Francezka Part 14

CHAPTER XII

ONLY THE SUNNY HOURS

In those days of riding together along sunny highways, through wild forests, and upon barren moorlands, Mademoiselle Capello came to speak to me with the charming frankness that was a part of her nature.

Madame Riano was right in saying that much of Francezka's time was spent in speculation upon what she should do when she had a perfectly free hand. It was impossible for it to be otherwise, or that she should fail to be a little intoxicated at the splendid vista opening before her--youth, beauty, great riches and liberty, such as no French woman knew. Outwardly, Francezka was a French woman; inwardly, she was quite unlike a French woman. That mixture of Scotch and Spanish blood is a hot and riotous brew. But she was ever lofty, pure of heart, and with that modic.u.m of strong Scotch sense that marked Madame Riano.

Francezka could but see the devotion of the two Chevernys to her. She quietly disregarded Regnard, and though it was plain that Gaston had touched her fancy, if not her heart, she sometimes gave herself the airs of a princess toward him, which Gaston hotly resented; the more so, as her fortune would seem to put her out of his reach. This invariably ended by Francezka's bringing the whole battery of her smiles and even her tears to bear on him, so that he was obliged to make an unconditional surrender.

The resemblance between the Chevernys had grown stronger, as Gaston lost his boyish look and became more the man of the world. The rest of us often mistook one for the other of them, coming upon them in dark places, or at a little distance; and sometimes by changing clothes and horses, they diverted themselves at our expense; but Francezka always knew them apart, and never once mistook one for the other.

Old Peter seemed to feel a secret grudge against Regnard Cheverny for acquiring Castle Haret. The old serving-man's devotion to Jacques Haret was touching.

"Sometimes it is years that I do not see him," he said to me; "but always, when I do, it is the same greeting--'Well, Peter, my man, here is your old master's son,' and a real embrace, such as gentlefolk give each other."

"And if you happen to have any money about you, do you not hand it over to Jacques Haret?" I asked.

Peter started, looked at me suspiciously and relapsed into sullen silence. I made no doubt that these few careless words of kindness and that condescending embrace were paid for in good, round, solid, yellow gold pieces, for Peter got good wages and was saving of them.

He talked with me often about his niece, Lisa, and told me a pitiful tale of having brought up two of Lisa's sisters--beautiful, unstable creatures, who might have married well, in their own humble cla.s.s, but who went to the bad, each before her eighteenth year. The saddest part of it was that this old man reproached himself continually with some fancied carelessness on his part, that had driven these girls to ruin. But I believe the only fault he could reproach himself with was the same spirit of uncalculating devotion which had made him help Francezka in her escapade in the open-air theater, and made him hand over his humble wages to that rascal, Jacques Haret. Whenever I taxed him with this, he feebly denied the gift, calling it a loan; but loans to the Jacques Harets of this world are compulsory gifts.

Of Lisa, however, all good things were expected. He was never weary of telling me of her goodness, her gentleness, the impossibility that she should follow the road after her sisters. She was not, like them, fatally gifted with beauty. She was not beautiful at all, old Peter said. And he had kept her secluded in Brabant instead of taking her with him to Paris. The old man's longing to see this girl, whom he had not seen for two years, was enough to make one weep.

And so we fared along, through North Germany, with its s.h.a.ggy forests, its wild moors, its rugged mountains, into the softer air of South Germany, of well-tilled fields, handsome towns, bright-flowing rivers, its castles and country houses, until we reached the Rhine country.

Thence we followed the great river until we came opposite Coblenz, where we crossed, and the town being pleasant, and the weather continuing clear and mild, we spent some days of rest and pleasure.

Count Saxe also wished to get a chance to study the great rock fortress on the other side of the river. He still pa.s.sed as Count Moritz--he was not looking for company then. As there were many officers about, it was far from certain that he could preserve his incognito, but, by great good fortune, he was not recognized.

On a misty evening--we were to leave Coblenz on the morrow--as I stood watching the fiercely flowing river, and the rich vine country around it, I saw an apparition--Jacques Haret. What he was doing in Coblenz, I neither knew nor cared. He came up, greeted me with effusion, and asked me if Count Saxe was going to visit his brother, the King of France, as Henry of England had visited Francis the First--and this with a grin which was most distasteful to me. I desired to fling the fellow into the ditch near-by, but I have lived long enough in this world not to provoke a battle with a wit, if I can help it. So, I referred him to Count Saxe for information; and even Jacques Haret dared not bell the Saxe cat. I turned to go to the inn where Count Saxe and his party were lodged, and Jacques Haret accompanied me, as if I had invited him.

When we reached the inn, it was near supper time, and leaving him very unceremoniously, I went to Count Saxe. He was about to join Madame Riano at supper in her rooms, for we usually dined and supped as one party, and we proceeded thither. Madame Riano, Francezka and the two Chevernys awaited us. The cloth was laid, and by accident, so it seemed, Peter had put an additional place at the table. I mentioned that I had come across Jacques Haret, for I made no doubt the fellow would intrude himself upon us, and I wished to prepare Mademoiselle Capello for his advent. By my advice and Gaston Cheverny's, she had not mentioned to Madame Riano her acting in Jacques Haret's company in the garden. There was no telling to what heights Madame Riano's wrath might rise; she would be capable of wringing Jacques Haret's neck if she had a good mind to, and as the thing was not suspected by any except a few persons who had seen the last performance, it was undoubtedly best to keep it quiet.

Francezka blushed a little at the mention of Jacques Haret's name. She was fully sensible of her folly and danger in acting in his company, but the follies of a young girl of fourteen are easily excused.

Scarcely had I spoken of Jacques Haret, when the door opened and the gentleman himself appeared. He had come to pay his respects to Madame Riano, to tell her the latest news of Paris, and, incidentally, to get his supper. I understood why old Peter had put the extra place at the table.

Jacques was better dressed than usual, and, as always, handsome and at his ease. Madame Riano, who had ever a sneaking tolerance for the fellow, received him civilly, as did the others present. Jacques Haret speedily made it known that he had a whole budget of Paris news, but would by no means tell one single item, until Madame Riano, driven thereto by a raging curiosity, invited him to join us at supper.

Madame Riano could not forbear asking him. Jacques accepted with the finest air in the world, seated himself with us and unfolded his napkin. Old Peter's face shone with joy, and his usually melancholy eyes were full of delight.

Once certain of a good supper, with excellent wine, Jacques Haret opened his bundle of news. He told us everything that had happened at Versailles. Old Cardinal Fleury's fall from power was much to Jacques Haret's relief, and the cardinal's successor, Jacques thought, would make no trouble about his coming to Paris, and if he were clapped in prison, there would be at least a _lettre de cachet_ and the Bastille, as became a gentleman and a remote connection of the Kirkpatricks, and not the common prison of Paris; at which Madame Riano desired Peter to see that Monsieur Haret's gla.s.s was kept filled. The king was getting tired of being virtuous, Jacques told us, and now the cardinal was out of the way, we might look for some gay doings. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur was winning all hearts as ever at the Comedie Francaise, but her health was visibly breaking. My master questioned him closely on this point and found, as usual, Jacques Haret knew what he was talking about. Monsieur Voltaire was still in England, but he was expected to return to Paris shortly, his exile being reckoned at an end. I made no doubt privately that the creature would be on hand in plenty of time to write some pasquinades about my master.

Many other things Jacques Haret told us; and for people who have once lived in Paris and have been away for a year and a half, it may be supposed there was much we wished to hear--I, least of all, because I always thought Paris a diabolical sort of place, and expected to like it none the better for what it would have to say about Count Saxe's expedition to Courland.

Jacques was good-humoredly polite to Mademoiselle Francezka, who was a little embarra.s.sed in his company. The two Chevernys regarded him with the tolerance of youth for an entertaining fellow, and he seemed to have neither grudge nor envy of Regnard Cheverny's possession of Castle Haret.

We sat late, and, before we parted, Jacques Haret had arranged to travel with us, riding one of the lead horses. I knew not how it came about, but the whole company submitted, as always, to being taxed for Jacques Haret's benefit. And, as he had got a horse out of somebody, I made no doubt he would get his tavern bills paid and perhaps a complete new outfit by the same sort of diplomacy.

Next morning we resumed our journey. Francezka, that day, rode a-horseback. She had not much fancy for Jacques Haret's society, as soon as her appet.i.te for news was satisfied, so one or the other of the Chevernys rode with her the whole day.

From the Rhine at Coblenz to Brussels is a short and easy road, and from thence we entered that rich country of Brabant, which famine never touches, which war can not ruin, and which is always fruitful and blessed of Heaven. And at last, on a fair October afternoon, we came within sight of the chateau of Capello.

For the last stage or two, Francezka had been so eager to get forward that her spirit far outran her body. Old Peter had been sent ahead to make the chateau ready for company. Mademoiselle Capello took horse on that last day, and choosing me to ride with her, galloped furiously ahead. Regnard Cheverny had no mind to be left behind, and he joined us. For once, Francezka was openly rude to him. She checked her horse and turning to him said, in that soft and insinuating tone with which she veiled all of her impertinences:

"Monsieur, will you kindly ride back and ask your brother, Monsieur Gaston, to give me the pleasure of his company?"

No man could disguise his choler better than Regnard Cheverny, but that he was angry, his eyes and his face showed. He replied, however, with much smoothness, to her:

"Mademoiselle, I am the poorest hand in the world at delivering messages from a lady to a gentleman. I always forget them, or get them wrong. So, I will ride back, but if you wish my brother's company, you will be compelled to find another messenger."

And he rode back.

Francezka turned to me, her face sparkling with smiles. Our horses were at a standstill on the highway, the chaise and the rest of the party a good mile behind us already.

"Good Babache, was I not clever to get rid of him?" she said.

"Very clever, Mademoiselle," I said. "But why should you choose to get rid of him? He is a well-appearing man, of great accomplishments, and good estate. Why were you so severe with him?"

"Do you really wish to know why?" She moved her horse up close to me so she could whisper in my ear. "Because he is always seeking my company; and because, in truth, I have more than enough of his now."

"Is that ground for ill-treating a man?" I asked.

"a.s.suredly, if a woman mislikes him as I mislike Monsieur Regnard Cheverny."

"But you show great good-will toward Monsieur Gaston Cheverny--and they are as like as two peas."

"Outwardly, yes. Inwardly, never were two men so unlike. Come now, Babache, do you not love Monsieur Gaston?"

"Yes, with all my heart."

"And do you not love Monsieur Regnard?"

I saw whither she was leading me, but I could only say:

"No--I do not love him."

"Well--they are as like as two peas."

She turned her head at the sound of galloping hoofs. Gaston was riding toward us. The blood that poured into Francezka's cheeks, the light that shone in her eyes, showed plainly how welcome was his society. I afterward asked Gaston if Regnard had given him a message from Francezka. He said no; but seeing Regnard return with a black countenance, he thought to try his luck with mademoiselle--and was rewarded for so doing.

We went forward at a smart pace. Every foot of the way recalled to Francezka and Gaston their childish days, and they talked with the greatest animation.

We were skirting the forest and heights of the Ardennes, and at last, the highway bringing us upon a broad open plateau, the chateau of Capello lay before us in all its beauty. At the sight, Francezka stopped her horse, and, putting her hands to her face, fairly burst into tears of joy.

Little did I think how I should come to know that place; of what I should see and do and suffer there. I only saw in it the pleasantest abode that man ever contrived for himself.

The chateau itself reminded one much of the Grand Trianon, which I have often seen in the park of Versailles. It had the same form but was larger. There was the graceful facade with its sweeping wings, the curving marble bal.u.s.trade of the terrace, the windows, large and many, on which the autumn sun shone red. But the situation of the chateau of Capello had far more of natural beauty than the Trianon. It lay in the lap of the distant Ardennes, whose blue heights and rich woods marked the horizon. Below the chateau the ground sloped gradually toward a vast meadow-land, with many beautiful groves of aspens, and tall ranked Lombardy poplars. On the slope lay the park and pleasure grounds of the chateau. A silvery river made its devious way about this fair domain. It washed one side of the chateau, where it had been turned into a ca.n.a.l built like those of Venice, with a marble banquette ornamented with statues and an ornate bridge; but after thus playing the court lady for a short s.p.a.ce, the river again became a woodland nymph and ran away, laughing, to the woods and fields. On one side of the chateau a rose garden was laid out, not too primly, and many other gardens; while on the other side, overlooking the hedgeway and quite screened from the chateau by groves of linden trees, and by great clumps, almost groves, of huge old lilacs, was a plaisance, in the formal Italian style.

These Italian gardens are common enough, and all much alike, but in some strange manner, this one at Capello seemed to me to arrest attention at once. Perhaps it was because it appeared solitary, although in reality it was near the chateau. It had several falls, with marble steps bordered with box, with many yew trees, and statues of nymphs and fauns. At the very top was placed a statue of Petrarch, and on one side of it was a moss-grown marble bench, and on the other, an ancient sun-dial. The whole scene might have been transported from Petrarch's land.

Below this garden lay a little lake, still and dark and cool. Tall cedars of Lebanon fringed its banks both on the east and the west, so neither at morning nor at evening did the waters shine and glow, but always lay somber and with a melancholy loveliness, in the midst of that joyful landscape. As I looked at this distant still lake and garden, a poignant feeling came upon me that I had seen them before, and that they held for me a story--oh me! oh me! It was as if my soul had visited them in dreams--those dreams when I told Francezka of my love and she listened to me--yes, listened to me. I had to force myself to turn my eyes from that enchanted garden and lake of pensive beauty.