One afternoon, during our stay at the Manoir Cheverny, Gaston Cheverny entertained the ladies in very good style at an outdoor fête. Regnard Cheverny, of course, was present, and also the handsome, foolish Count Bellegarde, whom Francezka treated with airy indifference. For amusement there was peasant dancing and singing to rustic pipes, and afterward a collation under the trees, at which the servants were dressed in the national costume of Brabant; the national dishes were served, and musicians, concealed in the shrubbery, played and sang the songs and airs of Brabant. It was extremely pretty, the afternoon being bright and soft. When the collation was over, Gaston escorted Madame Riano and Francezka about the house and grounds. There was a handsome drawing-room in one wing, which was seldom used, but was open on this occasion. Gaston led the way to this room, where there was a harpsichord, which he opened that Francezka might play on it. As she fingered the keys with one hand, the other hanging down, she started with a little shriek of dismay. A dog, crouching unseen under the harpsichord, stood with his forepaws on the edge of Francezka’s 230 chair, while he licked affectionately the little white hand so temptingly within his reach.
“Good dog—wise dog,” said Gaston Cheverny, patting the creature. He was a Spanish pointer, of a reddish liver color, remarkably handsome, with satiny, pendulous ears, and the most intelligent eye I have ever seen in an animal. There are other dogs reckoned more affectionate and intelligent than these Spanish pointers, but I never knew any dumb creature superior to this one, as time strangely proved; for this dog afterward played a great part in the drama of Francezka Capello’s life.
The dog seemed enraptured with Francezka, and she with him. She passed his long ears through her white fingers, the dog giving a little whine of delight, and rubbing his head against her satin gown of the color of spring violets.
“What is his name?” she asked—the first question every woman asks concerning a dog or a horse.
“Bold,” replied Gaston. “And his taste and discernment on this occasion has fixed his fate. I have been debating whether I should take him or his brother, Rattler, with me to Paris, and was until now inclined to Rattler—come out, my dog.”
Gaston hauled Rattler forth from under the harpsichord. He was a handsome dog also, but nothing like so pleasant mannered as Bold. I had noticed the two dogs about the place since my arrival, and had all along recommended Bold as the worthier dog. Regnard Cheverny, on the contrary, believed in Rattler.
“I think Rattler the better dog,” said Regnard, coming forward and patting Rattler, who took no manner 231 of notice of Francezka, while Bold overwhelmed her with evidences of affection. “But Bold is better adapted to be a Paris dog. He has a taste for luxury, and instead of being satisfied with a good woolen blanket to sleep on, he will persist in taking his ease on the satin sofa in this saloon. He is a petit maître of a dog. Take him to Paris, brother, by all means—and give me Rattler.”
At this Bold seemed to realize that Regnard was not his friend, and gave him a look of dislike altogether human, turning his back meanwhile with an air of unmistakable contempt. All present laughed at this dialogue between the man and the dog.
“Bold is bound for Paris, then,” said Gaston, “and you will see how he will give up his petit-maître ways and become a seasoned soldier after one campaign.”
Francezka then took her attention long enough from the dog to play some beautiful airs upon the harpsichord. That, if anything, increased Bold’s infatuation for her and recommended him still more highly to his master.
The evening falling, the ladies made ready to depart, after many thanks for their entertainment. The coach was to come for them, but the July evening being inexpressibly sweet, Francezka persuaded Madame Riano to walk the short distance to the château. The arrangement of the walking party scarcely fell out to suit any one. Gaston was obliged to escort Madame Riano, who stalked ahead like a grenadier—never woman had such a stride—with Bellegarde, the most insipid man on the globe, on the other side of her. Francezka was escorted by Regnard Cheverny, whose company she never 232 showed any pleasure in, and myself. She was civil enough to Regnard, but was most pointedly kind to me, partly from good-will to me and partly from ill-will to Regnard. He took it politely and debonairly, as became a gentleman. But I saw in his eye that he did not thereby for one moment abandon his resolute pursuit of Francezka Capello. Bold accompanied us, and had to be dragged, yelping, from Francezka’s side, when we returned home. This was four days before we left.
The last evening we spent as we had spent many others, at the château of Capello. It seemed to me a momentous parting between Francezka and Gaston Cheverny. Her attitude to him now was that of a young sovereign, who airily bids her lover wait until she is ready to marry him; but Madame Riano’s departure might change all that. I had not the least doubt, if Francezka were compelled to make instant choice of a husband, that Gaston Cheverny would be the man. On the other hand, Madame Riano’s remaining might change Gaston Cheverny, for he was not the stuff out of which patient lovers are made.
At midnight we said adieu. The last sight we had of Francezka was as she stood on the balcony of the red saloon, waving her white scarf in farewell to us. She wore a white gown, and a great resplendent moon overhead bathed her in its silvery radiance. She might have been an angel alighting upon the earth and ready to wing her way back to heaven with the dawn of day. When we reached the Manoir Cheverny I went direct to my bed, but the brothers remained an hour or more in conversation in Gaston’s room. It was near two o’clock in the morning when they parted in the corridor 233 upon which my chamber opened, and I heard Gaston’s clear voice saying:
“Brother, you have chosen another country than I; we can no longer say Un Foy, Un Loy, Un Roy, but we need not be any the less brothers.”
“True,” replied Regnard. “Our mother’s father chose another faith, another law, another king, when he left Scotland, wherefore should I not rather be Austrian than French if I like? How many times has this province changed sovereigns? French, Spanish, Austrian, Flemish—I go with the Austrians because I think there is a better chance for fortune and promotion with them. Besides, I ever loved the English, and the English and Austrians will be allied for all of our time. I shall not yet sell Castle Haret—” here he paused a minute; I thought I knew why he would not sell all his landed possessions, which were so very convenient to the château of Capello—“but it depends on events whether I shall occupy it permanently or not.”
Gaston, I fancied, was too proud a man to express any jealousy of his brother’s continued nearness to Francezka, so he replied coolly:
“By all means, retain Castle Haret. You got it for much below its value, and you would do well to keep it; and besides, you will not be entirely Austrian or English either, as long as you retain Castle Haret in the Low Countries.”
Then they parted for the night, and at sunrise we were in the saddle. Regnard Cheverny rode a stage with us, and the parting between the brothers was affectionate. They knew not, when they next met, whether it would be in peace, under the roof of one or 234 the other, or in mortal strife on the field of battle. Gaston did not forget to take Bold with him, the dog trotting by the side of our horses until he was tired, and then finding a perch, usually behind Gaston’s saddle. Bold was in the greatest favor with his master, after having won the good opinion of Francezka.
Our rendezvous with Count Saxe was at the second stage from Brussels. There we found him awaiting us, with Beauvais and his other servants. He was good enough to tell me that he had needed me for one purpose or another every hour that I had been away, and that I should never get out of pistol shot of him again. We continued toward Paris that same day, and reached it after three days of easy travel. And then began a repetition of that dreary life of the two years past—dreary to me, that is. But no matter how dreary, I remembered the stars in their courses, “everlasting, yet unresting,” and bore the hours as well as I could.
War with Austria was imminent at every moment, although it did not actually break out until the spring of 1733. This prospect prevented Count Saxe from making any further attempt on Courland. He was sought after in Paris and at Versailles as no man ever was before or since—at court, everywhere. There was no Adrienne Lecouvreur to fix his wandering heart upon herself. As for Madame de Bouillon, he hated the sight of her. Monsieur Voltaire was daily rising in glory. The king did not like him, and for all Monsieur Voltaire’s efforts to get on at court, he never could contrive it. I often wondered he should not see that men cast in his mold have nothing to hope or fear from kings; they enjoy a sovereignty of their own on which no mere 235 hereditary monarch may infringe. Count Saxe knew this, for whatever might be his relations with Monsieur Voltaire, he did not make the ridiculous blunder of undervaluing that notary’s son. There was, however, peace between them after they had stood together at Adrienne Lecouvreur’s death-bed. I think her gentle and loyal spirit breathed peace even when she was no more.
Count Saxe gave much attention to his regiment of Spar, which was a model. Of his lieutenants, none was better than Gaston Cheverny. The personal affection which Count Saxe always had for Gaston Cheverny was extreme, and that was the best guaranty of Gaston’s military fortunes; for Count Saxe would never let a good soldier go unrewarded.
The narrowness of Gaston Cheverny’s fortune made him lead the same life in Paris he had led since he first joined with us. Whether it were choice or necessity, his only intimate friends were myself, and his dog Bold. This dog was to him what I have tried to be to Count Saxe. No man need be ashamed to have his faithfulness and devotion compared to that of a dog of the right character. Bold had some of the noblest virtues of humanity as well as of caninity. He was faithful, honest, watchful, kind, scorned to fight a weaker dog, while presenting a courageous front to one larger than himself; and although a warrior by nature, yet by the excellence of his heart, and the soundness of his judgment, he became a philosopher, not so brilliant as Monsieur Voltaire, for example, but far more consistent.
Once a year Gaston Cheverny visited Brabant, always taking Bold with him. Mademoiselle Capello 236 remained at her château of Capello, and so did Madame Riano, although she was ever, like ourselves, expecting to be on the march. The time had expired when Francezka professed to be bound by her father’s will not to marry, yet she showed no inclination to reward any of her numerous suitors. She continued to live in gaiety and splendor at the château of Capello, and I imagine rather enjoyed the torments of her lovers. Regnard Cheverny kept up his pursuit of her, so Gaston told me. Regnard had then joined the Austrian service, being a captain in the Grenadiers. He contrived, however, to get leave to visit Brabant at the same time that Gaston did, once a year. The brothers played a very watchful but perfectly fair and honorable game with each other in this love affair, which had already lasted six years. Meanwhile Francezka had not forgotten her friend, Captain Babache, but often sent me kind messages. Through Gaston Cheverny, I knew quite well all that passed at the château of Capello. I was concerned to know what had become of that prince of rascals, Jacques Haret. At last I heard of him, and to my great satisfaction. It was after Gaston’s return from his annual visit to Brabant in the autumn of 1732. It was the first thing he told me, on his arrival, as we walked up and down the gardens of the Luxembourg on a drear November afternoon. He had but just reached Paris.
“God be praised, Babache, I have met Jacques Haret and given him the handsomest drubbing imaginable,” he said.
“Thank God,” I replied.
“It was at a little inn on the border line of France. 237 Part of the inn is in the Netherlands and part is in France, and a chalk line drawn across the floor of the common room shows you, if you wish, when you are in France and when you are in the Netherlands. One day affairs took me to this little place. There, sitting and drinking in the common room, was Jacques Haret, looking not one whit changed in four years. He was dressed as usual, half shabbily and half splendidly. He greeted me as if he had led the most blameless life in the world since I had seen him last. You know, Babache, besides my own indignation at his shameful breach of hospitality, I had Mademoiselle Capello’s injuries to avenge. So I went up to Jacques Haret and said: ‘Rascal, where is Lisa Embden?’
“‘God knows,’ says he, ‘but what is your interest in Lisa Embden, the niece of a servant, and little more than a servant herself?’
“‘This much,’ I replied. ‘If I had known what was going on while you were staying at my house four years ago I would have broken every bone in your scoundrelly body.’
“‘Oho,’ said he, ‘if that is the way you talk, I suppose you want satisfaction.’
“I told him I did, but not with the sword. You know, Babache, I have a faculty of fist fighting from my Scotch ancestor, and I never meant to degrade my good sword in a contest with a rogue like Jacques Haret. So, reaching over, I caught him by the collar, and gave him then and there the hardest beating I could. We fought all over the room, first in France, then in the Netherlands. Jacques Haret could make but a poor defense. The life he has led does not equip 238 a man with brawn and muscle, so I had things my own way with him. When I was through, both of his eyes were blacked, his nose was as big as my fist, and there was blood on him. I had not a scratch. He took his injury with that outward calm which seems the peculiar virtue of a rogue, but he showed a quiet vindictiveness which amazed me. I have ever found before this that men who forget benefits easily forget injuries quickly. Jacques Haret is different, for he forgets all benefits at once, and treasures up his injuries. I think it was the fist beating that infuriated him. There are some rags and remnants of a gentleman left hanging to him, and although he would have forgiven completely any hole I might have made with my sword in his carcass, he could not stomach the beating outright. He sat on a chair, wiping the blood from his face, and said to me in a cool, determined voice:
“‘Gaston Cheverny, I am in your debt for this. I will promise to pay you off, with a balance to your credit.’ That was all he said—I scorned to have anything further to say, and mounting my horse, rode off, but I have made a good enemy out of a remorseless scoundrel. At all events, however, it is better than having him profess friendship for me.”
“Quite so,” I answered, “and what did Mademoiselle Capello say when she heard of it?”
“Of course, I did not speak of it to her, but equally of course, she heard of it, and thanked me for it. And she had also heard that Jacques Haret had promised to revenge himself. But she is no more afraid of him than I am. She still hopes and believes that Lisa will 239 return, but no word has come of her, whether she be living or dead.”
He then told me that Regnard, as usual, had timed his visit to Brabant, so the brothers could be there together, and half laughing and half chagrined, told me that Regnard, in his white Austrian uniform, was very captivating to the eye. And they both desired Francezka, who laughed at all suitors to her hand. Yet there was a cheerfulness about Gaston Cheverny, which showed me that Francezka was not less kind than formerly. Madame Riano was talking with renewed earnestness of going to Scotland, and Gaston based great hopes on that.
But the time of action had arrived, and soon we would all be on the march. In the first days of February, 1733, Count Saxe’s father, the King of Poland and of Saxony, died. He left Count Saxe a fine fortune, and he left war to Europe. The King of France was minded to have his father-in-law, Stanislaus, ex-King of Poland, back on the electoral throne of Poland. Nobody else wanted him there. I doubt if the poor old man himself would not rather have lived and died peaceably at Lunéville. But he must try for it, against the wish and will of Austria. A conflagration in Europe was impending, and meanwhile another one occurred in a small way in Brabant. The same estafette which brought the news of King August’s death, also brought intelligence, gleaned by chance, that in the middle of the night, four days before, every granary, stable and outbuilding of the Manoir Cheverny was burned to the ground; and on St. Valentine’s day of 1733 Gaston 240 Cheverny got letters saying that the Manoir Cheverny itself was but a heap of ashes. Not a book nor a chair had been saved. The fire occurring in the night, it was beyond control before it was discovered, and by daylight the old manoir was a pile of ruins, only a part of the blackened wall remaining.
Gaston Cheverny received the news early in the morning of a very important day. It was the day on which the king announced to his officers of high rank that any interference on the part of Austria with the election of a king in Poland would mean war. And Austria, it was well known, would interfere.
When the letter telling Gaston Cheverny of his losses was placed in his hands, we were in the act of starting from the Luxembourg for Versailles, accompanying Count Saxe. Gaston glanced at the letter hurriedly, and his face grew pale, but he mounted and rode forward without a word, thrusting the letter in his pocket. It was a cold, bright February morning, and we traveled briskly. Count Saxe called me to his side, and as we followed the road, talked with me concerning the change in his affairs made by the death of the King of Saxony and the impending war. For my part, since the dose I had had in Courland of elective crowns, I had a rooted aversion to them and only pitied the man who would aspire to one of the accursed baubles.
When we were some miles on our way, Count Saxe turned his head, and seeing Gaston Cheverny with a rueful face, riding among the suite, asked me the cause; for Gaston had a natural gaiety of heart, very becoming to a soldier. I told Count Saxe of the ill news Gaston had just received. Count Saxe then called to 241 him, and on Gaston’s riding up, promised him some recompense in the way of a fortune, that he might rebuild his house, for which Gaston expressed his thanks.
“And there is great joy ahead,” continued Count Saxe, loud enough to be heard by all of the suite, “for we may reckon to be at odds with the Austrians by June, at least.”
With that Gaston’s countenance cleared as if by magic and the youngsters in the suite began cheering with pleasure. We were crossing the bridge near Sèvres, that bridge where Monsieur Voltaire got one of his celebrated canings, and the thought of fighting so pleased Gaston Cheverny that besides cheering loudly with the rest, he stood up in his stirrups, and for very joy flung his hat into the river. The other youngsters followed this gallant example, and except Count Saxe and myself, not a man in the party had a hat when we reached Versailles. Count Saxe told the story to the king, who was vastly diverted by it, and next morning, before we left Versailles, every man who had thrown his hat away in the exuberance of his joy received from the queen the gift of a handsome laced hat. So much for Gaston Cheverny’s flinging his away. He showed a steady and cheerful fortitude under his losses. Besides the actual loss to him, whose fortune was already small, he was deeply attached to his home and his belongings. He told me with a rueful smile that only the fine gateway of the Manoir Cheverny had been spared. There was no doubt in the minds of either of us that Jacques Haret was the guilty one in these crimes.
Will it be believed that after the king had in February sent for Count Saxe and other officers to Versailles to announce to them the war, we were not actually on the march until August? There was a song the soldiers sang on the sly during these months, when the king, having said he would make war, seemed loath to begin:
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Timide, imbécile, farouche, |
At last though, under those two tough old warriors, Marshal Villars and Marshal, the Duke of Berwick, the French were on the march. Marshal Villars went to Italy and the Duke of Berwick to the Rhine. With the Duke of Berwick went Count Saxe’s old friend, the Duc de Noailles and Count Saxe himself, then camp marshal. The Duke of Berwick was very great as a man and a soldier, and everybody knows the high esteem in which he held Count Saxe—of which I will speak in its true place.
I am ashamed to say what a figure the army made on its march to Strasburg. One result of the camp at 243 Radewitz, like that at Compiègne some years before, was to make young officers believe that the great game of war was a summer fête. Every captain must travel in his chaise, and there were almost as many cooks and valets and gill-flirts as soldiers on the road to Strasburg. To those who knew that stern old soldier, the Duke of Berwick, it was a certainty, fixed in advance, as to what would become of the chaises, the valets, the cooks and the gill-flirts. Count Saxe knew “ce diable anglais” as Berwick was called. About ten miles before reaching Strasburg he dismounted from his chaise—for he, seduced by the bad example of others, rode in a chaise—and marched the ten last miles with his regiment, that he might get well soiled and dusty when presenting himself before the general commanding.
Gaston Cheverny, who was Count Saxe’s aide-de-camp, had ridden all the way from Paris, with the dog Bold at his heels. We reached Strasburg at an opportune time. It was in the afternoon, and all day long the chaises had been rolling through the gates; some said there were as many as eighteen hundred in the town at the time. Within them were the officers, as dainty and debonair as if just out of my lady’s bandbox. The Duke of Berwick, exasperated beyond words, had stationed himself at the principal gate and caught these gentlemen when they least expected it. We were told that the countenances of these chaise soldiers were a sight to behold when they caught sight of the grim old marshal and noted the terrible look of him. He was a man of few words, but very fierce when roused. He got those young popinjays out of their chaises by 244 a single glance, which acted like a grenade when the fuse is touched off.
The regiment of Saxe came marching in, however, every officer in his place, and Count Saxe riding at the head of it. When the Duke of Berwick’s eagle eye saw this his countenance cleared as if by magic; he had looked like a thunder cloud before. Count Saxe had sent all the chaises of the regiment around to another gate. It was a pleasant summer afternoon, and the old city by the Rhine shone in the August sun, which likewise showed the dust, so carefully acquired on his accoutrements by Count Saxe. The Duke of Berwick’s greeting to Count Saxe was afterward known throughout the world.
“Welcome,” said he; “I had asked for a reinforcement of three thousand men, but now that you are come, I do not need them.”
My master responded fittingly, and then, very artfully, made an apology for his appearance, alleging the heat, the dust and the condition of the streams—everything was overflowed that year of 1733.
“No apologies are needed, Monsieur,” replied the marshal. “I am pleased to see that you have brought me soldiers instead of the popinjays and dandies which I have heretofore seen.”
Now this was true of Count Saxe’s regiment in spite of the inroads of luxury upon the youngsters, for my old Uhlans were among them, and the whole regiment enjoyed the names of “Clear-the-way-boys,” and “Storm-alongs,” which our Uhlans had earned long since. By way of a reward the regiment was quartered in the town of Strasburg, but near the river bank. 245 Count Saxe established himself in a small, but comfortable old mansion, surrounded with gardens sloping to the river. I, of course, was quartered with him, and Gaston Cheverny, being aide-de-camp, was also lodged there.
Prince Eugene, of Savoy, was on the other side of the river, and there was courteous communication by flag of truce between the French and the Austrians.
A day or two after we arrived a letter came for Gaston Cheverny from Regnard Cheverny saying that his grenadiers were with Prince Eugene, and Regnard very much desired to see Gaston. It was easily arranged that Gaston Cheverny should meet his brother at Kehl after nightfall, and should bring him to Strasburg to spend the night. It was only stipulated that Regnard should come and go in darkness.
It was a soft September night when Gaston came into my chamber, joyfully bringing Regnard with him. My room was small, but had a large and pleasant balcony overlooking the straggling gardens and the river. Regnard greeted me pleasantly—he looked gallant in his white Austrian uniform. We went out upon the balcony, had wine brought and spent an hour or two together. Regnard had lately paid a flying visit to Castle Haret, and, of course, had been to the château of Capello.
“Mademoiselle Capello was most kind and charming,” he said, “and, by the way, Captain Babache, she desired her remembrance to you.”
“And nothing to me?” cried Gaston.
Regnard smiled—I never liked his smile, in which his eyes took no part.
“Do you think, boy,” he replied, “that I employed the gracious minutes that Francezka—I mean Mademoiselle Capello—allowed me, in talking to her of another man?”
“Then,” cried Gaston, rising half in mirth and half in anger, “I will myself see Mademoiselle Capello and hear from her own lips whether she has forgotten me.”
“We do not propose to give you time to make excursions,” replied Regnard, laughing good-naturedly. “Your Berwick has to dance a branle first with Prince Eugene, and he who would dance with such a partner must be very active and keep his wits and his legs ready.”
Gaston sat down again, and did not lose his good temper. But Regnard told us further that Madame Riano was really going to Scotland. She had got it in her blood, and was likely to leave any day. Mademoiselle Capello had been forced to engage a dame de compagnie in the person of Madame Chambellan, some relation of Count Bellegarde’s, and as near milk and water as he. I surmised that Francezka was not likely to choose for her dame de compagnie one able or desirous to cross her.
After an hour or two I was called to attend Count Saxe, and the brothers were left alone. They seemed as affectionate as ever I saw brothers. I heard their voices as they spent the hours in converse in Gaston’s room. Toward morning, in the ghostly half light which precedes the dawn, they left the house together, taking a boat at the foot of the garden. I watched them as they passed down the old garden path to the river. Their arms were around each other’s shoulders, schoolboy 247 fashion, and both of them wore long dark cloaks, for the hour before the dawn was chill. Never were two figures more alike than Gaston and Regnard Cheverny, and there was not the smallest difference in their gait and bearing. I think the mother who bore them would scarcely have known them apart, as I saw them walking away in the pale hours of the morning. A boat awaited them at the foot of the garden. The river rolled dark in the gray half light, half darkness, and a ghostly mist lay upon its bosom. As the boat containing the two brothers was pulled into midstream the creeping mist enveloped it for a moment, then a wandering breeze driving the mist away, the boat became again visible. Some singular interest fixed my eyes upon those two figures in the boat, trying to distinguish one from the other. But, to my chagrin, I could not do this. Presently the mist enveloped them wholly.
Gaston returned within an hour. I told him of the effort I had made to tell him and his brother apart at a distance. He said that Regnard and himself had much sport with the boatman, and also with the sentry, by merely changing cloaks, so that their uniforms could not be seen.
The next evening, as I was reposing myself on the balcony after a hard day’s work, Gaston Cheverny burst upon me. He looked like a bridegroom, he was so radiant.
“I start for the Low Countries to-morrow,” he cried, giving me a whack on the back that nearly knocked me off my chair. “I have just met Count Saxe coming from the Duke of Berwick. The marshal wishes to know if the Austrians are observing the neutrality they 248 engaged for in the Low Countries. There have been some disturbances, especially the burning of houses, like mine, for example, which excite the duke’s suspicions. He wants a trusty person, well acquainted with the country, to find out the truth, and Count Saxe offered me. I ride to-morrow. I may remain as long as I think necessary, but my duty compelled me to say that I could find out all there was to know and return within a fortnight. I shall see Francezka, and, Babache, only fancy Regnard’s chagrin when he finds out, after my return, that I have lain perdu in Brabant for two weeks!”
I had no time to fancy anything then, for Count Saxe was calling me. We worked until late that night on the instructions for Gaston Cheverny. Early in the morning he set out alone, not even having a servant with him. He promised me to give my everlasting remembrance to Mademoiselle Capello. It was, of course, impossible for him to take with him his dog, heretofore his inseparable companion. I was to have charge of Bold in his master’s absence. I locked the creature up in my chamber, and attended Count Saxe during his morning duties. When I went to my chamber at noon I was vexed to find the dog had disappeared. The fastening to the door leading to the balcony was indifferent, and marks showed that the dog, by scratching and pawing, had got the door open. A reward was offered for him at once, but as he did not appear, I felt sure he had managed to join his master.
The fortnight was a busy one; the Duke of Berwick and Prince Eugene were not men to let the grass grow under their feet. It was too late to attempt operations 249 on a large scale that season, but with an active general no day is lost. Two weeks to the day on which Gaston Cheverny had left Strasburg he rode up to Count Saxe’s quarters and dismounted.
I happened to be waiting at the door for Count Saxe, and so saw Gaston Cheverny when he flung himself off his horse. Although it was in the dusk of an autumn evening, I saw, as well as felt, that Gaston Cheverny radiated happiness. There was something in the grasp of his hand, the ring of his voice, which proclaimed the man with joy in his heart. At the same moment he arrived Count Saxe also rode up. At once he took Gaston Cheverny within, when, with my pen to record, Gaston gave an account of what he had discovered. Although there was no actual proof of treachery on the part of the Austrians, the mysterious burnings continued. Some attributed these dreadful events to private malice, but it was remarkable that every château, house or barn burned belonged to a French sympathizer. It was thought likely to be the work of a band of fanatics, which made it still more alarming. Gaston Cheverny gave his opinion that in the case of the burning of his own house and outbuildings, it was a case of revenge on the part of Jacques Haret.
Gaston Cheverny having told all he had found out, and some impudent duchess or countess coming to claim Count Saxe—no doubt, against his will—Gaston and I were left alone. He sprang up, caught me by the arm, and cried in a ringing voice:
“Babache, I am the happiest man alive. But come out of doors. This room stifles me. I want to look at the stars—like Francezka’s eyes. I wish to breathe the 250 perfumed air of the garden, because all beauty—all perfume is like her.” He dragged me out into the beautiful old garden, with its tangled shrubbery, its grass-grown walks, its myrtle trees, showing black against a pale night sky, and the great river rolling past. I thought he would at once make me some great confidence, for I had no doubt that he had won Francezka’s love. But instead of that he began to recite to me that poem, adored of lovers, by Houdart de La Motte to Célimène, in which the poet yearns to be the flower that reposes on the bosom of his beloved, the passing breeze that kisses her cheek, the nightingale whose sad notes detain her in the myrtle groves, the fair moon by which the shepherds bring home their flocks. There is in every language I have known a great poem with this thought, common to all hearts that love, running through it, but I like this one of Houdart de La Motte’s the best. When he had finished repeating the lines, with great beauty of voice and meaning, I asked him:
“Did not Mademoiselle Capello send me a message?”
“A thousand. Babache, Francezka loves you with all her heart. She told me, at our last conversation, that she could never think of you without remembering that night in her girlhood when she was taken to the Temple, and from that moment she has reckoned you the most faithful of friends.”
“And how do you stand with her?” I ventured to ask.
“I can not utter a word concerning that. Only to you, Babache, will I say that I am happier than I ever dared to hope.”
“At least you can tell me how Francezka is situated.”
“Oh, yes. Madame Riano has really started for Scotland. She left two days after I got to Brabant. I saw her five times before she went. She promises to return within a year. Francezka now has with her Madame Chambellan, but she is old and feeble, and I know not how long the arrangement will last.”
Here was news indeed.
“Francezka has another friend at hand—good Bold. The rogue got away evidently, and when I was full five miles from the city gates I heard him panting behind me. His tongue was out, and he would hardly have lasted much longer at the pace he was going, had I not found him and picked him up.”
I then explained how the dog had escaped.
“As I was secretly in Brabant,” continued Gaston, “of course, it was impossible to keep the dog with me. It was out of the question that I should give him away to any chance person willing to take him, so I made straight for the château of Capello, where I knew he had a friend in Francezka. I left him with her, as a guardian and protector, and a reminder, too, of his master. He remained willingly in Francezka’s sweet company, being ever a dog of the soundest discernment. I feel no jealousy; Francezka is welcome to my dog, as she is to me.”
I could not make out what Gaston’s footing was with Francezka, but that he was assured of her love I no longer doubted. Well, this was as it should be. The difference in their fortunes was but accidental; in all 252 else they were equals. It must be an agreeable feeling to know one’s self equal to any and all the world, except in this matter of fortune. I never had that feeling. I know myself to be a man, with all a man’s faculties, but this world of ours seldom lets a man forget from whence he sprang.
Gaston Cheverny further confided to me that he expected to be permitted to return to Brabant for a while as soon as we went into winter quarters, but before the leaves fell from the trees this beautiful dream of hope vanished. This time it was the Duke of Berwick who used Gaston’s services. During our fourteen months in Courland Gaston had picked up some knowledge of the various Polish dialects, for he was a man of quick perception and given to learning. The Duke of Berwick needed such a man in Poland and East Prussia, and within a month from the time of Gaston Cheverny’s return from Brabant he was sent to Poland and East Prussia on an errand that might last a month and might last a year.
He went gallantly enough. It was not pleasant duty, and he showed to me alone the deep chagrin it caused him not to revisit Brabant, but he was not a man to refuse any duty assigned to him. He only asked to be allowed to remain long enough at Strasburg to take part with his regiment in the capture of Kehl. This was accorded him. Marshal, the Duke of Berwick, took Kehl in October, thus administering a beautiful slap to the Austrians, and as soon as that was done Gaston Cheverny set out upon his errand.
In November we went into winter quarters. I was much in hopes that Count Saxe would remain in Strasburg the whole winter, but the women in Paris would not let him. They besieged the king to send for Count Saxe; they nearly worried Dangervilliers, the minister of war, into a madhouse, demanding that he order Count Saxe to Paris. Cardinal Fleury declared that his days would be shortened by the importunate ones, who implored him for Count Saxe. Is it any wonder, I say, that Count Saxe was no anchorite with all this adulation and flattery bestowed upon him—with women throwing themselves at his head and at his feet? He went to Paris.
We reached Paris in January and remained until May. It was an unusually tedious time for me, because I had not Gaston Cheverny with me. There was but little for me to do. My master wrote his own love letters—he had few others to write—so that I had many hours at my disposal. There was a young baggage of an actress named Verières, who tried to play the poor lost Adrienne Lecouvreur’s part to Count Saxe. I know not whether she succeeded or not.
I heard several times from Gaston Cheverny. He 254 was still in Poland, over the border first of East Prussia and then of Russia, traveling from place to place, following the instructions of the Duke of Berwick. Every month he expected to be allowed to join his regiment, but something more was always found for him to do. He was promised, however, that he should not be detained in Poland longer than the first month of the campaign.
The campaign, however, was unusually late in opening. Marshal, the Duke of Berwick, reached Strasburg in March, but found everything in confusion. Luckily, the enemy was in no better case than we. It was May before it became necessary for Count Saxe to start for the Rhine.
We traveled by way of Brussels, and I made a request of Count Saxe which had been burning in my heart all the winter. It was that I might stop, if only for a night, at the château of Capello. To this, as the most indulgent of masters, he readily agreed.
It was on a May day, in 1734, that I saw the château of Capello, after four years of absence. It was late in the afternoon, and the shadows were long in the boscages of the park and upon the fresh green terraces of the château. As I drew near I looked toward the Italian garden, and there I saw a figure pacing to and fro, which I at once recognized as Francezka. A dog was at her side, and in him, too, I recognized an old friend—Bold.
I threw my bridle to a servant at the foot of the terrace and went straight to the Italian garden. As I entered it, Francezka was walking meditatively up and down the box bordered walk, where stood the well remembered 255 statue of Petrarch, the sun dial and the stone bench. Her eyes were bent upon the ground, and I saw her well before she noticed me. She wore a gown of crimson brocade with a muslin kerchief crossed over her white neck; and she had on dainty shoes with red heels—her favorite affectation. I had heard that Francezka gave great scandal to the ladies of Brabant by wearing silks and satins every day, which was contrary to their custom. Francezka, however, had a well-developed taste for luxury, which came with her warm Spanish blood.
The dog saw me first, and ran forward with a yelp of pleasure. Francezka heard him and raised her eyes to mine. If ever any one in the world showed joy at seeing Babache, it was Francezka then. She advanced a step, and when I kissed her hand, she laid her other hand on mine, while the warm tears dropped from her eyes. It is something to have the loving friendship and confidence of such a woman. She told me many times how glad she was to see me—told me so with her eyes as well as her voice—as we walked up and down together. She was lonely since Madame Riano had gone. It was her fate to be more admired by men and envied by women than loved by either, and that is one reason why I think my devotion was dear to her. She told me as much then. I asked her if she was happy with Madame Chambellan.
“Madame Chambellan is a good soul; but, dear Babache, she is like that simpleton, Bellegarde. How am I ever to stand her?”
From the moment Francezka began to speak, I became conscious of a touching and beautiful change 256 in her; an angelic softness had come upon her—a softness most seductive which she had often assumed, but which now seemed a part of herself. Before I had been ten minutes in her company, I saw this change had gone deep. There had been in her nature ever since I knew her a note of triumph. She could not remain unconscious that she was the favorite both of nature and fortune. Her active and penetrating mind had been occupied since her early years in planning her own destiny, which was hers to decide. Other young girls had their destinies decided for them, but Francezka knew, from her childhood, that she would one day be mistress of herself and her fortune. This had given her an exultant air, pretty and charming enough, but after all, what is so becoming to a woman as humility? And this sweet new humility of Francezka’s was more winning than I can say. The whole expression of her lovely face had changed. Her eyes, instead of sparkling like stars, were soft, and had the quiet beauty of a lake by moonlight. They had a supplicating look. Francezka was yearning for something, like other human beings, and so, was more nearly like the rest of the human family. We sat together on the stone bench, the lake lying cool and somber before us; night seemed to have come upon it although the sun still blazed in the west. The dog licked my hand, and showed great friendship for me, and I told Francezka how ingeniously he had escaped from me at Strasburg to join his master.
“Well,” replied Francezka, demurely, “no one can blame Bold for running away to join such a master. 257 I have read in old Homer somewhere that Achilles tells Agamemnon he is as impudent as a dog. If it is impudence like Bold’s, Agamemnon might have taken it as a high compliment.”
To this frank expression of admiration for both Gaston Cheverny and his dog, I said:
“I have had letters from Gaston Cheverny within the month. Perhaps you have heard later?”
For answer Francezka looked at me for a whole minute in silence, her eyes glowing with fire and dew and with a smile as soft and beautiful as a summer dawn, and meanwhile, the eloquent blood hung out its banners in her cheek. Then suddenly, her graceful figure drooped, and she hid her face upon the dog’s head, which lay upon her lap. I was astounded; I had never seen Francezka overcome with bashfulness before. I sat silent, watching her. She trembled, and in a little while the red blood crept from her cheek, into her white neck under her muslin kerchief. Some instinct told me that this soft tumult referred to Gaston Cheverny, and that his fate and Francezka’s were now forever linked together. I said no word but waited until Francezka raised her blushing face and spoke.
“Babache,” she said, “I made Gaston promise that he would keep from every human being the secret between us—and I confess, in the agitation of parting, I overlooked my good Babache—but I can not keep anything concealed from you, when your kind eyes are fixed upon me. When Gaston was here—secretly—in September of last year—we were married.”
She said it calmly, but with an undertone of the 258 deepest and serenest joy; and rising, and once more wearing that look of happy exultation which had been hers, she added:
“I am Gaston Cheverny’s wife. Ought I not to be the happiest creature on earth?”
I rose, too, and kissed her on the brow, the cheek and the hand, with the greatest reverence. When I could speak, which was not at once, I said, with the deepest sincerity:
“Nothing could be better than for you to have Gaston Cheverny for a husband. Knowing him, my heart rejoices for you—not only for what you have gained, but for what you have escaped. Ah, Francezka”—I used her name without knowing it at the time—“when I remembered the horde of fortune-hunters who surrounded you—when I thought that you might give the treasure of your love to some man who would make merchandise of it—my heart grew cold within me. But Gaston Cheverny would take you in your smock—that I know.”
“I know it, too,” she answered, with a gleam of her old laughing spirit. “All that I fear for the future is Gaston’s supersensitiveness about my fortune—but that I hope I have wit enough to manage. I shall never make him anything but simple in his tastes. He thinks my fondness for luxury childish, and he will endure it good-humoredly, but I know him well enough to understand that he is a soldier and is as superior to luxury as Cato himself.”
“Tell me all,” I said.
We seated ourselves, and Francezka told me, with 259 many eloquent pauses, with smiles, with shining eyes, with blushes, her short love story.
“It was in September of last year that one day I sat where I am sitting with the volume of Petrarch, out of which Gaston had often read to me, upon my lap. I was thinking of Gaston at that moment—yes, thinking of him and longing for him. And more, I will affirm, that I have never seriously thought of any other man but Gaston since that night at the prison of the Temple. Babache, I have loved him ever since I loved you!” She said this with such an air of innocent devotion—Francezka might change, but she could not cease to be Francezka; and she had this way of saying sweet things to all whom she loved. “And as I read, I yearned so for Gaston, that I spoke his name aloud twice, and then, as if in answer to it, I looked up, and Gaston was sitting on the bench beside me. Perhaps, like the rest of the Kirkpatricks, I am superstitious, for I was afraid it was what my aunt calls a ‘wraith,’ and I trembled and caught his hands, thinking he would melt away into the air. Now you are laughing, Babache, but remember, I am not incredulous like you French—I am Scotch and Spanish—”
“But Gaston did not melt away. He grasped your hands—and—”
Francezka again hid her face upon the dog’s sleek head, and with her face so averted continued—
“He took my book away from me, and although I protested, he read some things I had written in my Petrarch—some things meant for no eye but my own—Gaston read them and interpreted them. He told me 260 he had not meant to make known his love to me until he had achieved something to put us more on an equality, so he said—foolishly, I think—for it is not what a man does so much as what he is; and he was looking forward to promotion in this campaign,—and thinking then—then he could speak—when, seeing me so moved, and reading what I had written in my Petrarch, and all—I know not how it came about—but we were married secretly before twenty-four hours.”
There was a long pause here. Francezka passed the silky ears of the dog through her fingers, and looked into his tawny eyes, but her thoughts were evidently in the happy past. There was no sound in the still May evening, except the faint, mysterious moan of the lake.
“Truly,” she said, after a while, “I know not how our marriage came about, except that we loved each other and sought an excuse to bind us, one to the other. The excuse was, that my aunt was going to Scotland at once, and I was to be left alone—for Madame Chambellan is scarcely a guardian for me. Gaston and I had already determined to be married, before we spoke to my aunt. She, with her usual keen sense, reminded us of the threat that had come, no one knew whence, or how, of any roof that Gaston might have, being burned to the ground—and also, of the many châteaux and houses belonging to French people which had been burned. She suggested, therefore, for the present, that the marriage be kept secret—if we were bent on being married—as Gaston would be leaving in a few days, and his return would be uncertain. To that we agreed—Gaston calling himself a blockhead for not thinking of the usefulness of secrecy for a time. We were married 261 in the village church by Père Benart, at sunset. No one was present, except my aunt, Madame Chambellan, and old Peter. I made a fête for the village people, so they were all in the fields, dancing and feasting and no one saw us go or come from the church. It was a beautiful day, but at sunset, while we were in the church, a terrible thunderstorm came up. That frightened me a little; it did not seem a good omen.”
“And this world is governed, not by the laws of God and Nature, but by omens,” I replied gravely. Francezka did not laugh at this. Truly, as she said, she was not without superstition.
“Gaston comforted me, and I soon recovered my spirits. My aunt left next day for Brussels, on her way to Scotland. Gaston remained with me a week. Old Peter and my good old Elizabeth, who is Peter’s sister, managed to keep Gaston’s presence a secret. We had one week of perfect happiness. How many of God’s creatures, think you, can say as much?”
“Few,” I replied. “Certainly not Babache, captain of Uhlans.”
“The recollection of that week of happiness is a treasure that can not be taken away from me. Even the gods can not recall their gifts,” continued Francezka. “My marriage seems to me like a covenant made in a dream. My happiness, however, was very real. Gaston was in the country some days longer,” she went on, “and we had three brief meetings. Once, with old Peter, I rode to Brussels by night, to spend one half hour with Gaston—he was only stopping long enough to get fresh horses—and he came here for an hour to bid me one last farewell. When we parted, it was with 262 the full expectation of his return in November, when our marriage was to be proclaimed, and we were to go to Paris for the winter.
“When the campaign opened, I was to follow Gaston as early as possible, for he was determined not to leave me at Capello after it was known that I was his wife, until the war should be over. But, as you know, he was sent far away. You know, Babache, I am not the woman to swerve a man from his duty. I love Gaston’s honor even more than I love him. And so, hard as the separation is, I thank God that he is the man to choose his duty first. I felt that at our parting—which, like our meeting, was in this Italian garden. I love this spot more than ever now, because from here I can see the highroad, along which Gaston will return to me. Here, Bold and I come once every day, generally at sunset, to watch for the coming of the master of both of us. It is one of my cherished fancies—superstitions, I suppose you would call it—that in this spot Gaston and I shall meet again. I shall see him and, and he will know where to look for me. Bold thinks so, too,—don’t you, my dog?”
The dog actually seemed to nod his head in assent, as Francezka gravely interrogated him.
“Gaston said to me, when he gave me this dog, ‘I give you one of my best friends. Remember me as he does—for dogs never forget. In the virtue of constancy, dogs are superior to men.’ So, Bold and I love and remember our master every hour in the day, and joyfully await his coming.”
Francezka was young, and full of hope. The thought that Gaston might never return to her did not appear 263 to have darkened her mind once. Presently, her face, so full of peace and hope and joy—for in perfect love there is peace and hope and joy—grew clouded. She gave me a sidelong glance, and then said, sighing a little:
“But there is something else, something which occurred this very day, that has troubled me. I can tell you, but I know not how to tell Gaston. Yet, I must tell him some day.” She paused again, and I waited patiently for her to continue. “Perhaps it is known to you,” she said, blushing more deeply, “for Regnard Cheverny made no secret of it—”
“That he wished to marry you?” She nodded.
“I have ever been cold to him, as a lover—though, for the past months, when he has been several times at Castle Haret, I have been kind to him, remembering that he was Gaston’s brother—and I think he misunderstood me. Often, when he has been to see me—and urged his suit more with his eyes, than with his words—I have felt frightened—and you know, I do not come of a race of cowards. There is something to frighten one about Regnard Cheverny, he is so cool, so quiet, so debonair when seeking his own will; not light of heart like Gaston, nor full of sudden fury, nor impatiently renouncing what does not please him—but Regnard pursues his object steadily, like Fate. Well, then, this day, not two hours ago, as I was taking my afternoon walk in this garden, and living over the hours I have spent with my husband, I looked toward the highroad, and there, I thought I saw him coming. I watched, with my heart almost leaping out of my breast—but, presently, I knew it was not Gaston—but Regnard. I 264 saw him disappear under the hill, and ride up to the courtyard—and then he was walking toward me across the grass.” She stopped suddenly and asked me:
“Have you noticed how much alike Gaston and Regnard have become?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle—or Madame Cheverny, I should say.”
Francezka’s face dimpled into a rosy smile.
“It is the second time to-day that I have been called Madame Cheverny. It is the charmingest name in the world, I think.”
She continued, her face becoming grave:
“When Regnard was bowing before me, I saw the resemblance more than ever—and I drank in his words, because his voice is so much like Gaston’s; yet, I do not see how any one could take one for the other. Bold was with me—he never leaves me—and he annoyed me by snapping and snarling at Regnard—no mistake on good Bold’s part of any one for his master! Regnard seated himself with me on this bench in the very spot where Gaston had sat last autumn, and I was trying to lose myself in dreaming that it was Gaston and not Regnard who was with me—when something he said brought me to myself with a shock. For he—” She stopped, and I said:
“He told you of his love. Tell me all, Madame.”
Again I saw that girlish flash of pleasure pass across her anxious and pleading eyes. Francezka had something undyingly childlike in her composition.
“He told me of his love so quickly I could not stop him—but I was indiscreet in one thing. When he told me he regarded my fortune as less than nothing, I did 265 whisper into Bold’s ear, loud enough for Regnard to hear—‘So say they all—except’—the exception I meant was Gaston. He is the only suitor I have yet had, who did not assure me that my fortune was nothing to him. Regnard overheard me—and I saw he was angered. He would not be stopped, although I rose and put up my hand, and turned my back. But at last, I said to him:
“‘And your brother, Monsieur?’ for, of course, Regnard knew that Gaston loved me. When I said this, I turned my eyes full upon him, because I wished to intimidate him. He colored a little, but said, coolly: ‘Madame, I am not wanting in brotherly affection, but in these matters my brother and I are as man to man.’”
It was just what I had heard Gaston say, nearly seven years before. Francezka resumed:
“Then I said to him, without the least tremor in the world, and feeling myself thrilled with joy and pride at the telling—‘Monsieur, I am, and have been for nearly a year, the wife of your brother, Gaston Cheverny.’”
Being a natural actress, Francezka went through this scene so that it was as if it were all happening again. She rose as she spoke and actually grew taller, and her voice, although low, had a ring of joy and exultation in it when she repeated the words, “I am the wife of Gaston Cheverny.”
Still standing, she came nearer to me—I had risen too—and kept on:
“I have not words to describe to you Regnard’s countenance at that. It was not disappointment; it seemed to be only the most overmastering rage. It is his nature to bear a secret disappointment stoically, but 266 he knew that Gaston must hear of what had passed—and besides—he had paid me court more steadily and assiduously ever since I was fourteen than Gaston himself—for Gaston, you must know, has had periods of jealousy and pique, and for months together, has sometimes refrained from writing to me or seeing me. Not so Regnard. The words that would inflame Gaston to anger, Regnard would pass with a cool smile—I liked him none the better for it. But he was not cool then. He said in a suppressed fury:
“‘Madame, you have perhaps forgotten, that in the time you have been my brother’s wife, you have had many declarations of love from me, and possibly from other gentlemen. True, I made not mine in set words, as I have done this day—but it would have been as well to have confided the secret of your marriage to me before this.’
“I was more angry than he at that—but Babache, no woman can help pitying a man who loves her, ever so little, if it but be true love—and I believe Regnard loved me truly in his way. I replied to this, therefore, with anger, but not without pity. ‘You made me no declaration in words, Monsieur,—and you must remember that every dictate of prudence recommended in these uncertain times, that my marriage with your brother be kept secret for the present, at least.’
“‘If prudence was your chiefest consideration, Madame,’ said Regnard, with a bow, ‘I wonder that you married my brother at all.’
“Babache, that would have angered any woman on earth, and as you know, I am not the most long-suffering person in the world. So I said: ‘Oh, no, you mistake 267 me, Monsieur. My chief object was to bind your brother to me—for I love him so much that I could not bear the thought that he should go away without forging a chain that would bring him back to me!’”
Francezka, still unconsciously acting her part, said this with such a depth of feeling, such love, devotion, admiration for Gaston Cheverny expressed in every tone of her voice, every glance of her eye, that it must have been wormwood to a haughty, jealous and disappointed man like Regnard Cheverny. And I made not the slightest doubt that she rather enjoyed Regnard’s humiliation.
“I perceive, Madame,” I answered, “that ladies can be cruel as well as pitiful to a man who loves them.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Francezka, sitting again, and leaning her head pensively on her hand. The dog had not stirred a foot from her in this time, and was watching her with a human look of love and intelligence in his tawny eyes. “And then Regnard, mastering his rage, said to me:
“‘I thought your coldness to me came from a careless and heedless indifference of an untouched heart. Now I know it to be the steady deception of a woman already a wife. I could not forget this if I would, and I would not forget it if I could. I have the honor to bid you adieu, Madame Cheverny.’ And he walked off, looking so like Gaston! And then I suddenly began to feel frightened at being frightened—do you know that feeling?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It is the form that fear takes with the brave.”
“I had thought,” said Francezka, “that I was exempt 268 from fear, and now I find it is my lot, just as much as any one’s, to feel fear as one feels heat or cold or thirst. But fear is the most terrible thing on earth. And now, Babache, I have opened all my heart to you. It has been so comforting!”
We talked some time longer. As it seemed the likeliest thing in the world that I should see Gaston Cheverny shortly, it was agreed that she should prepare a packet for me that night, which I would take with me next morning.
The purple twilight had fallen before we quitted the Italian garden, and went to the château. Old Peter was glad to see me, and at supper I met Madame Chambellan, the ancient dame de compagnie, warranted not to interfere in any way with those she was supposed to watch over. She promptly went to sleep as soon as supper was over, when we went to the little yellow saloon. This room, Francezka had lined with books. I found she was fast becoming learned. Her naturally active mind must exercise itself on something in solitude, and she seized upon books and music with avidity. I found out that nothing so far had been heard of poor Lisa, although Jacques Haret had been seen of late in Brussels. Francezka was firmly of the belief that the burning of Gaston Cheverny’s house had been instigated by that scoundrel of a Jacques Haret, in revenge for the beating Gaston had given him.
We remained late, and after old Peter had shown me to my former chamber, I had some wakeful hours. I sat at the window, looking out upon the gardens, the lake, all bathed in the mellow moonlight of a May night. And I saw certain things by “the moonlight of memory.” 269 So Francezka’s wild heart had found rest at last, and it rejoiced me. But deep in my own heart was the sense of loss—the loss of those dreams wherein Francezka was mine. One often suffers more from the loss of the ideal than the real. And feeling this, I fell asleep, sitting at the open window, and had the loveliest dream I had yet had of Francezka. When I awakened, the moon had gone down, the air had turned chill and I was oppressed with that strange feeling which comes from physical discomfort when one is asleep. A light glowed from Francezka’s window, and I saw her graceful figure bending over her writing table. She wore a white negligée of some sort, and her long dark hair flowed free. She had probably risen from her bed to add something to the packet she was preparing for Gaston. Soon her light was put out, and tough soldier though I am, I was glad to get into the great, soft bed provided for me.
I was to start at sunrise, and when my horse was led out next morning, Francezka was down to bid me good by. She gave me a thick packet for Gaston, saying:
“Tell him I am well, and as happy as ever I can be, away from him. And that to see you, Babache, was as good as medicine to the sick. Do not forget that, I charge you.”
When I parted from her, she wore a smile of happy expectancy—a look of jocund hope was in her dewy eyes. I never saw that expression again on the face of Francezka Capello.