way.”
He bowed to the ground.
“My dear sir,” he said, “I never sought your society in my life, nor even that of your master. The inducement which you offer me to keep out of your way is sufficient. I hope I shall never see you or your cross eye again.”
As I turned and went into my lodgings I felt how futile a thing I had done; the dog should have been killed, but as I said, I am squeamish about taking human life. However, I knew that such punishment as I had given him would mightily please Francezka, and I determined to take the first occasion of telling her.
It came the next night, when there was to be a great mi-carême rout and ball at the Hôtel Kirkpatrick. I did not usually go to these balls unless commanded by my master, and he was a merciful man; but on this night I went with him of my own free will. It was a very splendid company, and few there were not above my quality. Madame Riano, who had just returned from Rome, sparkled with diamonds like a walking Golconda; but Francezka wore only a few gems, but those exquisite. She looked very weary; the months of gaiety and dissipation she had led were telling on her. Gaston was a noble host, attentive to all, and not forgetting the kind and quality of respect due to each.
When the rout was at its height, and the floor of the dancing saloon crowded, I had occasion to pass through the great suite of rooms, which were nearly deserted for419the ball room. There was a little curtained alcove, in which either the lights had been forgotten or had been put out, and from that place, dark and still, although the wild racket of the ball was going on in the same building, I heard Francezka’s voice calling me. I went in and found her sitting on a sofa.
“I am so very tired,” she said. “I came here for a moment’s rest, not thinking I should be fortunate enough to have a word with my Babache.”
I sat down by her and told her the story of my beating Jacques Haret. I could not see her face in the darkness, but she clapped her hands joyously.
“I am afraid I want vengeance to be mine instead of the Lord’s,” she cried with her old spirit. “I am like my Aunt Peggy in that. Thank you for every blow you gave Jacques Haret. I shall tell Peter, but not poor Lisa. That girl has the nature of a spaniel. I believe she reproaches herself for having thrown in his face the silver snuff-box Jacques Haret gave her.”
I knew that Francezka and Gaston had been invited to visit Chambord in the spring, and I expressed a wish that they might come.
“No,” replied Francezka, relapsing into the weary tone she had first used. “We have declined the invitation. I am so tired of balls and hunting parties and ballets, and everything in the world, that I feel sometimes as if I wished to be a hermit.”
I listened in sorrow, but hardly in surprise. It is as true as the forty-seventh proposition of Euclid that to give a human being all he or she wants of anything is to cure all liking for it. Francezka’s natural taste, however, was so strongly in favor of gaiety and splendor,420and she had tasted so little of it, that I thought satiety would spare her longer than most. There was a pause, after which I said:
“You will be missed at Chambord, but Capello is so sweet in the spring and summer.”
“Yes,” answered Francezka, “but even there I shall not be able to escape people. Do you remember how they flocked there when Gaston came home? And I verily believe half Paris means to follow us to Capello. Gaston has invited many persons to visit us.”
“Against your wish Madame?” I asked in surprise.
“Oh, no, he never does anything against my wish, but he never knows what my wish is—since his return. Before he went away he always knew my wishes in advance. Sometimes he combatted them. We had our little wrangles from the time we first met and loved, and often showed temper, one to the other, until his return. Now we never have any wrangles. As soon as I express my will Gaston immediately makes it his will. That, you will grant, is an unnatural way for two merely human creatures to live.”
“At least not many are afflicted with that form of unhappiness, Madame.”
“It is a form of unhappiness, though. I dare not express the smallest disapproval of a thing or a person that Gaston does not seem to take it as law. The most casual wish is fulfilled, but, as I say, he has not the clairvoyance of love with all this devotion. He might have seen that I longed for rest and quiet at Capello, but he did not. Now, if I express the slightest distaste for company there he will withdraw every invitation. To have one’s lightest word taken seriously, and one’s421smallest inclination influence the conduct of another person, is highly uncomfortable.”
I knew not what to say. Francezka’s grievance appeared to me to be a strange one though not wholly unreasoning. But I saw what gave me the sharpest pain. It flashed upon me that she no longer loved Gaston Cheverny. As if she had the clairvoyance that she complained of Gaston’s lacking, she continued:
“Yes; outwardly, all is the same; inwardly, all is changed. I have a growing sense of strangeness with my husband. At first I felt the same intimate friendship I had felt during our short married life, but by insensible degrees I have come to feel that I do not know Gaston, nor does Gaston know me. It is an appalling feeling.”
“I should think so,” I replied, and fell silent.
It was all strange and painful to me. I knew Francezka’s faults well, but I had never seen in her any deficiency in good sense. Even her obstinate hanging on to the belief that Gaston was alive when the world believed him dead had been justified, and her course had been most practical during it all. But this new disgust at life, this fault-finding with her husband, seemed to me lacking in reason. Yet there was undoubtedly something changed in Gaston’s personality. As this thought passed through my mind she answered it, again as if by intuition:
“You remember, Babache, you always told me you loved Gaston from the moment you beheld him. But you don’t love him now. You have not loved him since his return.”
Oh, what a misfortune it is to be too quick of wit!
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Francezka then rose and said to me:
“I return now to my guests. Think not that I have uttered to any other human being what I have said to you. But I have looked my last on happiness. I do not love you any the less, Babache. As you were my chief consolation in that dreadful time of waiting, so now that Destiny has played me this shabby trick in giving me back the shadow of happiness and withholding the substance, I still look to you for comfort. Remember, whoever wearies me at Capello, you never will. Not since that first hour we met in this old garden, when you saw me in the beginning of my career of headstrong folly, have I ever beheld your honest face without pleasure.”
I returned to the ballroom, and the first thing I saw was Francezka dancing the wildestbranleI ever saw with the most graceful abandon imaginable. I concluded that all women were singular beings, in which my master agreed, when I made the observation to him; and some persons said that Count Saxe had great experience with the sex.
423CHAPTER XXXIIIN SNUFF-COLORED CLOTHES
I was much on the road between Paris and Chambord for the next month. It was true that Francezka and Gaston had declined with thanks to visit Chambord that year on account of returning to Capello, but they very cordially invited Count Saxe to be their guest some time during the summer, and Count Saxe, of course, included Captain Babache. About that time we knew for a certainty that Marshal Belle-Isle would take an army of observation across the Rhine in August, and my master would be given command of the vanguard. So it was arranged that on our way to Fort Louis, where the crossing was to be made, we should make a détour and visit Francezka and Gaston at Capello.
It was in April that one afternoon, being at leisure, and my master being of the king’s party at Choisy, I was minded to go to the Hôtel Kirkpatrick. Madame Riano was there then, and I wished to pay her my respects.
I was shown into the garden where, in the very same sweet, retired spot where I had first seen Francezka, Madame Riano and Francezka were sitting. I was invited by a lackey to join them. As I passed through the rooms I saw old Peter, who came forward and spoke424to me, as he always did, and I was glad to see the honest old soul. I asked him if he was pleased at the prospect of seeing Capello soon.
“More than I can say, Monsieur; my Lisa is there, and she is longing to see her poor old uncle again. Yes, Monsieur, glad shall I be to see Capello again. I was born and reared close by—” He stopped; I knew that he meant Castle Haret.
In the garden sat Madame Riano and Francezka. Madame Riano had on her head a great hat with a thousand black plumes on it, and she clutched her huge fan menacingly at my approach, although I must say she had ever treated me with condescension. I think she reserved her fire for great guns, like Count Saxe and the pope.
Francezka looked cheerful and even gay. She was by no means steady in that sad condition of mind in which I had found her the night of the rout. But it seemed to me an evil sign to find her always brightening at the prospect of a change, showing thereby that nothing suited her. I remember she wore a pale flowered silk, with sleeves that fell back from her elbow, and she, too, had a hat on, but it might have been worn by one of Watteau’s shepherdesses. Both the ladies gave me kindly greeting. Madame Riano began to ask me something about Chambord.
“I suppose Count Saxe will have forty or fifty of his ladies there this bout,” remarked this terrible old Scotch woman.
I replied respectfully that I did not understand her allusion.
“Fudge!” she cried; “you are an infant, forsooth!425You know less about Maurice of Saxe than any man in Paris, I warrant.”
Francezka’s laughing arch glance showed me that I could expect no help in that quarter, so I prepared to defend myself.
“Madame, you are quite right,” I replied. “I do know less than any man on this planet about Count Saxe and the ladies.”
“You would not be the better for such information,” tartly responded Madame Riano. “He will run after anything in petticoats, a milliner’s apprentice or the queen’s sister, it is all one to that Maurice of Saxe.”
“Madame,” said I, rising, “I perceive there is a dampness in this garden. I do not look like a delicate flower, but I am and I feel myself obliged to leave.”
“Sit down,” answered Madame Riano; “you are an honest fellow, and I’ll not mention Saxe again except to say that he is the wildest, craftiest, boldest roué—”
I was going, but Francezka, looking warningly at Madame Riano, said to me, with something softly trenchant in her voice:
“Remain, Babache.”
At that moment I looked up and saw Gaston Cheverny walking across the grass in company with Jacques Haret.
If the devil himself had appeared he would not have created greater consternation than Jacques Haret at that moment. Madame Riano sat bolt upright, brought her fan to the charge, so to speak, and glared at Jacques Haret. She knew the story of Lisa. Francezka’s face grew scarlet with wrath; she had never thought it worth while to forbid Jacques Haret her presence, never426dreaming he would dare to face her. Had he been alone, or with any one but Gaston, I feel sure she would have ordered him from her presence, but to do that when he came by Gaston’s invitation and in his company was more than even Francezka was prepared for. Gaston, I thought, looked a little embarrassed, though not fully conscious of the gross affront he was putting on Francezka in bringing Jacques Haret there. It occurred to me there was some compulsion about it. As for Jacques Haret, there was a laughing devil in his eye, which showed that he thoroughly enjoyed the situation. He was dressed from top to toe in Gaston’s clothes—a suit of snuff-colored clothes and a purple waistcoat, which I had often seen Gaston wear.
“I found this gentleman sunning himself in the court of the Palais Royal,” said Gaston pleasantly, “and not having met him since my return, I brought him home that we may talk at our leisure and recall the old days when he was a lad at Castle Haret and a playmate of mine and my brother’s. We have already had a long conversation and some good wine in my study.”
It was the first time since Gaston’s return that I had heard him mention Regnard’s name. Francezka gave Jacques Haret a cold bow. I do not think Madame Riano would have hesitated to order him out of the garden, but she never could resist the charm of battle. Jacques Haret was worthy of her steel in a wordy war, and the temptation was too great for this militant lady. There was here a commingling of tragedy and comedy such as I had seldom seen. I took it that poor old Peter had not seen Jacques Haret during the time he427had spent in Gaston’s rooms. Madame Riano opened the action by saying sternly:
“What are you doing here, Jacques Haret?”
“Come to pay my respects to your ladyship,” was Jacques Haret’s undaunted reply. “Think you, Madame, that I could remain long in Paris and fail to pay you my devoirs?”
Madame Riano, giving no attention to this speech, scrutinized Jacques Haret, and then said abruptly:
“How comes it that you are so well dressed? I know those clothes are not your own, for I know all about your way of life, Jacques Haret.”
Gaston Cheverny looked a little uncomfortable at this. For all of Madame Riano’s sharpness, she had not recognized the clothes as belonging to Gaston. Jacques Haret, however, replied with a grin:
“I borrowed them, Madame, when I was last in Brabant from your old friend, the Bishop of Louvain. The old gentleman kept this costume for occasions when he goes to Brusselsincog.and plays Harun-al-Rashid.”
Madame Riano chose to be highly offended at this levity.
“How dare you, Jacques Haret, say such things about a man of God!”
“A man of God do you call him, Madame? Who was it, I should be glad to know, that sent word to the bishop unless he stopped preaching directly at a certain lady she would tweak his ears for him the next time she met him?”
This staggered Madame Riano, for she had once actually sent such a message to the bishop, who had the428prudence to desist from his fulminations against her. But like a crafty general, Madame Riano was able to collect her scattered forces, after an onslaught, and still make trouble for her adversary.
“I do not know to what you allude, and I should still like to know where you got those clothes.”
“Madame,” began Gaston, in great confusion, but Jacques Haret was not a whit confused and took the words out of Gaston’s mouth:
“From the wardrobe of Gaston Cheverny just half an hour ago.”
Madame Riano looked a trifle abashed, but rallied when Jacques Haret said impudently, taking out meanwhile a snuff-box of Gaston’s,
“And I put on all my finer feelings with these clothes. I have become a gentleman once more; but if you object to them—the clothes, I mean—I will take them off, every rag of them, here on the spot. The prospect doesn’t alarm you, does it? You, Madame, a representative of the Kirkpatricks, ought not to be frightened by a little thing like that.”
Francezka had sat still, trying to master her indignation at Jacques Haret’s presumption. But that was no restraint on him. He began, in a pleasant tone of old acquaintanceship, to Gaston:
“I suppose, Gaston, you and Madame Cheverny travel often to Versailles?”
“Not very often,” replied Gaston, recovering something of ease now that the conversation had turned away from the unlucky clothes. “Madame Cheverny has danced in several ballets before the king, and has429been to the masquerades, but neither of us is made to be a hanger-on of courts.”
“Good for you,” replied Jacques Haret. “I knew something of the folly of that in my childhood. My father was a born hanger-on of courts, as you express it. Some wag declared that my father’s epitaph ought to be: ‘Here lies one who was born a man and died a courtier.’ Your old Peter can tell you some stories of how my father chased after kings.”
This mention of Peter disgusted us all, and was an indignity that Francezka could not stand. She rose, and casting back at Jacques Haret one of those looks which, on the stage, had thrilled all who saw her, she walked like an insulted queen across the green sward toward the house. Madame Riano followed, for once disdainfully silent. Jacques Haret looked about him with the most innocent air in the world.
“Now, what have I done to offend the ladies?” he asked.
“I don’t think you are exactly a favorite withtheseladies,” replied Gaston, smiling.
I listened in wonderment. Was it possible that Francezka had not told Gaston the story of Lisa? For he acted as if he knew nothing of it. However, I had my views about Jacques Haret’s presence there, so I rose, too, and bade Gaston a ceremonious adieu, and said nothing at all to Jacques Haret. It did not discompose him in the least, and again taking out his snuff-box, Gaston Cheverny’s snuff-box, he began to humSur le pont d’Avignon. That air seemed to be a favorite of his. I had gone about half way across the430garden, and it being large, I was out of sight and sound of Gaston and Jacques Haret, when I heard Gaston at my heels, calling “Hold!” I stopped and he joined me, with an expression both of amusement and annoyance on his face.
“I am in a damnably awkward place, Babache,” he said. “Of course, we all know about Jacques Haret, but the fellow has been permitted in all the houses where the Harets have been received for generations. You remember well, after that expedition to Courland, he stayed some time at the Manoir Cheverny and went to the château of Capello whenever he liked. So, meeting him to-day, as I say, in the gardens of the Palais Royal, and bringing him home with me—in fact, asking him to come and sup with us, for his entertainment always pays for his supper, you perceived the reception he got from my lady Francezka and Madame Riano. Now, what am I to do?”
“You forget,” I replied, “that in those days when Jacques Haret stayed with you at the Manoir Cheverny, and with your brother Regnard at Castle Haret, it was before that scoundrelly business with poor Lisa, old Peter’s niece.”
“That is true,” he answered reflectively. “It was a very atrocious thing, as you say, but it is a common enough story. The girl was a village girl; little more than a peasant.”
I own I was full of disgust when Gaston Cheverny spoke thus. How different was this from the high-souled, chivalric Gaston Cheverny whom I had known, and who treated all women with the consideration of a Bayard! I said, however, coldly enough:
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“Perhaps you have forgotten that old Peter shared his wages with that villain of a Jacques Haret—his wages, think of that! And in his own poor house sheltered the fellow. I must say that seldom if ever in my life have I known such treachery as Jacques Haret’s.”
I walked on, but Gaston kept step with me along the graveled paths, through the bright flower beds and under the green arbors of the garden. His face had changed completely. All amusement had vanished, and in its place was an expression of perplexity, and even fear. At last he stopped me under an arbor already covered with the young green leaves of a climbing rose.
“Babache,” he said, “I am pledged to have Jacques Haret sup with me; that is the truth. You have great influence over Francezka. Will you not endeavor to reconcile Francezka to me for receiving him?”
“No,” I replied; “I have not lived so long without learning to keep from meddling with affairs between husband and wife. But who cares for offending Jacques Haret? I gave him a sound beating myself not a fortnight ago in the gardens of the Luxembourg.”
We were standing still in the arbor, and the mellow afternoon light showed me every line in Gaston Cheverny’s comely face. Nothing that he had yet said or done had made me feel so like a stranger to him—to Gaston Cheverny, with whom I had lived in the closest intimacy for seven years—as his attitude on the subject of this rascally Jacques Haret. I could but study his countenance, which was always vivid and full of expression. The thought flashed into my mind that432Jacques Haret possessed some hold over Gaston Cheverny; perhaps some secret of those lost years. Jacques Haret at Paris had known in advance of the very day and hour of Gaston’s return to Brabant. This thought troubled me.
Gaston remained, looking down reflectively, and considering Jacques Haret with far more seriousness than I had ever seen any one consider him before.
“One thing is certain,” I said; “Jacques Haret would forego supping with the king’s majesty himself for a supper as good and a couple of crowns. I will say this of that rogue and thief of other men’s honor—I never saw that human being who was so little awed by names and titles as Jacques Haret.” Which was true, showing what virtues may yet subsist in a rascal.
Gaston Cheverny’s face changed as if by magic.
“Why did I not think of that before!” he cried. “My dear Babache, it is not for nothing that Count Maurice of Saxe has you at his elbow day and night. That ugly head of yours contains useful ideas. A thousand thanks to you; I will this minute put your advice to proof.”
He turned and walked back to where Jacques Haret was. I went away, leaving my respects for the ladies. I thought Francezka would rather not see me after the painful episode in the garden. And I made not the slightest doubt that the money for the supper and a couple of crowns thrown in would buy Jacques Haret off, as I had said, from supping with all the kings in Christendom.
433CHAPTER XXXIIIA DEVIL’S IMP
I could but suspect that a coldness had arisen between Francezka and Gaston over Jacques Haret. When I saw Francezka driving in the Bois de Boulogne, or sitting, surrounded by admirers, in her box at the opera or the theater, Gaston was no more with her, but whether it was mere accident or not, I did not know. One thing I did know, however—that Jacques Haret had a blossoming of prosperity. This I heard at the Green Basket, the celebrated café near the Pont Neuf, which was frequented by all the brightest spirits in Paris, and where I had the audacity to appear sometimes, not in the character of actor, but of audience. Here it was told among the news of the day that Jacques Haret actually had a lodging of his own, after having slept for many years anywhere he could get a bed free, or if not a bed, a chair. I heard, moreover, that he dressed well and kept a servant. At the same time it came to my knowledge that Gaston Cheverny was selling two of his five horses, and did not play any more. This put the suspicion in my mind that Gaston Cheverny was supplying Jacques Haret with money. Whether this were true or not, I soon had a confirmation of my surmise, that Jacques Haret possessed some species of power over Gaston Cheverny.
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Monsieur Voltaire was in Paris then for a few weeks and in a lodging of his own, instead of being at Madame du Châtelet’s house in the Isle of St. Louis. Madame du Châtelet was at Cirey. It was understood that one of the periodic storms had taken place at Cirey, which meant that Monsieur Voltaire would sojourn a whileen garçonat Paris, until the divine Emilie grew penitent or bored, and should send an express for her divine François. The immediate cause of the present quarrel was that Madame Riano had in Monsieur Voltaire’s presence called Madame du Châtelet a hussy, and Monsieur Voltaire had not resented it. His excuse was that Madame Riano, having vanquished the Kings of France, Spain and England, and the Holy Father at Rome, he, Voltaire, had very little chance with her, and so declined to take up the gage of battle. Madame du Châtelet had flown at him like an angry hen. There had been words between them, and even a few dishes and a plate or two. Hence, madame was at Cirey, monsieur at Paris.
It was much the fashion when Monsieur Voltaire was at Paris in his own lodgings for venturesome ladies of quality, who were acknowledged, or aspired, to be wits, to descend upon him by twos or threes, with masks and dominos, and thereby divert both themselves and him extremely. He was the only man in Paris to whom the ladies accorded this honor openly. They did it not to my master, because everybody knew that Count Saxe was too, too charming. But Monsieur Voltaire was already losing his teeth, and looked sixty, though not yet fifty, and had begun to give himself grandfatherly airs, whether in obedience to Madame du Châtelet, or because435he was no longer young enough to play the gallant, I know not.
One day, about three weeks after the scene in the garden of the Hôtel Kirkpatrick, I got a note from Francezka saying that she and Madame Villars, the one who had kissed Monsieur Voltaire publicly the year before, wished me to escort them to his lodgings that evening for a visit, and asking me to be at the Hôtel Kirkpatrick at nine o’clock.
It was a bright moonlit May evening when I arrived. Two sedan chairs were in waiting for the ladies and a red domino and mask for me, in which I looked exactly like the devil. Madame Villars came tripping down into the courtyard, wearing a white domino and mask, followed by Francezka in a black and silver domino and mask.
I could not see Francezka’s face, and so did not know whether she looked well or ill, happy or unhappy. And she was naturally so accomplished an actress that she might defy any one to find out her real feelings, if she wished to disguise them. On this evening she chose to appear very gay and merry, laughed with Madame Villars, joked with me, and sprang into the sedan chair with the airiest grace imaginable.
We set off, the ladies in their chairs, I walking by their side, and the object of many jeers and gibes from the irreverent, whom we passed, as I made my way encumbered with the skirt of the infernal red domino, which I held knee-high.
We reached Monsieur Voltaire’s lodging, a fine one in the Rue St. Jacques, with a garden at the back. The porter, who was used to such descents, grinned enormously,436and let us pass into Monsieur Voltaire’s apartment. The saloon was on the ground floor at the back and opened into the garden, now all sweetness and freshness. The saloon was a fine, airy room, lighted with wax candles, and in the middle, around a table on which were wine and books and verses scribbled on scraps of paper, sat Monsieur Voltaire, Gaston Cheverny and Jacques Haret!
The sight nearly knocked me down. Monsieur Voltaire had always despised Jacques Haret, and I had never known him to amuse himself with Jacques Haret’s wit, or to countenance the fellow at all. But here the two sat, as jovial as you please, and Gaston Cheverny between them! I glanced toward Francezka. She was standing with her hand on the back of a gilded chair, and she had pulled the sleeve of her domino down so that her hand, a delicate and beautiful one, once seen, not to be forgotten, was hid. But there was not a tremor about her. I judged that she had summoned all her courage and all her matchless powers of acting to carry her through this scene where she had so unexpectedly found herself. I knew it was impossible that she should not be in a tempest of rage with Gaston for his continued association with Jacques Haret, which was so great an affront to her, and Francezka was not the woman to take an affront coolly. She gave no sign, however. Of us, it was easily seen that two of the masks were ladies, and my large shoes, showing under my domino, revealed that I was a man.
Monsieur Voltaire rose, his glorious eyes flashing with mirth and pleasure, for he loved the great, he loved the flattery of women, and he knew that only ladies of the437highest quality would dare to visit him in that manner. Gaston Cheverny and Jacques Haret rose, too, and all bowed profoundly to the newcomers.
Madame Villars had not lived in Paris without having seen unexpected and awkward meetings between husband and wife, but Francezka and Gaston passed for such patterns of devotion that she thought it an occasion for harmless merriment. She exchanged a glance and a whisper with Francezka, which meant that both of them should maintain their incognito by keeping silent. To all of Monsieur Voltaire’s fine speeches of welcome, therefore, they returned only demure curtsies and seated themselves quietly on the sofa.
Gaston Cheverny was not a whit behind Monsieur Voltaire in his compliments. Jacques Haret looked keenly at us, and it flashed through me that he alone suspected who the ladies were. But he said no word.
“Well, Mesdames,” cried Monsieur Voltaire, “since you will not favor us with the sound of your voices, we will proceed with our affair, which is not a private one, but concerns that most public of all things—a lawsuit. Behold a poet trying to get a foothold of land for himself on this earth! You remember the German poet, who describes the first of his race, complaining to Jupiter that in the general scramble among the sons of men the poets had got nothing at all. To this Jupiter replied: ‘While thou wert rhyming and star-gazing the strong and the cunning seized upon the inheritance of the world. Not one single acre remains wherewith to endow thee. But, in recompense, come and visit me in my own heaven whenever thou wilt; it is always open to thee.’”
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The ladies applauded this sentiment by clapping their hands and blowing airy kisses to Monsieur Voltaire, but still remained perfectly silent.
“Come, gentlemen,” continued Monsieur Voltaire mischievously, “the ladies do not know that we are present. Let us proceed. Here is the map of Brabant; show me, if you please, where the Honsbrouck line runs through this forest.”
I then knew that the lawsuit he alluded to was the celebrated one of Honsbrouck, in which Madame du Châtelet had great concern, and which Monsieur Voltaire ultimately won for her. And this, too, accounted for Gaston Cheverny’s and Jacques Haret’s presence, as both of them were born and reared within sight of Honsbrouck.
Gaston Cheverny and Jacques Haret both bent over the map. Jacques Haret, taking a pen, began to draw a line upon the map.
“This,” he said, “is the line of the brook; you see it skirts the estate of Castle Haret, once mine, then the property of Monsieur Gaston Cheverny’s brother, Monsieur Regnard Cheverny, who sold it for a large sum of money. By the way, Gaston, has it ever occurred to you that your brother may be dead, and that his properties may be yours?”
“No,” replied Gaston, “because my brother’s agent in London still administers the property.”
“But the agent may be a rogue, and may administer it for himself,” said Monsieur Voltaire.
“Perhaps,” replied Gaston, nonchalantly, “but as my brother and I took different sides in 1733, we became estranged, and whether one dies or lives matters nothing439to the other. But the brook, Jacques, runs this way.”
He took the pen from Jacques Haret’s hand, and as clearly and steadily as ever I wrote for Count Saxe, Gaston Cheverny drew a line across the map with his right hand.
“I should not be surprised, Gaston, if you entirely recovered the use of your right hand and arm,” said Jacques Haret, fixing a penetrating look upon Gaston Cheverny.
Gaston threw down the pen with a look of absolute terror upon his face. His action had evidently been involuntary. I was stunned by it, and I saw a tremor pass through Francezka’s frame. Gaston, however, soon recovered himself.
“Yes,” he said, “perhaps the use of it may come back, but I shall never be able to write with this hand. It is, however, no great matter, because I have learned to write tolerably well with my left hand.”
“That’s not my opinion; worse, or more awkward writing I never saw,” was Jacques Haret’s answer, “and I believe you can write perfectly well with your right hand when you choose.”
From the first hour I had met Gaston Cheverny in the old prison of the Temple I had ever found him hot-headed to a fault. He was one of those men to whom an impertinence is the greatest of injuries. This remark of Jacques Haret, made in a taunting manner, was enough in the old days to have got a blow for him from the fist of Gaston Cheverny. No such thing now, however. Gaston only turned and flashed out for a moment upon Jacques Haret, who looked at him with a440singular smile, and then Gaston by an evident effort, controlled himself and made no reply. All this was quite without meaning except to those who knew Gaston Cheverny as Francezka and I did, and as Jacques Haret did. Neither Monsieur Voltaire nor Madame Villars saw anything in it, except the most ordinary conversation. Monsieur Voltaire was smiling and glancing toward the masks.
“Ah, ladies,” he cried, “if you would but disclose your charming selves we should have something more agreeable to talk about than the winding of a muddy brook, or the right of the Honsbrouck to kill game in the forest near-by.”
Madame Villars waved her hand for Monsieur Voltaire to proceed, which he did.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “since these ladies are not yet pleased to tell us who they are, let us, at least, try to entertain them by any means in our power. Shall I read to you my last letter from the King of Prussia, and my reply?”
Gaston and Jacques Haret at once agreed enthusiastically, and we, the masked, rose and bowed our approval. Monsieur Voltaire went to hisescritoire, unlocked it, and took out two letters, which he read to us in that noble great voice of his. The one from the King of Prussia was a very good letter for a king to write. That man knew enough of mankind always to advance fine sentiments, and was a man, although a robber. Such was my master’s opinion of Frederick, known as the Great.
In reply to this letter was that celebrated one of Monsieur Voltaire’s, in which he says: “I respect metaphysical441ideas; rays of lightning they are in the midst of deep night. More, I think, is not to be hoped from metaphysics. It does not seem likely that the first principles of things will ever be known. The mice that nestle in some little holes in an immense building know not whether it is eternal, nor who the architect, nor why he built it. Such mice are we, and the Divine Architect who built the universe has never, that I know of, told His secret to one of us.”
Voltaire paused at this and rested his head upon his hand.
“How sad it all is!” he cried, his great gloomy eloquent eyes fixed upon the stars visible through the open doors.
There was a silence. Every person there, not excluding Monsieur Voltaire and Jacques Haret, hoped differently from this melancholy creed, but no one spoke until Jacques Haret said, with the gravity under which he disguised most of his flippancies:
“Monsieur, you can not say that the Architect of the Universe has told His secret to no one. You forget the Kirkpatricks, and especially Scotch Peg. She knows all the designs of the Supreme Being. He never dares to call a Kirkpatrick out of this world without sending a gentleman usher in the shape of a black knight or a white lady, or something of the kind, to find out whether it is agreeable to that particular Kirkpatrick to leave this world just then, I presume. There never was one of that family who did not consider himself entitled to much consideration from the Supreme Being. They are not all, however, so candid about it as Peggy is.”
Considering this direct reflection upon Francezka, I442looked to see Gaston Cheverny forget the presence of his host, forget the presence of the ladies, and knock Jacques Haret’s impudent head off. Not at all. His face flushed suddenly, and he turned again in his chair, but said no word, althoughJacquesHaret’s laughing face was thrust toward him.
Monsieur Voltaire evidently forgot, in the interest of his letters, the close connection between the Kirkpatricks and one of his guests, so he went on reading.
For my part, the impression I had got the afternoon in the gardens of the Hôtel Kirkpatrick, that Gaston Cheverny in some way was afraid of Jacques Haret, became a conviction. Francezka sat motionless. What thoughts must have passed through that quick, clear brain of hers!
Monsieur Voltaire finished his reading, and the ladies, to show their appreciation, rose and bowed again to him. I think he was amused by their silence, and it became a kind of duel between him and them to find out who they were, and it was not without interest to Gaston Cheverny. Jacques Haret, I was convinced, already knew them. By way of making them betray themselves, Monsieur Voltaire asked, with a mischievous gleam in his lustrous eyes:
“What ladies of the great world, think you, gentlemen, are remarkable foresprit?”
At that Madame Villars ran forward and tapped him smartly with her fan by way of rebuke.
Gaston Cheverny mentioned several, as did Monsieur Voltaire. Both of them included both Madame Villars and her mother-in-law, Madame la Maréchale Villars, and Monsieur Voltaire made the handsomest possible443allusion to Madame Gaston Cheverny’s wit and charm, which Gaston suitably acknowledged. Jacques Haret declared that it had been so long since he had talked with a woman of quality he had almost forgotten there were such creatures in the world.
“But,” he added, laughing, “I shall renew my acquaintance with fine ladies and gentlemen when I go to Capello this summer to visit Monsieur and Madame Cheverny.”
I could scarcely believe my ears, and I feared to look toward Francezka.
“You are not the only one who will enjoy that privilege,” cried Monsieur Voltaire, “for Madame Cheverny has invited me, and Monsieur Cheverny has approved of me.”
Francezka rose and made a signal to Madame Villars that it was time to depart. All rose. Francezka, advancing to the table, took up the pen and in her clear, bold handwriting, wrote on a slip of paper:
Jacques Haret: Do not you dare to come to Capello.Francezka Cheverny de Capello del Medina y Kirkpatrick.
Jacques Haret: Do not you dare to come to Capello.
Francezka Cheverny de Capello del Medina y Kirkpatrick.
She slipped her hands into the sleeves of her domino and stood erect before Jacques Haret, her eyes blazing at him through the eyeholes in her mask. I was reminded of that Captain Agoust who, by the intensity of his gaze, goaded the Prince de Conti into a duel. Francezka’s look at Jacques Haret was equivalent to running a sword through him. Nothing, however, could change444Jacques Haret’s native and incurable levity. He rose, and grinning, made Francezka a low bow.
“I am sorry, Madame, I can not oblige you,” he said, “but my arrangements are all made, even to my wardrobe, and it is now too late to change, disagreeable as it is to me to disoblige a lady.”
The blood of the Kirkpatricks was rising in Francezka’s veins; the air suddenly seemed full of electricity. I saw her involuntarily place her hand upon the inkstand, a heavy, bronze one, lying on the table, and I thought the chance was that she would throw it in Jacques Haret’s face. To save her from so wild an act was my only thought. I reached over, and getting a good grip on Jacques Haret, which I could do easily, as he was entirely off his guard, I flung him headlong through the open door into the garden below. Then, not wishing Francezka’s identity to be revealed, I motioned to her and Madame Villars, and we hurried out of the room.
I forgot until the ladies were in their sedans that the scrap of writing in Francezka’s hand lay on the table and would be seen by Gaston Cheverny and probably by Monsieur Voltaire. My trouble was all in vain, but I was glad I had thrown Jacques Haret through the door.
The chairmen went off at a rapid pace, I following. We turned a corner, which gave me a clear look through the garden of the room we had just left. Gaston was standing stock still, holding the scrap of paper in his hand. He knew then who the masked visitors were. I walked by the side of Francezka’s chair, through the dark streets until we came to the Hôtel Kirkpatrick.445Madame Villars lived close by, and we parted with her first. She said good night, but made no comment on the events of the evening. She was no fool, and saw that something had happened, although she knew not what.
We passed through the small gate of the courtyard and around to the private entrance, where Francezka dismissed the chairmen and I took off my mask and domino. We were standing in a quiet little court at one side of the great entrance. It was very still and dark, and the stars, palpitating, and bright, and distant, seemed to be laughing at the miseries of the poor mice, as Voltaire called them, hidden away in the small holes of the immense building called the Universe. Francezka, panting for breath, took off her mask. Her pale face and her eyes, somber, but full of smoldering fire, were half shrouded in the hood of her domino. In her black garb, and with a look of despair upon her face, she was as far removed from that dazzling Francezka of the former time as could well be imagined. I was not disposed to make light of what she had seen and heard that night. Nothing is more uncomfortable than to live with a mystery, and when that mystery is in the person one should love best in the world, when it poisons all the springs of joy and makes the things known best in life strange to one, it is a very dreadful thing. Francezka spoke after a while.
“Do you wonder, Babache, that I am a miserable woman?”
And I said with perfect honesty in my heart:
“No, Madame. I do not wonder in the least.”
She paused, and I supposed she was about to say446something to me about Gaston, when she uttered these words which remain forever in my heart, which not one waking hour has failed to recall since she uttered them:
“Babache, remember, when I am gone, that nobody in the world was ever so good a friend to me as you. I speak not of lovers—Gaston was once my lover.”
She paused as if overcome, and then hurriedly vanished within the open door.
Her words thrilled me with joy and pain. What did she mean by saying, “When I am gone?” Who was more likely to live than Francezka? Why should she be contemplating the end of all things? I was roused from my anxious reverie by the sound of locking the great iron gates, the bolts and bars making a huge noise in the stillness of the night. This grating sound, however, did not drown those words of Francezka’s. Something led my footsteps again to the street, where I could get from the back a clear view of Monsieur Voltaire’s room. When I reached the place all was dark, and the doors and windows were closed for the night, but on the corner stood a plain coach, which I recognized in the half darkness of the summer night as belonging to Gaston Cheverny.
If I had been surprised at his patience with Jacques Haret’s impertinence an hour ago, I now saw that it was not so long suffering as I had thought, for Gaston, sitting in the coach and holding the door open, was swearing at Jacques Haret with a concentration of rage I had never seen excelled in any human being before. Every word that he said was true, but there was a defiance447in it which further sustained my notion that Jacques Haret held some power over Gaston Cheverny.
Jacques was taking it with the same coolness he had taken the beating I had given him in the Luxembourg gardens. Gaston was shouting out insults to him, and when Gaston stopped at the point where any other man would have drawn his sword, Jacques coolly remarked:
“You have called me a liar, a blackmailer, a leper, a dog and a devil’s imp. I take it that you are of a different opinion from me on certain points. Your withdrawing your invitation to me to the château of Capello is most unhandsome. However, it is not your château, anyhow.”
Gaston leaped out of the coach after him, but Jacques Haret disappeared somewhere in the darkness, for he had no scruples about avoiding a fight, yet I believe him to have been singularly insensible to fear.
Within three days I heard that Monsieur and Madame Cheverny had left Paris for their estates in Brabant. As they went together, it was plain there had been no outward break between them.