Francezka Part 17

"Do not, my dear fellow," he would say, "be eaten up with ambition to shine before kings. I remember once, in my childhood, the Duc d'Orleans, the king's brother, came to Brabant, and was to dine at Castle Haret. All sorts of things were to be done. In the lake there was to be an island, from which concealed music played. But this island, mind you, was to move about. It was a thing of poles and beams extending from a boat, with twelve stout rowers, who were hidden by plants and vines. Old Peter here, then a young man, contrived it, and my father expected to receive a court appointment for that island.

Well, the duke came, was entertained at dinner, ate the wing of a chicken, was taken to the lake and did not notice the island moved until my father in an agony called his attention to it. Then the duke went back, slept until supper time, looked for about ten minutes at some fireworks that my father had ordered all the way from Paris and had near ruined himself by--and left the next morning, with an influenza, which his Highness swore he had got at Castle Haret. My father got nothing except the influenza, for all his money and pains.

So do not you, my young friend, try your luck with princes."

Regnard did not like this speech, and replied tartly that the Chevernys had generally succeeded where the Harets had failed; which was true enough.

I continued to be puzzled to know why Jacques Haret should remain.

Gentlemen of his kidney need a great town to operate in, not a far-off province. And what would he live on? For Gaston Cheverny, however hospitable he might he, would not allow Jacques Haret a permanent footing at the Manoir Cheverny; and besides, Gaston would shortly follow us to Paris--and he was not a rich enough man to pay for Jacques Haret's company on the way. There was little question about Jacques Haret's means of livelihood for the present, for we knew well enough that the excellent wages paid old Peter found their way into Jacques Haret's pocket. And not only that, but one day, going to Peter's cottage, to make some inquiry about our horses, I noted Lisa, the dove-eyed girl, at work upon a fine cambric shirt--finer than any I, Babache, ever wore, or expect to wear. It was not for old Peter certainly; and if not for him, it must be for Jacques Haret--and my surmise turned out to be true.

At last the time came for us to say goodbye to the chateau of Capello, and to start for Paris, that town of many devils, some of them women.

On the evening before our departure, all of us who had left Konigsberg together, and Jacques Haret, a.s.sembled at the chateau. Count Saxe and I were to take the road for Paris at daylight. All expressed regret at our separation; we had been a.s.sociated closely for three months, in battle, in siege, in flight, and in sweet repose; and we parted with those feelings of regard that our mutual vicissitudes would naturally inspire. We had an evening of pleasant converse; Gaston Cheverny sang for us, not forgetting the song that he and Francezka loved so much--_O Richard, O mon roi_--and Francezka accompanied Gaston on the harpsichord. Jacques Haret was, as usual, the life of the company, and Regnard Cheverny was not eclipsed by any one present.

Our last farewells took place in the red saloon. Madame Riano paid us the handsomest compliments possible, and expressed the hope, or rather the conviction, that she would have the pleasure some day of entertaining us at her ancestral seat in Scotland, under the rule of Scotland's lawful king--for so she called Prince Charles Edward Stuart. She represented that this ancestral seat, somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, was a far more magnificent place than the chateau of Capello, or the Hotel Kirkpatrick. Madame Riano always pictured Scotland to us as a land flowing with milk and honey, of unparalleled richness and splendor, of stupendous wealth lavishly expended. I have sometimes been told the contrary of this. Our healths were drunk, to which Count Saxe responded as only he could respond. We toasted the ladies, drank to our reunion, and when the clocks were striking twelve, we said adieu.

I can never forget Mademoiselle Capello on that night: her beauty, in which archness and pensiveness alternated, her cheerful hope of meeting, together with her sincere regret at parting, the shining of her dark eyes, the rope of pearls round her milk-white throat, the shimmer of her yellow satin gown--all--all were in my mind waking and sleeping, for long afterwards. She gave me her hand to kiss in farewell, and then, holding my rough palm in her two velvety ones, she said to Count Saxe:

"Will you promise me, Count Saxe, if ever I need Babache, you will let me have him?"

"I promise you, Mademoiselle," gallantly replied Count Saxe. "I could not refuse you even the most valuable thing I have; and if that day comes, I only ask that Babache may serve you as faithfully as he has served me."

All of which was sweet music to my ears.

At daylight next morning we were in the saddle. As we rode out of the courtyard in the pale December dawn I saw a light in Francezka's chamber.

We took the familiar road past the Italian garden, the statues showing ghostlike in the cold gray light, the lake a sheet of ice. Soon the chateau of Capello was behind us. The two Chevernys joined us a mile from the chateau and rode with us a stage. Count Saxe was cheerful, as always, and spoke with enthusiasm of again seeing Mademoiselle Adrienne Lecouvreur. She was one whose money a man might lose, and if honorably lost, might safely face. Is not that high praise?

At the end of the first stage the Chevernys bade us adieu. It was but for a brief time with Gaston, for however he might cherish a lady in his heart, his duty as a man came first; and with a small estate, it behooved him to be very active in his profession of arms, that he might not be known as a laggard and sluggard. Count Saxe contemplated the buying of a regiment as soon as a fit opportunity came--he shortly after bought the regiment of Spar--and Gaston Cheverny must needs be on the spot, if he wished, as he needed, promotion. Regnard's ampler fortune made him freer than Gaston, but he was not a man likely to forget his own advancement. We saw them depart with regret, and then increased our own pace. We traveled rapidly, and on the third evening after leaving the chateau of Capello, our horses' hoofs clattered against the stones of Paris. Oh, that fateful town! I have always had a fear of it--a dread of its fierce people, women as well as men; and though I was born there, I think I never spent a comfortable day there after I cut my milk-teeth.

Instead of going to the Luxembourg, where it was understood quarters were reserved for Count Saxe, he went to a small inn and preserved his incognito for the present. As soon as we had supped, Count Saxe sent me to see Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, to ask for an interview. I went to the Theatre Francais, and being recognized--for it is not easy to forget so ugly a man as I am--I was permitted behind the scenes.

The play was that very _Herod and Mariamne_ of Monsieur Voltaire's that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur had played two years before, which Jacques Haret had so cleverly burlesqued, and in which Mademoiselle Capello had been so rashly brilliant. From the wings I watched the house--well lighted, for the king's Majesty was there, looking frightfully bored in the royal box--and a mob of fine people. I presumed, from seeing Voltaire's piece played, that he was at last home from England, and sure enough, there he was, sitting in a box. He had but lately arrived, as I afterward learned. He looked well dressed, well fed and very impudent. The people seemed to relish his presence, for after the second act there were cries for him, to which he responded. He was sitting with some ladies of rank--catch that notary's son appearing in public except with the great! But I admit he wrote some good things.

I was distressed to see the changes that two years had made in Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She was paler and slighter than ever, and although she acted her part with sublime fire and energy, it was plain that the soul within her was driving her frail body as the spur drives a tired horse.

At the end of the second act, after the people had shouted themselves hoa.r.s.e with delight, I asked to be shown to Madame Lecouvreur's dressing room--for she was no longer able to go to the foyer during the interval between the acts, so a snuffy old box keeper told me. I knocked at her door and she bade me enter.

She lay on a couch, and was panting with fatigue. The paint on her face made her look ghastly at close range. By her sat Monsieur Voltaire; and I will say that I felt a softening of the heart toward him at that moment which I had never known before. Those fiery eyes of his were full of tenderness and soft pity; he had left his fine friends for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, and sat by her, fanning her. And when he spoke to her his voice had more of the human in it than one could have thought.

"Come, come, Mademoiselle," he was saying, "you must not imagine yourself ill. If you do, what will become of me? Who will make the world believe I can write plays, if Adrienne can no longer act them?"

A mournful little smile came upon Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's reddened lips, and she answered:

"You do not need me, Monsieur, to prove that you can write comedies or tragedies or anything else. All the muses adopted you at your birth, and if ever Adrienne Lecouvreur is remembered it will be because she was chosen by you sometimes to play the immortal parts you created."

There was not one word of flattery in this, I knew; each uttered the eternal verities.

Then I appeared.

When Mademoiselle Lecouvreur saw me she sprang up with a miraculous strength--she knew that I was the _avant-courier_ of Maurice of Saxe.

I had no mind to deliver my master's message in Monsieur Voltaire's ears, but he knew what my coming meant, and scowled at me. He was furiously jealous of my master with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur.

I thanked Mademoiselle Lecouvreur for her kind greeting; her poor hands trembled so when she took the note my master had sent that she dropped it. Monsieur Voltaire handed it to her, and saw plainly the awkward writing in it--for I make no pretense that Count Saxe could have earned his living as a writing master. But although Voltaire must have guessed it all, he forbore to gibe at the letter. Love and pity had made him almost human.

There was, however, no room for him or me either in the room then.

Mademoiselle Lecouvreur longed to be alone with her treasure of a few scrawled lines, and both of us went out. The door pa.s.sed, we were in the foyer. That door shut out our truce, and Monsieur Voltaire, in the presence of a number of persons, undertook to make me his b.u.t.t on Count Saxe's account.

"So, Captain Babache," he said, "we hear that Count Saxe is on his way from Courland, and he is probably in Paris now."

This put me in a cruel predicament, for Count Saxe did not wish his arrival known until he had seen the king; but Monsieur Voltaire was the man for putting people in cruel predicaments.

I mumbled something and looked about me for an avenue of escape. I never was ashamed to run away from an enemy too strong for me. But Voltaire blocked the way for me, his eyes blazing with merriment--those eyes that burned a hole in one--and a number of persons collected about us. The foyer was crowded, and wherever Monsieur Voltaire was he became a beacon light; no one could help watching him or listening to him, unless, of course, Count Saxe was present.

"I am considering," said Monsieur Voltaire, with a wicked grin, "of making a new comedy--something on the order of a roaring farce. Count Saxe's expedition to Courland will make excellent material. First act: Count Saxe going forth with Captain Babache and three hundred Uhlans, to conquer the universe. Second act: Count Saxe conquering the universe and getting clapped into a closet in the Grand d.u.c.h.ess Anna Iwanowna's palace at Mitau, where, I hear, she and her waiting maids and a little dog kept him prisoner for a month, from whence Peggy Kirkpatrick at last released him. Third act: Count Saxe arrives in Paris. Is sent for to relate his adventures to his Majesty. Majesty weeps--that is to say, laughs until he cries. Count Saxe begs to be sent to the Bastille until the town is done laughing at him. Majesty cruelly refuses. Count Saxe threatens to kill himself, and goes and eats a couple of cold fowls. Epilogue: spoken by Babache in the character of Bombastes Furioso. Messieurs, you will see that I am a prophet."

"Monsieur, if you are a prophet," I replied, near choking with chagrin, "you may recall your own definition of a prophet. When the first knave met the first fool, then there was the first prophet!"

There was laughter at that, but greater laughter still when Monsieur Voltaire proceeded to inform the crowd that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur had taught Count Saxe all he knew, except war, of which no one could teach him anything, and spelling, which he never could learn. He also chose to quote my master as saying that in his youth he was exactly like the devil, as he always learned what he was not told to learn; and the people present continued to laugh uproariously. They were of that cla.s.s of persons who would have laughed just as readily at Monsieur Voltaire had my master been there to hang the notary's son on the peg where he belonged.

In the midst of it the door to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's room opened, and she herself softly called me to her. I went, still smarting at the laughter and the heartless banter of those Paris people who thought it fine to laugh at Monsieur Voltaire's gibes at Count Saxe. Oh, what I have not suffered for my master through that upstart son of a notary!

And yet, I can not deny that the fellow had great parts and shining wit!

Mademoiselle Lecouvreur bade me to tell Count Saxe to come to her house after the theater. With her usual goodness she asked concerning my health and welfare. No gentler, kinder heart ever beat than Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's.

I slipped back to the inn and gave Count Saxe the message sent him by Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. He had an interview with her that night at her house. When he returned he looked more serious than he had done at the prospect of losing Courland, for he saw that the world would soon have to part with that true heart and n.o.ble artist, Adrienne Lecouvreur. He said only a few words about her, but they came from his heart of hearts. I am aware that some people say he had no heart, but I, Babache, know better; else would I have died like a felon the day I first spoke with him face to face.

Presently, as we sat together in his dingy room at the inn, after the midnight bells had spoken, he said:

"Babache, I have found out enough since I have been in Paris to show me that I must see the king before twenty-four hours are over. The court goes to Versailles early to-morrow morning. Arrange that we go there to-morrow afternoon in good state."

With that he tumbled into bed. I was up at daylight, preparing for the journey. I wished for Gaston Cheverny then--he would have been of infinite service to me. My master had a magnificent gilt coach stored in Paris, and also twenty liveries of green and gold. I had to get these things out, have them dusted and overhauled, find six horses for the coach, and others for the outriders--in short, do the work of a week in a day. But it was done nevertheless; and at two o'clock on the next day Count Saxe set forth with an equipage and retinue worthy of him. I rode in the coach with him, and we reached Versailles before sunset.

It was a cold, bright, December afternoon, the sun near sinking--we were determined to arrive before sunset, lest our enemies should say we had sneaked in by night to avoid being seen. But we rolled up to the foot of the grand staircase, with a rattle and a roar, and a color and a shining which showed that Maurice of Saxe was not avoiding any man's eyes--or woman's, either.

Now, my master had what is called the grand entree; that is to say, he could go to the king whenever he wished. So, without saying "by your leave" to anybody, he stepped out of his coach and began ascending the grand staircase. There were numbers of people about, and all of them stared at him, and many spoke, Count Saxe returning their salutations cordially. We mounted leisurely. Midway the stairs we met Cardinal Fleury, with his private chaplain, descending. The cardinal was a mild-mannered old man, and seeing Count Saxe, he stopped and spoke to him.

"You are back from Courland, then, Monsieur," said the cardinal, politely. "No doubt you are pleased to be once more among polite persons. I hear the Courlanders are very wild and wicked people, with no fear of G.o.d."

"Your Eminence, we are all of us great sinners, as well as the Courlanders, that is the truth," answered Count Saxe, "and I will leave your Eminence to meditate upon that grand truth. Good evening."

And with that he went clamping up the staircase. I saw, out of the tail of my eye, the cardinal stop and laugh to himself. The story flew all about Versailles, and people were chary after that in offering real or pretended condolences to Count Saxe.

We reached the king's anteroom, where the usual crowd of do-nothings and good-for-nothings was a.s.sembled. The women at Versailles always reminded me of b.u.t.terflies and humming-birds. They crowded about Count Saxe like bees about a honeysuckle, but he artfully excused himself, and made for the king's door with such an air of command that the lackeys thought he was sent for by the king. Of course he was instantly admitted, and he directed that I follow him, which I did.

The king was waiting for the queen to go to supper, and looked bored and impatient. He was a handsome, stolid, _laisser-faire_ man, who, by not doing anything, contrived to get as much evil done as the worst king that ever lived; but he was rather a respectable sort of man at that time. Several gentlemen were in the room when he entered, and none of them dared open his mouth for fear of adding to the king's irritation. The instant, however, my master appeared, the king's countenance cleared. He greeted Count Saxe in the warmest manner, and asked that he would come to the royal closet as soon as supper was over that he might hear of all that had happened in Courland. My master thanked him in suitable terms. Then the queen entered, and her greeting was as cordial as the king's. If the queen, poor soul, hated anybody, it was the Russians, whom she reckoned the despoiler of her father, the King of Poland. So there was much of painful interest to her in what Count Saxe had to tell.

It was then time to go to supper. Imagine the feelings of those people who wished to see Count Saxe humiliated, when they beheld him walking along the grand gallery, the king talking to him with the greatest animation! The queen claimed him of the king at supper, and he was treated more like an Alexander returning victorious than as a drenched hen as the old Scotchwoman had predicted.

My master told me that the king, in the private interview, asked concerning Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello, and was mightily diverted with the story of Madame Riano and the bishop. His Majesty was not well pleased that so great an heiress as Mademoiselle Capello should remain away from his court.

We stayed the night at Versailles, and next morning when we returned to Paris, it was to take up our old quarters at the Luxembourg. It was not exactly a pleasant home coming. Count Saxe had looked for another sort. But he was the last man in the world to repine at fate.