ONLY THE SUNNY HOURS
In those days of riding together along sunny highways, through wild
forests, and upon barren moorlands, Mademoiselle Capello came to speak
to me with the charming frankness that was a part of her nature.
Madame Riano was right in saying that much of Francezka's time was
spent in speculation upon what she should do when she had a perfectly
free hand. It was impossible for it to be otherwise, or that she
should fail to be a little intoxicated at the splendid vista opening
before her--youth, beauty, great riches and liberty, such as no French
woman knew. Outwardly, Francezka was a French woman; inwardly, she was
quite unlike a French woman. That mixture of Scotch and Spanish blood
is a hot and riotous brew. But she was ever lofty, pure of heart, and
with that modicum of strong Scotch sense that marked Madame Riano.
Francezka could but see the devotion of the two Chevernys to her. She
quietly disregarded Regnard, and though it was plain that Gaston had
touched her fancy, if not her heart, she sometimes gave herself the
airs of a princess toward him, which Gaston hotly resented; the more
so, as her fortune would seem to put her out of his reach. This
invariably ended by Francezka's bringing the whole battery of her
smiles and even her tears to bear on him, so that he was obliged to
make an unconditional surrender.
The resemblance between the Chevernys had grown stronger, as Gaston
lost his boyish look and became more the man of the world. The rest of
us often mistook one for the other of them, coming upon them in dark
places, or at a little distance; and sometimes by changing clothes and
horses, they diverted themselves at our expense; but Francezka always
knew them apart, and never once mistook one for the other.
Old Peter seemed to feel a secret grudge against Regnard Cheverny for
acquiring Castle Haret. The old serving-man's devotion to Jacques
Haret was touching.
"Sometimes it is years that I do not see him," he said to me; "but
always, when I do, it is the same greeting--'Well, Peter, my man, here
is your old master's son,' and a real embrace, such as gentlefolk give
each other."
"And if you happen to have any money about you, do you not hand it
over to Jacques Haret?" I asked.
Peter started, looked at me suspiciously and relapsed into sullen
silence. I made no doubt that these few careless words of kindness and
that condescending embrace were paid for in good, round, solid, yellow
gold pieces, for Peter got good wages and was saving of them.
He talked with me often about his niece, Lisa, and told me a pitiful
tale of having brought up two of Lisa's sisters--beautiful, unstable
creatures, who might have married well, in their own humble class, but
who went to the bad, each before her eighteenth year. The saddest
part of it was that this old man reproached himself continually with
some fancied carelessness on his part, that had driven these girls to
ruin. But I believe the only fault he could reproach himself with was
the same spirit of uncalculating devotion which had made him help
Francezka in her escapade in the open-air theater, and made him hand
over his humble wages to that rascal, Jacques Haret. Whenever I taxed
him with this, he feebly denied the gift, calling it a loan; but loans
to the Jacques Harets of this world are compulsory gifts.
Of Lisa, however, all good things were expected. He was never weary of
telling me of her goodness, her gentleness, the impossibility that she
should follow the road after her sisters. She was not, like them,
fatally gifted with beauty. She was not beautiful at all, old Peter
said. And he had kept her secluded in Brabant instead of taking her
with him to Paris. The old man's longing to see this girl, whom he had
not seen for two years, was enough to make one weep.
And so we fared along, through North Germany, with its shaggy forests,
its wild moors, its rugged mountains, into the softer air of South
Germany, of well-tilled fields, handsome towns, bright-flowing rivers,
its castles and country houses, until we reached the Rhine country.
Thence we followed the great river until we came opposite Coblenz,
where we crossed, and the town being pleasant, and the weather
continuing clear and mild, we spent some days of rest and pleasure.
Count Saxe also wished to get a chance to study the great rock
fortress on the other side of the river. He still passed as Count
Moritz--he was not looking for company then. As there were many
officers about, it was far from certain that he could preserve his
incognito, but, by great good fortune, he was not recognized.
On a misty evening--we were to leave Coblenz on the morrow--as I stood
watching the fiercely flowing river, and the rich vine country around
it, I saw an apparition--Jacques Haret. What he was doing in Coblenz,
I neither knew nor cared. He came up, greeted me with effusion, and
asked me if Count Saxe was going to visit his brother, the King of
France, as Henry of England had visited Francis the First--and this
with a grin which was most distasteful to me. I desired to fling the
fellow into the ditch near-by, but I have lived long enough in this
world not to provoke a battle with a wit, if I can help it. So, I
referred him to Count Saxe for information; and even Jacques Haret
dared not bell the Saxe cat. I turned to go to the inn where Count
Saxe and his party were lodged, and Jacques Haret accompanied me, as
if I had invited him.
When we reached the inn, it was near supper time, and leaving him very
unceremoniously, I went to Count Saxe. He was about to join Madame
Riano at supper in her rooms, for we usually dined and supped as one
party, and we proceeded thither. Madame Riano, Francezka and the two
Chevernys awaited us. The cloth was laid, and by accident, so it
seemed, Peter had put an additional place at the table. I mentioned
that I had come across Jacques Haret, for I made no doubt the fellow
would intrude himself upon us, and I wished to prepare Mademoiselle
Capello for his advent. By my advice and Gaston Cheverny's, she had
not mentioned to Madame Riano her acting in Jacques Haret's company in
the garden. There was no telling to what heights Madame Riano's wrath
might rise; she would be capable of wringing Jacques Haret's neck if
she had a good mind to, and as the thing was not suspected by any
except a few persons who had seen the last performance, it was
undoubtedly best to keep it quiet.
Francezka blushed a little at the mention of Jacques Haret's name. She
was fully sensible of her folly and danger in acting in his company,
but the follies of a young girl of fourteen are easily excused.
Scarcely had I spoken of Jacques Haret, when the door opened and the
gentleman himself appeared. He had come to pay his respects to Madame
Riano, to tell her the latest news of Paris, and, incidentally, to get
his supper. I understood why old Peter had put the extra place at the
table.
Jacques was better dressed than usual, and, as always, handsome and at
his ease. Madame Riano, who had ever a sneaking tolerance for the
fellow, received him civilly, as did the others present. Jacques Haret
speedily made it known that he had a whole budget of Paris news, but
would by no means tell one single item, until Madame Riano, driven
thereto by a raging curiosity, invited him to join us at supper.
Madame Riano could not forbear asking him. Jacques accepted with the
finest air in the world, seated himself with us and unfolded his
napkin. Old Peter's face shone with joy, and his usually melancholy
eyes were full of delight.
Once certain of a good supper, with excellent wine, Jacques Haret
opened his bundle of news. He told us everything that had happened at
Versailles. Old Cardinal Fleury's fall from power was much to Jacques
Haret's relief, and the cardinal's successor, Jacques thought, would
make no trouble about his coming to Paris, and if he were clapped in
prison, there would be at least a _lettre de cachet_ and the Bastille,
as became a gentleman and a remote connection of the Kirkpatricks, and
not the common prison of Paris; at which Madame Riano desired Peter to
see that Monsieur Haret's glass was kept filled. The king was getting
tired of being virtuous, Jacques told us, and now the cardinal was out
of the way, we might look for some gay doings. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur
was winning all hearts as ever at the Comedie Francaise, but her
health was visibly breaking. My master questioned him closely on this
point and found, as usual, Jacques Haret knew what he was talking
about. Monsieur Voltaire was still in England, but he was expected to
return to Paris shortly, his exile being reckoned at an end. I made no
doubt privately that the creature would be on hand in plenty of time
to write some pasquinades about my master.
Many other things Jacques Haret told us; and for people who have once
lived in Paris and have been away for a year and a half, it may be
supposed there was much we wished to hear--I, least of all, because I
always thought Paris a diabolical sort of place, and expected to like
it none the better for what it would have to say about Count Saxe's
expedition to Courland.
Jacques was good-humoredly polite to Mademoiselle Francezka, who was a
little embarrassed in his company. The two Chevernys regarded him
with the tolerance of youth for an entertaining fellow, and he seemed
to have neither grudge nor envy of Regnard Cheverny's possession of
Castle Haret.
We sat late, and, before we parted, Jacques Haret had arranged to
travel with us, riding one of the lead horses. I knew not how it came
about, but the whole company submitted, as always, to being taxed for
Jacques Haret's benefit. And, as he had got a horse out of somebody, I
made no doubt he would get his tavern bills paid and perhaps a
complete new outfit by the same sort of diplomacy.
Next morning we resumed our journey. Francezka, that day, rode
a-horseback. She had not much fancy for Jacques Haret's society, as
soon as her appetite for news was satisfied, so one or the other of
the Chevernys rode with her the whole day.
From the Rhine at Coblenz to Brussels is a short and easy road, and
from thence we entered that rich country of Brabant, which famine
never touches, which war can not ruin, and which is always fruitful
and blessed of Heaven. And at last, on a fair October afternoon, we
came within sight of the chateau of Capello.
For the last stage or two, Francezka had been so eager to get forward
that her spirit far outran her body. Old Peter had been sent ahead to
make the chateau ready for company. Mademoiselle Capello took horse on
that last day, and choosing me to ride with her, galloped furiously
ahead. Regnard Cheverny had no mind to be left behind, and he joined
us. For once, Francezka was openly rude to him. She checked her horse
and turning to him said, in that soft and insinuating tone with which
she veiled all of her impertinences:
"Monsieur, will you kindly ride back and ask your brother, Monsieur
Gaston, to give me the pleasure of his company?"
No man could disguise his choler better than Regnard Cheverny, but
that he was angry, his eyes and his face showed. He replied, however,
with much smoothness, to her:
"Mademoiselle, I am the poorest hand in the world at delivering
messages from a lady to a gentleman. I always forget them, or get them
wrong. So, I will ride back, but if you wish my brother's company, you
will be compelled to find another messenger."
And he rode back.
Francezka turned to me, her face sparkling with smiles. Our horses
were at a standstill on the highway, the chaise and the rest of the
party a good mile behind us already.
"Good Babache, was I not clever to get rid of him?" she said.
"Very clever, Mademoiselle," I said. "But why should you choose to get
rid of him? He is a well-appearing man, of great accomplishments, and
good estate. Why were you so severe with him?"
"Do you really wish to know why?" She moved her horse up close to me
so she could whisper in my ear. "Because he is always seeking my
company; and because, in truth, I have more than enough of his now."
"Is that ground for ill-treating a man?" I asked.
"Assuredly, if a woman mislikes him as I mislike Monsieur Regnard
Cheverny."
"But you show great good-will toward Monsieur Gaston Cheverny--and
they are as like as two peas."
"Outwardly, yes. Inwardly, never were two men so unlike. Come now,
Babache, do you not love Monsieur Gaston?"
"Yes, with all my heart."
"And do you not love Monsieur Regnard?"
I saw whither she was leading me, but I could only say:
"No--I do not love him."
"Well--they are as like as two peas."
She turned her head at the sound of galloping hoofs. Gaston was riding
toward us. The blood that poured into Francezka's cheeks, the light
that shone in her eyes, showed plainly how welcome was his society. I
afterward asked Gaston if Regnard had given him a message from
Francezka. He said no; but seeing Regnard return with a black
countenance, he thought to try his luck with mademoiselle--and was
rewarded for so doing.
We went forward at a smart pace. Every foot of the way recalled to
Francezka and Gaston their childish days, and they talked with the
greatest animation.
We were skirting the forest and heights of the Ardennes, and at last,
the highway bringing us upon a broad open plateau, the chateau of
Capello lay before us in all its beauty. At the sight, Francezka
stopped her horse, and, putting her hands to her face, fairly burst
into tears of joy.
Little did I think how I should come to know that place; of what I
should see and do and suffer there. I only saw in it the pleasantest
abode that man ever contrived for himself.
The chateau itself reminded one much of the Grand Trianon, which I
have often seen in the park of Versailles. It had the same form but
was larger. There was the graceful facade with its sweeping wings, the
curving marble balustrade of the terrace, the windows, large and many,
on which the autumn sun shone red. But the situation of the chateau of
Capello had far more of natural beauty than the Trianon. It lay in the
lap of the distant Ardennes, whose blue heights and rich woods marked
the horizon. Below the chateau the ground sloped gradually toward a
vast meadow-land, with many beautiful groves of aspens, and tall
ranked Lombardy poplars. On the slope lay the park and pleasure
grounds of the chateau. A silvery river made its devious way about
this fair domain. It washed one side of the chateau, where it had been
turned into a canal built like those of Venice, with a marble
banquette ornamented with statues and an ornate bridge; but after thus
playing the court lady for a short space, the river again became a
woodland nymph and ran away, laughing, to the woods and fields. On one
side of the chateau a rose garden was laid out, not too primly, and
many other gardens; while on the other side, overlooking the hedgeway
and quite screened from the chateau by groves of linden trees, and by
great clumps, almost groves, of huge old lilacs, was a plaisance, in
the formal Italian style.
These Italian gardens are common enough, and all much alike, but in
some strange manner, this one at Capello seemed to me to arrest
attention at once. Perhaps it was because it appeared solitary,
although in reality it was near the chateau. It had several falls,
with marble steps bordered with box, with many yew trees, and statues
of nymphs and fauns. At the very top was placed a statue of Petrarch,
and on one side of it was a moss-grown marble bench, and on the other,
an ancient sun-dial. The whole scene might have been transported from
Petrarch's land.
Below this garden lay a little lake, still and dark and cool. Tall
cedars of Lebanon fringed its banks both on the east and the west, so
neither at morning nor at evening did the waters shine and glow, but
always lay somber and with a melancholy loveliness, in the midst of
that joyful landscape. As I looked at this distant still lake and
garden, a poignant feeling came upon me that I had seen them before,
and that they held for me a story--oh me! oh me! It was as if my soul
had visited them in dreams--those dreams when I told Francezka of my
love and she listened to me--yes, listened to me. I had to force
myself to turn my eyes from that enchanted garden and lake of pensive
beauty.
We were riding forward rapidly, and when we came within close view of
this garden, Francezka clapped her hands wildly.
"There, there, just as I have seen it in my dreams!" she cried. "I
never dreamed of Capello in my life that I did not dream of the lake
and the Italian garden--and I have not seen them since I was six years
old! That statue is Petrarch's--and on the base is an inscription from
the sonnet,
La vita fugge, e non s'aretta un ora,--
I forget the rest."
"I remember," said Gaston, riding by her side.
"E la morte vien dietro a gran giornate.
I recall that statue well."
Whether he really remembered it, or being well learned in poetry, took
up the thread from memory, I know not, but it delighted Francezka. She
turned to him two lambent eyes. They both laughed with delight;
neither one of them seemed to understand the gloom of the words they
spoke so lightly. Francezka continued in a voice half laughter and
half tears:
"And around the sun-dial are the words:
Horas non numero nisi serenas--
I read it--'Only the sunny hours I mark.' Oh, what serene and sunny
hours shall I have in that garden! There is no spot at Capello I love
so well--no spot in the world I love so well. It shall not be
touched--it shall remain green and mossy and secluded just as it is
now. Much of my life shall be lived in that old garden."
Her enthusiasm was quite extraordinary. The rich blood was mounting to
her cheek, her vivid face became more vivid. It seemed to me as if
even her dark hair glowed more deeply.
We entered the great park of the chateau by an avenue of horse
chestnuts. The path was singularly varied and charming. Although it
was autumn and the woods were bare and the earth was brown, the beauty
of the spot seemed only delicately veiled. I have seen many grander
places, although this was grand for a private person; but for
sweetness of air, for soft repose, for a calm and penetrating beauty,
always I prefer this chateau of Capello. The Scotch gentleman,
Francezka's father, must have had uncommon skill in choice. We rode up
the broad esplanade in front of the chateau. Smoke was coming from the
chimneys, the great doors were wide open, and old Peter, smiling with
pleasure, was standing there with a respectable staff of servants he
had collected. Francezka sprang from her horse, ran up the marble
steps, Gaston Cheverny hotly pursuing, and entered under her own roof,
crying, with smiles and tears:
"This is my _Joyeuse Entree_, as the old Brabantians had it! Welcome,
welcome--Monsieur Cheverny and my own good Babache!"
We entered a magnificent hall, with many suites of rooms. On the left,
was a handsome red saloon, and on this side, overlooking the bright
waters of the canal was a gallery of Diana, with the story of Actaeon
torn by his dogs told in panels on the walls. Beyond this still was a
small yellow saloon, with a large fireplace in it. Francezka's father,
it would appear, did not take kindly to the huge porcelain stoves of
the region, and followed the custom of his country in having
fireplaces in which great logs of wood were burned. Francezka ran from
room to room, Gaston Cheverny following her. I walked after them,
examining things at my leisure; among others, in the red saloon,
recognizing the portraits of Francezka's parents. Both of them had
died early, and their portraits were those of youth. Francezka was a
mingled likeness of both. She had not the exact and classic beauty of
her mother, for Francezka's beauty was highly irregular; but I fancy
it was the more seductive. And she had, in a great degree, the esprit
and the high-sparkling glance of the Scotch captain.
Among the servants and dependents who had assembled for the great
occasion, old Peter did not fail to point out to me his niece, Lisa.
She was a quiet-footed, slim little creature. She was not homely at
all, contrary to my expectations, and had very soft shy eyes, that
looked at one like the eyes of a bird that is shot.
In a little while the rest of the party arrived. Francezka met Madame
Riano and Count Saxe at the entrance to the chateau, assuming, from
the beginning, the air of being chatelaine of her own house--and she
scarce sixteen! And with such grace, such intelligence! She was
extremely polite now to Regnard Cheverny, being in her own bailiwick,
and he seemed to cherish no memory of her past behavior. She was
equally polite to Jacques Haret, for whom old Peter had reserved two
of the best rooms in the chateau. All of us, however, were well
lodged, and Count Saxe was given the apartment in which Louis le Grand
had once been quartered.
My master was full of compliments on the chateau, as well he might be.
We retired to our rooms when it was growing dusk, and in an hour
supper was announced. It was served in the little yellow saloon, which
was a favorite one of Francezka's father, and was likely to be favored
by her, too. It was a merry supper table, with white waxlights and
red firelight shining on it, and we had the wine of the gods. The
Scotch gentleman had provided his cellars with vintages worth the
housing.
Francezka chose to appear at supper in a dress new to us--the dress of
Brabant, with the lace lappets falling over her hair, the lace apron,
and red-heeled shoes, with clocked stockings. Whether she was
bewitching or not, one may judge.
We sat long at table. Gaston Cheverny sang songs, then we sang in
chorus. Jacques Haret, the rogue, was a pleasant table companion, and
exerted himself to make the time pass joyfully. It was late before we
parted, and then, in good spirits. My chamber, as always, was next
Count Saxe's. I tumbled into bed, and for the first time since I had
crossed the French frontier, eighteen months before, I slept with both
eyes shut. There was no need to keep one's pistol within reach, no
need to rise through the night to be sure the horses were not stolen,
no need to sleep with a part of one's clothes on, for fear of fighting
or running before morning. One could sleep in peace. So slept I, and
so snored I that Count Saxe waked me up with swearing at me in the
middle of the night from the next room.