A PILGRIM AND A WAYFARER
"We passed through the tunnel easily enough, except that Francezka"--he
spoke her name unconsciously--"was frightened to tears by the toads.
She, a Kirkpatrick, wept with terror at a harmless toad, but when it
comes to real danger, she is as brave as my sword. We got to the
market-place, just as the drenching rain came down. There was an inn
near-by, and we ran to that for shelter. We were well received, no one
suspecting anything, and ordered breakfast in a private room. We
heard the people about the inn discussing Count Saxe's escape, and we
concluded he had got away safely. It lifted a load from our hearts.
We were very merry while we were at breakfast. It seemed no more than
a delightful escapade, and we spoke of how we should tell it in the
saloons of Paris. We were afraid, however, it would sound very tame."
This was the way these two young people took their predicament to
heart--a predicament which involved the reputation of the one and the
life of the other!
"After we had breakfasted, Francezka retired to a room to rest, and I
slipped into the town to learn something of Madame Riano. It was then
about six o'clock, and cataracts of rain poured. I went straight to
the palace. Just as I came near it, a traveling chaise with an escort
of dragoons rolled out of the gates. On the box of the chaise sat old
Peter, Madame Riano's man, and within was Madame Riano, alone. She had
her head out of the chaise window, haranguing the dragoon officer upon
the iniquity of so treating a Kirkpatrick, the widow of a grandee of
Spain five times over, of the Ricos Hombres, whatever that may
be--whom the Queen of Spain rose to greet, and much more of the same
sort. To this the dragoon officer paid no attention, and the party
rattled and clattered off.
"Here was a predicament, was it not? I managed to get speech of some
of the servants in the palace, and found that Madame Riano's tongue
had got her in serious trouble with the Russians, with whom the
Duchess Anna Iwanowna had taken sides vigorously, and Madame Riano was
being escorted to the Russian frontier in consequence. I doubted if
they really meant to be so severe on her, but that was not the
question. It was how to put Francezka under proper protection,
according to Count Saxe's directions. I managed, by bribing the
servants, to be smuggled into the palace. I did not suppose the
duchess to be out of her bed, but I found she had not been in it since
the ball closed. She was bent on being revenged on Count Saxe. I had
done his bidding only too well, having told at least a dozen ladies of
his high regard for the duchess's worth--and she longed then for news
of his capture. Instead of that, she had found out that he had got
away.
"She stormed like fury at that, and in the midst of it Madame Riano
was brought in. I judge the meeting between the two ladies was like an
irresistible force meeting with an immovable body. The very rooks on
the palace roofs soared away, cawing in terror, and the dogs in the
kitchens, with their tails between their legs, skulked into hiding
places. You may imagine this was not an auspicious time for me to
appear with a request that the duchess take charge of Madame Riano's
niece. I own that when I at last succeeded in getting into the
duchess's august presence I thought she would eat me up, crunching my
bones and lapping my blood. However, I ventured to ask protection for
Mademoiselle Capello, and the duchess swore like a trooper--yes,
actually swore. She demanded I should tell her where Count Saxe
proposed to take refuge. I refused. She said:
"'Sir, you shall tell or you shall hang.'
"'Madame,' said I, 'I will neither tell nor hang.'
"Then, seeing it was time for adieu, I ran for it; a great hue and cry
was raised after me, but I managed to get out of the palace by an open
window on the ground floor, and by doubling and twisting like a hare,
I got back, unmolested, to the inn. Now, Babache, was there any
indiscretion there?"
I was forced to admit that I could not name any fault he had
committed; for surely, his not betraying Count Saxe was not a fault.
"The torrents of rain still continued, and it seemed to me best that
we should not lose a moment in getting out of Mitau; and so I told
Francezka. I proposed to her that we should cross the river by the
bridge of boats. This she at once agreed to; in fact, she proved the
most docile creature imaginable in moments of real danger. The
crossing of the bridge was not easy, the boats being rickety, and the
wind and rain making our footing insecure; but she accomplished it
without a sign of alarm--even with gaiety. Once on the other side of
the river, we walked briskly, our cloaks protecting us well, and kept
to the highroad. I thought it likely the town of Mitau would be well
searched for me before the seekers crossed the river. And presently
the rains ceased and the sun came out. It seemed as if good fortune
had adopted us, and we fared along gaily enough."
Yes, the two no doubt were in great spirits and much laughter, still
thinking it a mere escapade.
"Toward noon we reached a considerable village with a good inn and
posting house, and going boldly to the inn, I demanded horses. The
people seemed to be touched by our youth; they thought--" here a flush
showed under Gaston's tan and sunburn--"they thought we were a couple
running away to be married, and their sympathy for us was not
diminished by the liberal way in which I paid for all I wanted. Here
Francezka rested for an hour or two, and I worked out my plan for
reaching Uzmaiz with her, as that was our only refuge. I told her all
the risks we ran, and offered to follow any other plan which seemed
good to her. But she assured me of her confidence in me, and, in
truth, there was but one thing for us to do--to make for Uzmaiz. While
she was resting I had gone out and bought a handsome riding suit for
her; for it was clearly best that she should travel as my young
brother Francois. When I produced the riding suit, and told her gently
the necessity for wearing it, she turned pale and burst into tears.
What strange creatures women are, after all!
"She made no objection, however, and the only thing she showed
obstinacy about was that her own garments should be carried with us. I
believe she would have flatly refused to go if I had not agreed to
this; and when I suggested to her that it would be well to leave her
laced hat behind, she wept again. The laced hat has accompanied us on
all our travels, and it is in my charge now. Our friend Schnelling
took possession of her other clothes, and we must manage to get them
from him; he does not seem to be an ill-natured dog, and will, no
doubt, give them up without trouble. To go back to our travels. We got
the best post-horses in the village and started for Uzmaiz. Francezka
made the prettiest boy imaginable--" here we both glanced toward the
sleeping Francezka--"with her locks curling upon her shoulders. I gave
out that she was my brother, but nevertheless suspicion was excited by
all who saw her. Such grace and beauty as hers can not be disguised."
"Especially as you treated this alleged boy as if she were a
princess," I said.
"Would not you have done the same? At all events, we got three days'
travel away from Mitau, when, on the evening of the third day, we were
apprehended by these rogues. They professed to be a part of General
Bibikoff's army, but I knew from the beginning that they were merely
highwaymen. They sent the post-chaise back, and forced us to march on
foot with them. This was nothing to me; but oh, Babache--the spectacle
of the woman you love forced to tramp in the company of scoundrels
like these! A woman softly nurtured, whose delicate feet were bruised
with stones, with rough climbing, bearing it all courageously, never
an impatient or sorrowful word--no tears then--taking all the blame
for our situation upon herself--you can not imagine my sufferings!"
Perhaps I understood those sufferings better than he dreamed.
"No insult was offered to Francezka. I told them that if any were many
lives should pay for it; but I think they never contemplated that; we
were held for vulgar ransom, and that only. Ten days ago we were
brought to this place. I knew we were near Uzmaiz, although Schnelling
stoutly denied it. I do not know how the days have passed; only, the
strangest thing in the world has happened--Francezka told me to-day
she had not been really unhappy a moment since we left Mitau. The time
with both of us has flown fast. No one has molested us. We have spent
the hours together in these wild forests, watched, it is true, but
still virtually alone. At night Francezka has slept soundly on her bed
of boughs, while I watched; and she has risen at dawn, while I
slept."
"And she watched," I said.
Gaston blushed deeply and made no reply.
The fire was flaming redly; all else black--black sky, black earth,
black trees. My eyes turned again to the larch tree under which
Francezka slept. She had wakened, and raising herself upon her arm,
was gazing at me with those eloquent eyes of hers. I went over toward
her. She sat up on the edge of her bed of boughs, and disposing her
cloak about her, so as to hide her masculine dress, she said,
smiling:
"I knew you would come, and I thank you with all my heart. When do we
depart?"
"To-morrow morning, Mademoiselle," I replied.
"And why not to-night?" she asked, turning to Gaston Cheverny, who had
also approached.
"It would be difficult for us men to travel through these wilds by
night, and for you it would be impossible."
Then Francezka said to me, most earnestly:
"It is I, and I alone, who should be blamed for this. I should have
made Monsieur Cheverny leave me in the market-place at Mitau. I could
have taken care of myself, and I should not have brought all this
trouble and anxiety on Monsieur Cheverny or you, Captain Babache, and
on Count Saxe--unfortunate that I am."
"You could not have made me leave you, Mademoiselle," replied Gaston.
"And, besides, it is extremely dangerous in Mitau now for any one who
is supposed to be connected with Count Saxe. No, Mademoiselle, no one
is to blame, except these ruffians. Perhaps Madame Riano might have
been more prudent, but Madame Riano can scarcely be reckoned a prudent
woman."
Francezka smiled again.
"You are right. My Aunt Peggy has the spirit of forty men, and
Kirkpatricks at that, in her; and no risk has ever daunted her yet.
She is not likely, at her time of life, to learn prudence."
"But," cried Gaston, hotly, "she may well take risks for herself; but
for you--pardon, Mademoiselle--"
Francezka raised her hand warningly.
"My aunt takes no risks for me that she takes not for herself. God
made her entirely without fear, and so must we quarrel, not with her,
but with God, for making her what she is."
Francezka rose and came toward the little fire we had made. I noticed
some of Schnelling's rascals watching us through the screen of boughs,
but there was nothing to see except the three of us, sitting around
the fire under the solemn larches and firs, and our voices were kept
low.
We told her our only plan was to take her to Uzmaiz, and from thence
try to communicate with Madame Riano. None of us believed that any
very severe measures would be taken against Madame Riano, and we spoke
cheerfully of Francezka's speedily rejoining her. To this Francezka
listened attentively.
For an hour we sat thus, in the light of the fire's red blaze.
Francezka kept her mantle about her so that her masculine dress was
concealed; with her cavalier's hat upon her head, and her rich hair
curling upon her shoulders, as Gaston had described, she made a
beautiful boy--but one bound to excite suspicion. The innate coquetry
of her glance, the frequent changes of color, the sudden frowns and
smiles made any real masculine disguise impossible.
It was the first time I had really any conversation with Francezka.
How far removed in every way from the scene of our first meeting--the
ancient, well ordered garden of a splendid Paris hotel. But there is
certainly a subtile fascination in these singular and unexpected
meetings. No one with a taste for the wine of life, but relishes the
unusual, least of all Francezka; for I saw plainly, under all her
softness, a soul like Peggy Kirkpatrick's. And the more I knew of her
in after years, the more I knew that she had the courage of a Crusader
only partly concealed by a pretty, affected shyness. After she had
done her will, she trembled, hesitated, blushed, looked down in
timidity, looked up for approval--and was very ready with tears, when
she required them.
We three sat together for an hour, Francezka doing most of the
speaking. She told us something of her travels with Madame Riano. They
had set out from Paris very shortly after Count Saxe's departure, and
had spent nearly a year in visiting the various German courts. She was
unflinchingly loyal to her aunt, but she would have been more or less
than human could she have told without laughing of Madame Riano's
adventures, and Francezka was, herself, a wit, and a child of
laughter. She told us some of the most vivid events of their
scamperings over Europe--Francezka looking away meanwhile to avoid
seeing me smile, and sometimes covering her face with her mantle to
smother her merriment.
Scotch Peg had caused panics, earthquakes and convulsions at every
court she had visited, especially the smaller German ones, where the
pettiness, the rigidity and the absurdity of things were manifest to
others besides Peggy Kirkpatrick. She had hectored over grand dukes,
had flouted their mistresses, gibed at their prime ministers, and
argued with their ecclesiastics. All this would have been easily
checked in an ordinary woman; but Madame the Countess Riano del
Valdozo y Kirkpatrick, with a vast fortune, with a powerful backing at
the courts of France and Spain--for she never lacked friends--was a
considerable person, and as Francezka told us, with dancing eyes,
Madame Riano had made good her promise never to leave any place until
she was ready.
When the fire was dying to a bed of coals, Francezka rose to leave us.
She thanked me with tears in her eyes for coming after her; stipulated
that Schnelling must give up her clothes--I believe she would have
lived and died in that forest if she could not have got her garments
and her laced hat--and then, making us a curtsy, as if she were in her
aunt's great saloon at Paris, retired to her bed of boughs. Then I had
some supper. Gaston Cheverny, wrapping himself in his cloak, lay down
at Francezka's feet. I slept, sitting with my back against the trunk
of a tree; and though I had marched long and hard that day, I envied
the two their quiet and unbroken slumber from then until daylight
came.
We were up with the lark. The flush of dawn was in the pearly sky, but
under the thick black fir trees all was darkly shadowed still. We went
in search of Schnelling, who was already stirring. I had meant to ask
him civilly for Mademoiselle Capello's clothes, but this is the way
Gaston Cheverny, with the hot blood of twenty, went about getting
them:
"Schnelling," he said, "give us Mademoiselle Capello's clothes."
"Or what?" asked Schnelling laughing.
"There are two of us who will have your heart's blood!"
Schnelling, to my surprise, laughed again, and chose to accede to the
request with mock humility; but no doubt he saw that it was actually
the part of wisdom to give them up. Gaston Cheverny told me afterward
that when he took the clothes to Francezka she was overjoyed, and only
consented to wear her masculine attire after his representing to her
that she would tear her skirts to shreds in our march to Uzmaiz.
I was taken to Colonel Pintsch, who reiterated to me his story about
being a part of Bibikoff's force, which was a lie on the face of it,
and a Courland lie at that. And then, some breakfast having been given
us, we were suffered to depart. Schnelling went with us to guide us
through the gloomy mazes of the forest. It was a brilliant August day,
but all was dark in that melancholy region of chasms, rocks and hardy
trees of the North. Francezka walked between Gaston Cheverny and me.
We helped her as we could, over the rough places, but she was
singularly active, and made her way lightly along. Happiness shone in
her face. I began to fear that the lucky result of this catastrophe
would not go far toward teaching her prudence.
When we reached, by degrees, the open champaign country, Schnelling
bade us farewell, courteously. He had behaved handsomely about the
clothes, so Francezka bade him the friendliest possible adieu. Then,
with gaiety of heart, we fared on, at our leisure. When the forests
were left behind, we had before us green fields, sweet streams, mills
and homesteads, and a pleasant highroad. We marched slowly on
Francezka's account. Toward noon we passed a cottage, before which a
peasant was feeding a stout cart-horse. At the cottage door stood a
pleasant-faced woman, with a little army of bright-eyed children
around her. By an inspiration it came to me to offer the peasant a
gold piece for the use of his horse for Mademoiselle Capello, as far
as Uzmaiz. He gaped with delight at the sight of the money. Then,
Francezka, blushing, proposed to go into the cottage and put on her
own clothes. When she came out, dressed in her handsome robe of brown
cloth, richly embroidered, her crimson mantle, and her laced hat, the
little children all set up a cry of "Beautiful lady!" Francezka was
openly charmed by such innocent flattery. Even our old clear-the-way
boys paid her the tribute of an admiring grin; and Gaston Cheverny,
like a young fool, showed his rapture.
But in truth she seemed to me as beautiful then as the rosy dawn. We
perched her upon her charger, and put off again. Francezka was in the
highest spirits, and was a fountain of laughter, like a child. She had
seemed completely the woman up to this time, and now she seemed
nothing more than a joyful, unthinking child. Never was any merrier
journey than the last few miles, before we reached Uzmaiz. I judged
that the payment of the ten thousand crowns would about swallow up
Gaston Cheverny's modest estate; but apparently he gave no more
thought to it than he did to last year's birds' nests.
It was in the middle of the glorious summer afternoon that the fair
blue lake of Uzmaiz came into view. As soon as we reached the shore of
the lake we were perceived, and boats were sent for us. Count Saxe
awaited us at the landing on the island. When Francezka stepped ashore
he greeted her as if he had not paid ten thousand crowns out of his
military chest for her, so great was the chivalry and gallantry of
the man. Nor did he give the smallest indication of the cruel
embarrassment it was for a man in his position to have charge of a
young and beautiful girl, an heiress of high quality. Francezka
herself realized that and spoke to me of it later, with tears in
her eyes; but the helplessness of her situation swallowed up, with
every man of us, all thought of inconvenience.
The most habitable of the two or three rooms in the old tower had been
made ready for her. Count Saxe had given up his own paillasse.
Beauvais, who was the prince of valets, had got together such rude
comforts as the stores on the island permitted. It is astonishing how
much comfort can be achieved by simple means--so said Francezka, when
Count Saxe led her into her apartment. It had a window giving upon the
old terrace, where the rose trees were now in bloom and the ivy and
periwinkle shone darkly green upon the crumbling parapet. From this
window, where Beauvais had hung a blanket by way of a curtain, could
be seen the blue lake lying between the terrace and the sunset. On one
side were the far-off black gorges and purple forests we had left; and
on the other, the rich, green-knolled cultivated country, with fields
and orchards ripening under the August sun.
Francezka's arrival scarcely for a moment interrupted the work of
intrenching the island. As to her fate, or ours, no one could tell. We
waited and worked from day to day, thinking every morning might see
the Russians swarming toward us, and our great guns, of which we had
four good loud bellowers, to say nothing of smaller pieces, pouring
death from their iron throats upon every man who attempted to cross
that narrow blue strip of placid water. But yet, the Russians came
not.
Francezka to me, in those days, was a marvel. This girl, so rash, and
with a secret taste for danger, proved herself to be the most prudent
as well as the most modest of women when thrown upon herself. In this
she showed that vein of sound sense--Scotch sense, probably--that
distinguished Madame Riano in spite of her vagaries. At the end of all
Madame Riano's outlandish proceedings she generally came out
victorious with colors flying; or, if she was defeated, she, like
Count Saxe, sold her defeats so dearly that the victor was nigh
ruined.
Francezka kept herself as much as possible from the gaze of the three
hundred and twenty men who were her sole companions on this island.
The only time she showed herself was in the purple evening, when she
would come out upon the terrace and take the air. That was at the hour
when a little time of rest from our labors was given to us. Most of
the men spent it in sleep, but not all of us. Count Saxe always took
the occasion to go upon the terrace and pay Francezka his respects. So
would Gaston Cheverny and a few of the other gentlemen with us. I
never went unless I was sent for, but Francezka seldom let an evening
pass without beckoning to me, or sending for me to speak a few kind
words to me. There was nothing childish about her then. Not the most
experienced lady of the great Paris world could have surpassed her in
dignity. But withal, she was too guileless to conceal wholly her
preference for Gaston Cheverny. They had passed through such
adventures together; they had lived a whole lifetime in those weeks
of wandering, and it was not strange they had much to say to each
other.
At this time, after Francezka had talked with Count Saxe and others a
little, she would retire to her room in the half ruined tower. Then
Gaston would bring his viol and, sitting near her window in the
twilight, would sing to his own accompaniment. The singing helped us
all. It made us forget for a while our solitary and dangerous
situation--for we looked to be fighting for our lives and dying in the
last ditch at any moment. It seemed to make us once more members of
the great human family which lives peaceably and tranquilly, and whose
breath is not war and conquest and defeat and war again.
One of Gaston's favorite songs was that old, old one, _O Richard, O
mon roi, l'univers t'abandonne_. There was some mutual understanding
about this song between Francezka and Gaston Cheverny. They had sung
it together sometimes in those black wastes and wilds where they had
spent their time together. Gaston had several names besides
Gaston--Richard was one of them; so this song appeared to refer
particularly to him. When he sang it I noticed Francezka was always
listening at her window, and although the curtain was drawn, and the
room dark within, there would be some faint sign, such as a movement
of the curtain, which showed that the singer was heard and attended
to.
And so the days passed on. Every hour we improved our position, and at
last the day came, when Count Saxe said to us:
"One more week of work, and we can stay here as long as this island
stays."
But those last days were the most important of all. Work relaxed not,
and our time of rest in the evening was to be shortened still more.
And on this evening, as Gaston Cheverny sat in the twilight on the
terrace, all of us listening to his singing, after a day of labor, and
a night of toil to come, Gaston stopped suddenly, rising to his
feet--and so rose Count Saxe and all of us. For in the gray evening we
saw on the mainland a moving mass, like a huge black serpent,
unfolding itself from the distant woods and boscage upon the open
country. The Russians were upon us.
Instantly all was life and movement. Count Saxe did not, even in that
moment, forget Francezka, for tapping at her window, he said, when she
appeared:
"Mademoiselle, here are our friends, the Russians. Be not alarmed;
there is a place of safety for you below the terrace if there should
be fighting."
"I am not alarmed, Monsieur," quietly replied Francezka. She had been
reading by the light of a single candle that volume of Villon which
Gaston Cheverny had carried in his pocket or at his saddle bow ever
since we left France. She kept her finger at the page, and spoke in a
calm voice, although she grew a little pale. "Whenever and wherever
you will have me go, I am ready."
As Gaston Cheverny said, she was the most docile creature alive when
real danger was at hand. She knew how to obey like a soldier, and as
she came of good soldierly stock, this was not strange.
The Russians, however, having now got within hearing of us, sounded a
parley on the trumpet. Count Saxe instantly determined to send Gaston
Cheverny to the parley. Gaston had picked up some understanding of
the Russian language while we were at Mitau, and especially while he
was with Pintsch's highwaymen, and had been artful enough to conceal
it. So, Gaston, with a small escort, put off in a boat to meet the
Russian envoys. The main body had halted about a mile from the shore,
while we could see, by the starlight, a considerable number of them,
presumably officers, making for the point of land which dipped into
the lake.
We were all at our posts awaiting the outcome quietly. But one more
week, and we should have been secure! Now, we were very far from
secure; and we waited for Gaston Cheverny's return and the news he
might bring to know whether we should have a chance to fight, or be
marched off to Russian prisons--as we supposed. As for Francezka--it
was not yet time for her to seek a safe place--she came to the window
and stood there in the half darkness, her one candle being out.
I made bold for once to go up and speak to her without being invited.
"Mademoiselle," said I, "you may see your chateau of Capello sooner
than you think, for surely the Russians will not detain you, but will
provide you with a suitable escort and take you to a place of
safety."
"It will be as God wills," replied Francezka, as coolly as you
please.
We waited an hour before Gaston Cheverny's return. Count Saxe took him
into the other half-ruined tower room, where there were pens and ink,
and a candle in a bottle. I was prepared to write anything required.
Gaston Cheverny had a queer look on his face, like a man who has seen
for the first time, and unexpectedly, something hideous.
"It is General Bibikoff," he said to Count Saxe, "with twelve hundred
men, and he desires to speak with you, Monsieur, in person; and begs
that you will come to the parley; but by my knack of understanding the
Russian tongue, I found out that it is a ruse to get you away from the
island and carry you off. Twelve hundred against one man--and that
man, Count Saxe!"
Never saw I Maurice of Saxe in such a rage as at this scandalous
breach of military honor. He roared out his wrath like a wild
bull--oh, the lion voice of him! The old towers and escarpments echoed
with it. When he grew a little calm he said to Gaston Cheverny:
"Bring Bibikoff to me. I warrant this traitor will not hesitate to
trust my word."
Which was true; and I ever thought it the highest tribute to Count
Saxe's honor that this treacherous general who himself had no honor
knew that Maurice of Saxe had--and to it trusted his life and all his
fortunes.
Gaston Cheverny again crossed to the mainland. The evening was clear,
though moonless, and the pitying stars came out in the eastern sky,
while the west glowed warmly with the great sinking sun, that left a
track of glory behind it. In half an hour Gaston returned with
Bibikoff. Count Saxe awaited them in the tower room. The Russian was,
of course, blindfolded. He was a great bear of a man, with a goatlike
face, very dirty and unshaven, but splendidly dressed.
There was present at that interview no one except Count Saxe, General
Bibikoff, Gaston Cheverny and myself. When Bibikoff's bandage over the
eyes was removed he found himself standing before Count Saxe, from
whose eyes sparks seemed to be flying. And then in a voice that would
have shriveled up an honest man as if he were a dead leaf, Count Saxe
said:
"If I were not more generous than you I would poniard you on the spot.
You would have enticed me to a place where I should have been bagged
like a bird. Twelve hundred men against one! Thank you, my friend.
Tell that to your commanding general, Lacy, and see what he will say
to it."
Bibikoff, barbarian that he was, withered under this reproof.
Count Saxe, however, controlled his anger enough to fool Bibikoff to
the top of his bent. He pretended to be ready to surrender; asked for
ten days in which to remove his baggage and ammunition--and Bibikoff
consented. As a matter of fact, seven days more of work would have
made us secure in that place for a year against any force that could
be sent against us.
Bibikoff agreed, and actually looked ashamed when Count Saxe
stipulated in writing that General Lacy's signature should be secured
before the agreement was binding, for he was not the man to trust to a
scoundrel. Bibikoff also consented to that. General Lacy, he said, was
two days' march behind him, and that gave us two days more. Men have
done marvels in two days.
We breathed freer. It was by that time near eleven o'clock. The sun
takes long to sink in those far northern regions, and it was yet
twilight. We dared not resume our work until it grew darker; there
were about four good hours of darkness between sun and sun.
While we were still standing on the terrace we saw a commotion on the
mainland, and heard the trampling of many horses' hoofs, as a body of
cavalry appeared on the undulating plain; and there was a darker and
more slowly moving mass of foot soldiers behind them.
Our hearts, that had been suddenly raised to heights of joy, sank to
depths of woe. Such is war--one moment changes the face of all things.
Then we heard the Russian trumpets calling to us again. For the third
time that night Gaston Cheverny was sent across the lake. He returned
with a letter from General Lacy; for he had overtaken Bibikoff, and
was on the heels of him when supposed to be two days' march behind.
Count Saxe read this letter in the same tower room where he had
talked with Bibikoff. General Lacy knew Maurice of Saxe well. He
knew that, give him ten days' time and all the Russians, aided by
Satan himself, could not make him surrender. So he wrote that
Bibikoff's arrangement was void; that Count Saxe must retire at
daylight; that he, Lacy, declared upon his honor he had four
thousand men at hand, and if compelled to attack, no quarter would
be given. But Count Saxe was at liberty to retire, with a suite of
not more than four persons; and in that case all his people would be
paroled and would be allowed their personal arms and effects. General
Lacy was a Scotchman, as Madame Riano had said, and was as shrewd
as his countrymen generally are. He did not want the custody of
Maurice of Saxe--to hold him was like holding a wolf by the ears; and
the best possible means were taken to induce Count Saxe to depart
quietly--that threat of no quarter for his followers. Count Saxe
read this letter without a change of countenance. In good fortune
he was great; in evil fortune he was sublime. He was fleeing from
a kingdom where he had expected to rule; he had to meet the
laughter of that infernal town of Paris; he had to face, at some
time, Monsieur Voltaire; but he was as cool, as smiling, as debonair,
as ever I saw him. He merely said to us:
"General Lacy is a man of his word. We may believe all he says. If it
were for the cause of honor, well might we all remain here, and die as
becomes men. But the cause is the crown of Courland. For that, I can
not see brave men put to the sword. I am for surrendering and
departing."
Not a word was spoken by any of us present, but we gave a silent
acquiescence. I wrote and Count Saxe signed a few lines accepting
General Lacy's terms, and this was at once despatched.
Count Saxe assembled all of his followers upon the terrace, gave each
man a sum of money and appointed a rendezvous in Koenigsberg. I think
there was but one man who did not fully expect to return to Courland
the next year in triumph. I was that one man. I had ever believed
Count Saxe's star led him not to statecraft, but to war.
He named me first to go with him, Gaston Cheverny and Beauvais, and,
of course, Mademoiselle Capello. He told me to represent to Francezka
it would be better for her to assume her boy's dress on our retreat.
I went to the other end of the terrace, to Francezka's tower, and
knocked softly on the window. She opened it, and I told her in a few
words of our plans. She received my communication without blenching.
To tell the truth, anything might well have seemed better to her than
imprisonment in that half ruined tower, for that is what it really
came to. When I told her she must resume her brown riding suit, she
sighed, and her soft, pensive eyes filled with tears; but she made no
protest, and said she would be ready to start at any moment. By
heaven, she was a soldier!
In the golden dawn of the morning we saw Uzmaiz for the last time. An
odorous wind blew from the pine forests. The lake was like molten
silver as we pulled across it. Francezka sat silent and composed and
beautiful in the boat. She wore her riding suit, and her crimson
mantle, which, luckily, was sexless, was wrapped about her. I wondered
what eager, tumultuous thoughts were in her mind, for now she was
setting forth again, a pilgrim and a wayfarer. But the lives of four
men, without fear, stood between her and harm.