THE DRENCHED HEN
We remained the rest of the month at the chateau, being minded to
depart the first week in December. The time passed as before with
satisfaction to all. Gaston Cheverny was to remain in Brabant until
the new year, when he was to join us in Paris. We knew not what
Regnard's plans were; if he knew them he kept them to himself. I had
rather expected Regnard Cheverny to travel with us, and made sure that
Jacques Haret would never lose the chance of getting to Paris free of
charge, as he might have done with us, for Count Saxe traveled
splendidly, with led horses, and one more person would make but little
difference. But to my amazement he made no proposition to go with us.
There might be good reasons for Regnard Cheverny's determination to
stay where he was. He, with his two servants and five horses, was
quartered at Gaston's house; and very pleasant quarters they were, for
Regnard had every privilege of the master of the house and no
responsibilities whatever. His furnishing of Castle Haret was an
excellent excuse to keep him near Mademoiselle Capello. He asked Count
Saxe to apply for additional leave for him, which was easy enough to
get; but a young officer who wished promotion as much as Regnard
Cheverny did, and no more aspiring man ever lived, was likely to be
forgotten if he remained away from Paris too long. So, I took it, he
had a strong motive for staying in Brabant.
I often wondered what Jacques Haret's feelings must be, when Regnard,
as he often did, talked openly about the new plans for Castle Haret.
But Jacques showed his usual cool and unruffled front. It is
astonishing how many good and even great qualities a man may possess
and still be a scoundrel of the first water. Jacques would sometimes
take a laughing but advisatory tone with Regnard.
"Do not, my dear fellow," he would say, "be eaten up with ambition to
shine before kings. I remember once, in my childhood, the Duc
d'Orleans, the king's brother, came to Brabant, and was to dine at
Castle Haret. All sorts of things were to be done. In the lake there
was to be an island, from which concealed music played. But this
island, mind you, was to move about. It was a thing of poles and beams
extending from a boat, with twelve stout rowers, who were hidden by
plants and vines. Old Peter here, then a young man, contrived it, and
my father expected to receive a court appointment for that island.
Well, the duke came, was entertained at dinner, ate the wing of a
chicken, was taken to the lake and did not notice the island moved
until my father in an agony called his attention to it. Then the duke
went back, slept until supper time, looked for about ten minutes at
some fireworks that my father had ordered all the way from Paris and
had near ruined himself by--and left the next morning, with an
influenza, which his Highness swore he had got at Castle Haret. My
father got nothing except the influenza, for all his money and pains.
So do not you, my young friend, try your luck with princes."
Regnard did not like this speech, and replied tartly that the
Chevernys had generally succeeded where the Harets had failed; which
was true enough.
I continued to be puzzled to know why Jacques Haret should remain.
Gentlemen of his kidney need a great town to operate in, not a far-off
province. And what would he live on? For Gaston Cheverny, however
hospitable he might he, would not allow Jacques Haret a permanent
footing at the Manoir Cheverny; and besides, Gaston would shortly
follow us to Paris--and he was not a rich enough man to pay for
Jacques Haret's company on the way. There was little question about
Jacques Haret's means of livelihood for the present, for we knew well
enough that the excellent wages paid old Peter found their way into
Jacques Haret's pocket. And not only that, but one day, going to
Peter's cottage, to make some inquiry about our horses, I noted Lisa,
the dove-eyed girl, at work upon a fine cambric shirt--finer than any
I, Babache, ever wore, or expect to wear. It was not for old Peter
certainly; and if not for him, it must be for Jacques Haret--and my
surmise turned out to be true.
At last the time came for us to say goodbye to the chateau of Capello,
and to start for Paris, that town of many devils, some of them women.
On the evening before our departure, all of us who had left Koenigsberg
together, and Jacques Haret, assembled at the chateau. Count Saxe and
I were to take the road for Paris at daylight. All expressed regret
at our separation; we had been associated closely for three months, in
battle, in siege, in flight, and in sweet repose; and we parted with
those feelings of regard that our mutual vicissitudes would naturally
inspire. We had an evening of pleasant converse; Gaston Cheverny sang
for us, not forgetting the song that he and Francezka loved so
much--_O Richard, O mon roi_--and Francezka accompanied Gaston on the
harpsichord. Jacques Haret was, as usual, the life of the company, and
Regnard Cheverny was not eclipsed by any one present.
Our last farewells took place in the red saloon. Madame Riano paid us
the handsomest compliments possible, and expressed the hope, or rather
the conviction, that she would have the pleasure some day of
entertaining us at her ancestral seat in Scotland, under the rule of
Scotland's lawful king--for so she called Prince Charles Edward
Stuart. She represented that this ancestral seat, somewhere in the
wilds of Scotland, was a far more magnificent place than the chateau
of Capello, or the Hotel Kirkpatrick. Madame Riano always pictured
Scotland to us as a land flowing with milk and honey, of unparalleled
richness and splendor, of stupendous wealth lavishly expended. I have
sometimes been told the contrary of this. Our healths were drunk, to
which Count Saxe responded as only he could respond. We toasted the
ladies, drank to our reunion, and when the clocks were striking
twelve, we said adieu.
I can never forget Mademoiselle Capello on that night: her beauty, in
which archness and pensiveness alternated, her cheerful hope of
meeting, together with her sincere regret at parting, the shining of
her dark eyes, the rope of pearls round her milk-white throat, the
shimmer of her yellow satin gown--all--all were in my mind waking and
sleeping, for long afterwards. She gave me her hand to kiss in
farewell, and then, holding my rough palm in her two velvety ones, she
said to Count Saxe:
"Will you promise me, Count Saxe, if ever I need Babache, you will let
me have him?"
"I promise you, Mademoiselle," gallantly replied Count Saxe. "I could
not refuse you even the most valuable thing I have; and if that day
comes, I only ask that Babache may serve you as faithfully as he has
served me."
All of which was sweet music to my ears.
At daylight next morning we were in the saddle. As we rode out of the
courtyard in the pale December dawn I saw a light in Francezka's
chamber.
We took the familiar road past the Italian garden, the statues showing
ghostlike in the cold gray light, the lake a sheet of ice. Soon the
chateau of Capello was behind us. The two Chevernys joined us a mile
from the chateau and rode with us a stage. Count Saxe was cheerful, as
always, and spoke with enthusiasm of again seeing Mademoiselle
Adrienne Lecouvreur. She was one whose money a man might lose, and if
honorably lost, might safely face. Is not that high praise?
At the end of the first stage the Chevernys bade us adieu. It was but
for a brief time with Gaston, for however he might cherish a lady in
his heart, his duty as a man came first; and with a small estate, it
behooved him to be very active in his profession of arms, that he
might not be known as a laggard and sluggard. Count Saxe contemplated
the buying of a regiment as soon as a fit opportunity came--he shortly
after bought the regiment of Spar--and Gaston Cheverny must needs be
on the spot, if he wished, as he needed, promotion. Regnard's ampler
fortune made him freer than Gaston, but he was not a man likely to
forget his own advancement. We saw them depart with regret, and then
increased our own pace. We traveled rapidly, and on the third evening
after leaving the chateau of Capello, our horses' hoofs clattered
against the stones of Paris. Oh, that fateful town! I have always had
a fear of it--a dread of its fierce people, women as well as men; and
though I was born there, I think I never spent a comfortable day there
after I cut my milk-teeth.
Instead of going to the Luxembourg, where it was understood quarters
were reserved for Count Saxe, he went to a small inn and preserved his
incognito for the present. As soon as we had supped, Count Saxe sent
me to see Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, to ask for an interview. I went to
the Theatre Francais, and being recognized--for it is not easy to
forget so ugly a man as I am--I was permitted behind the scenes.
The play was that very _Herod and Mariamne_ of Monsieur Voltaire's
that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur had played two years before, which
Jacques Haret had so cleverly burlesqued, and in which Mademoiselle
Capello had been so rashly brilliant. From the wings I watched the
house--well lighted, for the king's Majesty was there, looking
frightfully bored in the royal box--and a mob of fine people. I
presumed, from seeing Voltaire's piece played, that he was at last
home from England, and sure enough, there he was, sitting in a box. He
had but lately arrived, as I afterward learned. He looked well
dressed, well fed and very impudent. The people seemed to relish his
presence, for after the second act there were cries for him, to which
he responded. He was sitting with some ladies of rank--catch that
notary's son appearing in public except with the great! But I admit he
wrote some good things.
I was distressed to see the changes that two years had made in
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She was paler and slighter than ever, and
although she acted her part with sublime fire and energy, it was plain
that the soul within her was driving her frail body as the spur drives
a tired horse.
At the end of the second act, after the people had shouted themselves
hoarse with delight, I asked to be shown to Madame Lecouvreur's
dressing room--for she was no longer able to go to the foyer during
the interval between the acts, so a snuffy old box keeper told me. I
knocked at her door and she bade me enter.
She lay on a couch, and was panting with fatigue. The paint on her
face made her look ghastly at close range. By her sat Monsieur
Voltaire; and I will say that I felt a softening of the heart toward
him at that moment which I had never known before. Those fiery eyes of
his were full of tenderness and soft pity; he had left his fine
friends for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, and sat by her, fanning her. And
when he spoke to her his voice had more of the human in it than one
could have thought.
"Come, come, Mademoiselle," he was saying, "you must not imagine
yourself ill. If you do, what will become of me? Who will make the
world believe I can write plays, if Adrienne can no longer act them?"
A mournful little smile came upon Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's reddened
lips, and she answered:
"You do not need me, Monsieur, to prove that you can write comedies or
tragedies or anything else. All the muses adopted you at your birth,
and if ever Adrienne Lecouvreur is remembered it will be because she
was chosen by you sometimes to play the immortal parts you created."
There was not one word of flattery in this, I knew; each uttered the
eternal verities.
Then I appeared.
When Mademoiselle Lecouvreur saw me she sprang up with a miraculous
strength--she knew that I was the _avant-courier_ of Maurice of Saxe.
I had no mind to deliver my master's message in Monsieur Voltaire's
ears, but he knew what my coming meant, and scowled at me. He was
furiously jealous of my master with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur.
I thanked Mademoiselle Lecouvreur for her kind greeting; her poor
hands trembled so when she took the note my master had sent that she
dropped it. Monsieur Voltaire handed it to her, and saw plainly the
awkward writing in it--for I make no pretense that Count Saxe could
have earned his living as a writing master. But although Voltaire must
have guessed it all, he forbore to gibe at the letter. Love and pity
had made him almost human.
There was, however, no room for him or me either in the room then.
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur longed to be alone with her treasure of a few
scrawled lines, and both of us went out. The door passed, we were in
the foyer. That door shut out our truce, and Monsieur Voltaire, in the
presence of a number of persons, undertook to make me his butt on
Count Saxe's account.
"So, Captain Babache," he said, "we hear that Count Saxe is on his way
from Courland, and he is probably in Paris now."
This put me in a cruel predicament, for Count Saxe did not wish his
arrival known until he had seen the king; but Monsieur Voltaire was
the man for putting people in cruel predicaments.
I mumbled something and looked about me for an avenue of escape. I never
was ashamed to run away from an enemy too strong for me. But Voltaire
blocked the way for me, his eyes blazing with merriment--those eyes
that burned a hole in one--and a number of persons collected about
us. The foyer was crowded, and wherever Monsieur Voltaire was he
became a beacon light; no one could help watching him or listening to
him, unless, of course, Count Saxe was present.
"I am considering," said Monsieur Voltaire, with a wicked grin, "of
making a new comedy--something on the order of a roaring farce. Count
Saxe's expedition to Courland will make excellent material. First act:
Count Saxe going forth with Captain Babache and three hundred Uhlans,
to conquer the universe. Second act: Count Saxe conquering the
universe and getting clapped into a closet in the Grand Duchess Anna
Iwanowna's palace at Mitau, where, I hear, she and her waiting maids
and a little dog kept him prisoner for a month, from whence Peggy
Kirkpatrick at last released him. Third act: Count Saxe arrives in
Paris. Is sent for to relate his adventures to his Majesty. Majesty
weeps--that is to say, laughs until he cries. Count Saxe begs to be
sent to the Bastille until the town is done laughing at him. Majesty
cruelly refuses. Count Saxe threatens to kill himself, and goes and
eats a couple of cold fowls. Epilogue: spoken by Babache in the
character of Bombastes Furioso. Messieurs, you will see that I am a
prophet."
"Monsieur, if you are a prophet," I replied, near choking with
chagrin, "you may recall your own definition of a prophet. When the
first knave met the first fool, then there was the first prophet!"
There was laughter at that, but greater laughter still when Monsieur
Voltaire proceeded to inform the crowd that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur
had taught Count Saxe all he knew, except war, of which no one could
teach him anything, and spelling, which he never could learn. He also
chose to quote my master as saying that in his youth he was exactly
like the devil, as he always learned what he was not told to learn;
and the people present continued to laugh uproariously. They were of
that class of persons who would have laughed just as readily at
Monsieur Voltaire had my master been there to hang the notary's son on
the peg where he belonged.
In the midst of it the door to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's room opened,
and she herself softly called me to her. I went, still smarting at the
laughter and the heartless banter of those Paris people who thought it
fine to laugh at Monsieur Voltaire's gibes at Count Saxe. Oh, what I
have not suffered for my master through that upstart son of a notary!
And yet, I can not deny that the fellow had great parts and shining
wit!
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur bade me to tell Count Saxe to come to her
house after the theater. With her usual goodness she asked concerning
my health and welfare. No gentler, kinder heart ever beat than
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's.
I slipped back to the inn and gave Count Saxe the message sent him by
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. He had an interview with her that night at
her house. When he returned he looked more serious than he had done at
the prospect of losing Courland, for he saw that the world would soon
have to part with that true heart and noble artist, Adrienne
Lecouvreur. He said only a few words about her, but they came from his
heart of hearts. I am aware that some people say he had no heart, but
I, Babache, know better; else would I have died like a felon the day I
first spoke with him face to face.
Presently, as we sat together in his dingy room at the inn, after the
midnight bells had spoken, he said:
"Babache, I have found out enough since I have been in Paris to show
me that I must see the king before twenty-four hours are over. The
court goes to Versailles early to-morrow morning. Arrange that we go
there to-morrow afternoon in good state."
With that he tumbled into bed. I was up at daylight, preparing for the
journey. I wished for Gaston Cheverny then--he would have been of
infinite service to me. My master had a magnificent gilt coach stored
in Paris, and also twenty liveries of green and gold. I had to get
these things out, have them dusted and overhauled, find six horses for
the coach, and others for the outriders--in short, do the work of a
week in a day. But it was done nevertheless; and at two o'clock on the
next day Count Saxe set forth with an equipage and retinue worthy of
him. I rode in the coach with him, and we reached Versailles before
sunset.
It was a cold, bright, December afternoon, the sun near sinking--we
were determined to arrive before sunset, lest our enemies should say
we had sneaked in by night to avoid being seen. But we rolled up to
the foot of the grand staircase, with a rattle and a roar, and a color
and a shining which showed that Maurice of Saxe was not avoiding any
man's eyes--or woman's, either.
Now, my master had what is called the grand entree; that is to say, he
could go to the king whenever he wished. So, without saying "by your
leave" to anybody, he stepped out of his coach and began ascending the
grand staircase. There were numbers of people about, and all of them
stared at him, and many spoke, Count Saxe returning their salutations
cordially. We mounted leisurely. Midway the stairs we met Cardinal
Fleury, with his private chaplain, descending. The cardinal was a
mild-mannered old man, and seeing Count Saxe, he stopped and spoke to
him.
"You are back from Courland, then, Monsieur," said the cardinal,
politely. "No doubt you are pleased to be once more among polite
persons. I hear the Courlanders are very wild and wicked people, with
no fear of God."
"Your Eminence, we are all of us great sinners, as well as the
Courlanders, that is the truth," answered Count Saxe, "and I will
leave your Eminence to meditate upon that grand truth. Good evening."
And with that he went clamping up the staircase. I saw, out of the
tail of my eye, the cardinal stop and laugh to himself. The story flew
all about Versailles, and people were chary after that in offering
real or pretended condolences to Count Saxe.
We reached the king's anteroom, where the usual crowd of do-nothings
and good-for-nothings was assembled. The women at Versailles always
reminded me of butterflies and humming-birds. They crowded about Count
Saxe like bees about a honeysuckle, but he artfully excused himself,
and made for the king's door with such an air of command that the
lackeys thought he was sent for by the king. Of course he was
instantly admitted, and he directed that I follow him, which I did.
The king was waiting for the queen to go to supper, and looked bored
and impatient. He was a handsome, stolid, _laisser-faire_ man, who, by
not doing anything, contrived to get as much evil done as the worst
king that ever lived; but he was rather a respectable sort of man at
that time. Several gentlemen were in the room when he entered, and
none of them dared open his mouth for fear of adding to the king's
irritation. The instant, however, my master appeared, the king's
countenance cleared. He greeted Count Saxe in the warmest manner, and
asked that he would come to the royal closet as soon as supper was
over that he might hear of all that had happened in Courland. My
master thanked him in suitable terms. Then the queen entered, and her
greeting was as cordial as the king's. If the queen, poor soul, hated
anybody, it was the Russians, whom she reckoned the despoiler of her
father, the King of Poland. So there was much of painful interest to
her in what Count Saxe had to tell.
It was then time to go to supper. Imagine the feelings of those people
who wished to see Count Saxe humiliated, when they beheld him walking
along the grand gallery, the king talking to him with the greatest
animation! The queen claimed him of the king at supper, and he was
treated more like an Alexander returning victorious than as a drenched
hen as the old Scotchwoman had predicted.
My master told me that the king, in the private interview, asked
concerning Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello, and was mightily
diverted with the story of Madame Riano and the bishop. His Majesty
was not well pleased that so great an heiress as Mademoiselle Capello
should remain away from his court.
We stayed the night at Versailles, and next morning when we returned
to Paris, it was to take up our old quarters at the Luxembourg. It was
not exactly a pleasant home coming. Count Saxe had looked for another
sort. But he was the last man in the world to repine at fate.