THE ELDER BROTHER
I found my master in a room which had been a favorite one of that dead
and gone and wicked Duchesse de Berry, who died of drink and
debauchery at twenty-four years of age. Poor woman! I often used to
fancy her gliding about that room, her pallid face rouged, her eyes on
fire, and she, laughing and anxious, studying the faces of the men and
women before her, and wishing she could see those behind her. She
showed good taste by preferring that apartment, for it was spacious
and airy, with three great windows looking upon the green Luxembourg
gardens beneath, where the nightingales sang every night. The walls
and ceiling of this room were frescoed with the story of the love of
Ulysses and Calypso.
No one had occupied this particular room since the Duchesse de Berry,
and it contained the same magnificent hangings, chairs, tables, sofas,
consoles, girandoles, and what not, that unfortunate woman had used.
Count Saxe's belongings always seemed to be swearing at those of the
dead and gone duchess. Count Saxe called the room his study; but
rather, it should have been called his armory, for, instead of books,
he had in it all manner of arms and everything pertaining to a
soldier's life. He needed not books, being already instructed by his
own mother-wit in all that was of any real value to know. This matter
of reading is vastly overrated. There are persons who think it is the
mill that makes the water run. It is men like Count Saxe who give
occasion for books to be written.
This study, therefore, was a place of arms. On the walls hung all
manner of musketoons, fusils, and the like, with drawings of mortars
and field and siege artillery, with specimens of horses' bits and
saddles and stirrups, and everything relating to the equipment of a
soldier. There were a plenty of maps besides. On the great table in
the middle of the room was spread a huge map and many dozens of tin
manikins, about as high as my thumb; for anybody who thinks that Count
Saxe did not study the science of war, knows not the man.
He was at that moment sitting at the table, on which a dozen candles
gleamed. He was dressed in black and silver, a dress that showed off
his vivid beauty--for he was the most beautiful man who ever lived.
Not Francezka Capello's eyes were more brilliant, more soft than those
of Maurice of Saxe. Was it to be expected that with his beauty, his
figure, his voice, his charm, and above all, his genius, he should be
an anchorite? The women would not let him alone--that is the whole
truth. If I had been a woman I should have died of love for him.
"I thought you had gone back to Tatary, Babache," he cried, throwing
his leg over his chair, pushing away his map, and motioning me to a
seat. "Tell me your adventures."
I sat down and told him freely all that had happened from my strolling
into Madame Riano's garden until that moment.
"Peggy Kirkpatrick's garden," he said, absently tweaking my ear--a
way he had. "That woman is the devil's grandmother. When she is
awake the devil sleeps, knowing all his business is well attended to
by her. And Peggy Kirkpatrick's niece--I know the chit, and knew
her father before her. Scotch and Spanish--it is a fiery mixture. And
I know that scoundrel, Jacques Haret. So the young man you came near
finishing--Gaston Cheverny--laughed when he seemed a-dying. I wish we
could have that young man--for Babache, my Tatar prince from the
Marais, we ride for Courland within a fortnight."
I said nothing, it being all one to me where Count Saxe rode so I rode
with him. He continued, after a pause:
"It is true, as that devilish old woman Peggy Kirkpatrick says, I go
on a marauding expedition, but never must we admit that." He rose as
he spoke, his black eyes flashing. "I go in response to a call from
the greatest nobles in Courland, to lay my claims respectfully before
the august Diet of Courland. But shoot me, if that Diet doesn't elect
me, it will live to be sorry for it--that I promise. And if Russia and
Prussia want war, they can have it. War is the game of the gods. There
is none better." He rose and stood, the picture of a conqueror,
smiling at the thought of the great adventures before him.
"It is a large enterprise," I said. "Our necks will be in jeopardy
every hour--but that is a small matter."
"A very small matter, my Babache. Do you see yonder stars?" He pointed
out of the window where the earnest stars were palpitating in the dark
blue heavens. "Look at them but for a moment, and you will see how
small a matter it is. But look not at the stars too often or too
long--nor look upon graves too much and too deeply--for the
contemplation of stars and graves will rob any man of all his
ambitions; their silence will drown the shouting of the captains and
the rustling of the laurels, through all the ages; the love of glory
will die in his breast, and he will curse his doglike fate. Our
largest enterprises are so small--so small!"
I perceived he was in one of those reflective moods when a man stops
at a certain point in his existence, and, standing upon the lonely
peak of the present, surveys the great unfathomed gulfs of the past
and future that lie on either side. I have those moments often--but
Count Saxe rarely.
He stood thoughtful for a while, then turning to me, said with a
bright smile:
"But some things do not diminish even in the light of the stars; one
of them is, the pure devotion of a woman. Mademoiselle Adrienne
Lecouvreur sent me word this day that if I was resolved on my
enterprise for Courland, all she had--her plate and jewels--should be
pledged for me. Does not that shine bright even in the light of the
stars?"
I answered with something I had once heard old Pere Bourdaloue thunder
forth from the pulpit in Notre Dame, about good deeds outshining the
sun; at which my master laughed, and accused me of wanting to join
Monsieur de Rance in his dumb cloister of La Trappe. Then, as if
shaking off the spell cast upon him by the stars, he began to talk of
the most trifling things on earth--about Monsieur Voltaire, for
example.
"My coach is ordered to take us to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's," he
said. "I dare say that scoundrel of a Voltaire will be there--as you
say you saw him with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur in the Hotel Kirkpatrick
garden. But I know he is under orders for England, and I will tickle
him with a bunch of brambles by telling him that I shall mention to
Cardinal Fleury that I saw him. Babache, I swear I am a little afraid
of that thing of madrigals, as I call Voltaire. Those fellows who can
write can always make out a case for themselves. I would as soon have
Voltaire in London as in Paris--sooner at Constantinople than
either."
I went then to see if the coach was ready, and soon we were rolling
along toward the Marais. My head was busy with our expedition to
Courland, but it did not make me forget for one moment the soft
splendor of Mademoiselle Capello's eyes, nor Gaston Cheverny's hurt. I
privately resolved to take Gaston Cheverny with us to Courland if the
wit of man could compass it.
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur lived then in one of those tall, old houses,
not far from the garden in which we had played together as children.
When we reached the place and were mounting the stairs, what should we
see but Monsieur Voltaire's long legs skipping up ahead of us! So he
was still skulking in Paris! I knew the sort of persons I should meet
with in that saloon--and they were there. First, Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur herself, fresh from the theater; the Marshal, Duc de
Noailles, who called my master "My Saxe," and loved him well; old
Marshal Villars, the Duc de Richelieu, an actor or two, some fine
ladies, a horde of small fry and Monsieur Voltaire.
As he was supposed to be safely locked up in the Bastille until he
should leave for England, his presence was a good deal of a surprise,
especially to the Duc de Richelieu; but Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's was
neutral ground and nobody there would betray Monsieur Voltaire, as he
well knew.
I entered the large saloon in the wake of Count Saxe, made my devoirs
to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, and then retired against the wall, as the
unimportant do. I was surveying the crowd of the great, and wondering
what Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's father, the hatter, and my father, the
notary, would say, if they saw the fine company their children kept,
when my eyes fell upon my young friend, Gaston Cheverny, who, I
supposed, lay in his lodging with a hole in his left side! The sight
so staggered me that I felt my head swim. But there he was, as
smiling, as debonair as man could be, wearing a handsome embroidered
satin coat, white silk stockings and red-heeled shoes, his hair
powdered and in a bag. I thought him handsomer than before. And that
there was no mistake about it, I heard him addressed as Monsieur
Cheverny.
I felt myself gaping with astonishment and became altogether lost to
what was going on around me, except to this young man. I contrived to
move nearer to him, and presently we were touching elbows. There was
much laughter and conversation going on, the candles were blazing
brightly, Monsieur Voltaire was telling a story in a loud voice, but
I saw and heard nothing clearly but this young Cheverny.
Considering our adventures together, I felt justified in addressing
him, so I said, as soon as I got close enough:
"Monsieur, I hope you find yourself well?"
"Perfectly," he replied courteously. "And you, Monsieur?"
"The same," I replied. "I am glad to hear of it. I could not have made
so large a hole in you as I thought, the night before last."
He looked at me, puzzled for a moment; then his countenance cleared,
and he said, laughing:
"It is the common mistake. You take me for my brother, Gaston
Cheverny, who now lies at his lodging ill--his complaint probably
small-pox or measles--" he winked as he said this. "I am Monsieur
Regnard Cheverny, at your service--the elder brother, by three years,
of Gaston Cheverny."
I saw, then, on closer examination, that he was indeed the elder, and
his seniority was very plain. But in feature, in complexion, in gait,
in voice, he was more like his brother than would seem possible. He
then went on, affably, to tell of his brother's continued improvement.
We talked a while together. Regnard Cheverny, like his brother, was no
man of milk and water, and once seen, was likely to be remembered. But
I soon perceived that their souls were as unlike as their bodies were
like. It is true, I had seen Gaston Cheverny only once, but the
circumstances of that meeting were not to be forgotten. I am not given
to sudden loves, but I had loved Gaston Cheverny at first sight. I
loved him for his foolhardiness, his presumption, in fighting me; I
loved him because he loved fighting; I loved him because he could
laugh in the face of death--in short, it was one of those strange
kinships of the soul which make one man feel of another, the first
time he sees him--"We are brothers." And in the same way, I misliked
Regnard Cheverny. He was a man strong enough to inspire love or hate.
I have myself often heard that writing fellow, the Duc de St. Simon,
say that love and hatred spring from the same root, and I believe it.
I also saw that Regnard Cheverny was a man of parts, and so regarded.
I found out by the accident of conversation, that he had a head for
affairs--a thing rare in his class. It was inherited from some of his
Scotch ancestors, no doubt--for the Cheverny family had intermarried
with the Scotch Jacobites, and had a large strain of Scotch blood in
them. As Jacques Haret had told me, Regnard Cheverny had, during the
preceding year, become possessed of the last remnant of Jacques
Haret's fortune, in Castle Haret, in Brabant, which had been sold for
a song under the accumulated debts of many generations of Harets. I
looked with interest at a young man, who, at twenty-three years of
age, had so well feathered his nest; for his original patrimony, I
inferred at the time, and found afterward to be true, was small. He
was handsomer than his brother, being more matured, and there were a
thousand subtile differences between them; but it all came down to
this--Gaston Cheverny was to be loved--Regnard Cheverny was not.
Presently, supper was announced. It was there, around the table, that
wit sparkled. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur sat at the head, with Count Saxe
on one hand and Monsieur Voltaire on the other. She loved my master
the best of any person in the world--but she knew that Monsieur
Voltaire loved her the best of any one in the world--and he was very
capable of love.
Monsieur Voltaire, as everybody knew, was to be sent packing to
England, but with his usual adroitness, he made out that England
was the country of all others he wished to see; that my Lord
Bolingbroke--Harry St. John, as Monsieur Voltaire called him--was his
dearest friend; and as for Sir Isaac Newton, one would have thought
that he and Voltaire had exchanged nightcaps often. The valor of the
English nation Monsieur Voltaire could not extol enough. My master
listened to this with a grin, and then remarked that the English were
in truth a valiant nation, but that the only Englishman he had ever
met in hand to hand encounter was a scavenger whom he had no trouble
in pitching headforemost out of his own cart. At this, Monsieur
Voltaire sighed and said impudently: "Perhaps Count Saxe would favor
the company with his story of bending horseshoes with his hands
and twisting a farrier's nail into a practicable corkscrew," as if
Count Saxe were always telling those things! Then he took another
turn--this mischievous Voltaire--and paid Count Saxe most elaborate
compliments on his prospects of becoming Duke of Courland.
"It is a great, a splendid destiny," said he. "Fighting every day
and hour--but that's to your taste. An unruly people--but you were
born to reign. A climate, snow all the winter, rain all the other
seasons--but you are robust and can stand it. And a duchess, Anna
Iwanowna, with all the graces of a Calmuck Venus, waiting to become
your duchess! But you ever adored the ladies, and are the very man
to please a Calmuck princess!"
"Monsieur, you are most kind. Thank you for your congratulations,"
replied Count Saxe, gravely. "If the Calmuck princess fancies me it
will only be because she has not seen you. Men of letters are highly
esteemed in Courland--where they are not much known."
Monsieur Voltaire took snuff meditatively--and I trembled for my
master.
"When you are Duke of Courland," said this tigerish monkey of a
Voltaire, "Peggy Kirkpatrick says, you will be 'cousin' to the Kings
of France and Spain." Madame Riano had bawled Count Saxe's affairs and
Courland all over Paris. "You will be 'most Illustrious' to the
Emperor, and 'most Illustrious and most Mighty' to the King of
Poland."
The villain stopped and took snuff again. I felt my choler rising, and
would have given my sword to have had my hand in his collar at that
moment; he had already been caned twice, and ought to have been
bastinadoed. Actually, persons were beginning to smile at Count Saxe,
who turned red and white both, as Voltaire kept on:
"The Duke of Courland has the right of coining money, which the King
of Poland has not. The revenue is three hundred thousand crowns, and
the army eighteen thousand men."
How the devil the fellow knew this, I can not tell.
"He also has the right of raising taxes with the consent of the
Diet--and if the Diet is handsomely treated, taxes can be raised as
high as the moon. And more."
Here he paused, and looked about him solemnly. Everybody was on the
broad grin, except Count Saxe, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur and myself. I
had almost gnawed my under lip off.
"The Duke of Courland is also pope. He is _summus episcopus_--which is
Pope of Courland."
At this--will it be believed?--there was, in spite of Count Saxe's
presence there, a shout of laughter. When it subsided a little, I, who
had not laughed at all, had something to say.
"Monsieur Voltaire," said I, "I have good news, great news for you.
This day, in the garden of the Tuileries, I saw two persons--nay, two
personages--that, it is well known, you have often expressed a strong
desire to see. Both of them were inquiring about you."
Monsieur Voltaire pricked up his ears; it was well-known that he loved
the society of the great. As for myself, the company listened to me,
because they had never known me to open my mouth before, at supper,
except to put something in it.
"Ah," said Monsieur Voltaire, putting his snuff-box in his pocket, and
speaking debonairly. "It was probably Cardinal Fleury--and the Duc de
Bourbon. I have reason to know they would like to make peace with me;
but it must be peace on my terms, not theirs!"
"No, Monsieur," I replied. "They were the Duc de Rohan and Monsieur
Beauregard!"
Now, these were the two men who had each caused Voltaire a caning, and
whom he had been burning to meet for revenge. When I spoke their
names there was a pause--Monsieur Voltaire's eyes lighted up like two
volcanoes. He turned on me a look that would have split a barrel, but
did not make me wink an eyelash. Then there was a shout, a brawl of
laughter, that rang to the ceiling and made the girandoles dance. I
think what made the company laugh so was the notion that I, Babache,
captain of Uhlans, should measure my wit against Monsieur Voltaire's,
and whether it were wit at all or not mattered little, for it served
its purpose; it drove Monsieur Voltaire away from the supper table. He
glared at the laughing faces about him, sat still a moment, then
rising, with a half bow, half scowl at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur,
stalked out of the room. It was well known that, like most wits, he
bore ridicule extremely ill, and could not stand being laughed at. As
for Count Saxe, he hugged me, and I had so many compliments made to me
that I was alarmed for fear I should be reckoned a wit.
When supper was over, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, by a sign, indicated
that Count Saxe was to remain after the rest had left. All took their
departure, including Regnard Cheverny, who bade me a civil adieu.
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur took Count Saxe into her boudoir. I went into
the saloon, where the candles were dying in their sockets. Presently
the two came out of the boudoir. Count Saxe had a casket in his hand,
which he gave to me. His eyes were full of tears, and he was silent
from emotion. Mademoiselle was smiling--smiling when she said to him:
"Trouble not yourself about returning it. I think I shall not have use
for money much longer. I am often ill--more ill than any one
supposes--and when I leave the theater I am more dead than alive. So
give me in return but an occasional thought--a word of remembrance--it
will be enough."
Count Saxe said something--I know not what; the beauty, the touching
sweetness, the majesty of this woman's love was enough to overcome any
man. He kissed her hand and her cheek in farewell; she gave me, as
always, some kind words, and we left her, bowing to her with the
reverence due a queen.
Count Saxe said not one word to me on our way to the Luxembourg. I
believe he shed some tears as he sat back in the corner of the coach.