THE SETTING OF A STAR
We returned arm in arm to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's house. It had not
occurred to me to present myself uninvited, but without a word I
followed this man, who had something compelling about him. We went
straight to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's door, and the maid, who was
watching, let us in.
Adrienne lay in her great purple silk bed, pale, but looking more
weary and sad than ill. I had often seen her look worse. She greeted
us kindly, and the shadow of a smile came into her face when she saw
Monsieur Voltaire bringing me in. He seated himself by her, and tried
by gentle raillery to interest her, but it was in vain. For the first
and last time, she let fall some words of lamentation about the fate
which was coming upon her with giant strides. But she made a brave
effort to rally her soul, and even forced a smile to her pale lips.
The curtains were withdrawn from the window, and the soft beauty of
the spring night shone in the half-darkened room. Monsieur Voltaire
began to describe this soft beauty to her as only he could describe
it; but she seemed careless of it and said:
"I saw it but a little while ago--and thought how unlovely it was--the
moon looked brazen and haughty, like some of those fine ladies who
come to see me act when they have nothing better to do. The stars
seemed more unfeeling and farther off than ever, and they are always
unfeeling and far off--and the first object that met my eyes was an
enemy in health and beauty and splendor--while I lie here dying."
Then I knew she had seen Count Saxe beguiled into Madame de Bouillon's
coach.
"But," she cried, her voice ringing sweet and clear, as if in perfect
health, and raising herself with surprising strength, "they will see
that I am not yet gone. I will act once more. Yes, Voltaire, the good
God will let me act once again. I know, I feel it. Do you hear me,
good Babache?"
Monsieur Voltaire replied to her that he hoped the good God in which
she trusted would let her act many times more. I suppose I appeared
like a lump of clay, because I was so overcome with remorse at Count
Saxe's action in going off with Madame de Bouillon, that I could not
say a word.
"It will be in Phedre--a part worthy of the greatest artist in the
world. It has sometimes been said I knew how to play that part. If
ever I could play it, I shall show this when I play it--the next and
the last time. Monsieur Voltaire, I charge you to go this night to the
director of the Theatre Francais and say to him that I shall be ready
to play Phedre four days from now, as announced."
"I promise with all my heart," cried Monsieur Voltaire, "and talk not
of its being the last time--oh, Adrienne!" He stopped, choked by his
emotion, and not a word was spoken for a time.
"Mademoiselle," said I, seeing my betters keep silence, "those who
have once seen you in that part can never forget you. Often, in those
dreary days in Courland, in anxious nights upon the island in Lake
Uzmaiz, my master, Count Saxe, would recall the noble beauty of those
lines as you spoke them--and many other of those plays in which you
had bewitched the world."
Poor soul! I knew what would give her a moment's ease.
"Did he then, remember me?" she said in a soft voice, like music.
Monsieur Voltaire spoke not a word; he loved her too well to grudge
her these few crumbs of comfort.
Seeing she was interested, I began to tell her some of the incidents
of our flight from Uzmaiz. I told her of our sojourn at the chateau of
Capello. She remembered Francezka well; and the mention of these
things turned the sad current of her thoughts.
"What a charming, gifted creature she was," said Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur, "and how amusing it was, Voltaire, for you, the author,
and me, the artist, to see our greatness as we thought it, so
burlesqued that night in the little out-of-doors theater! However,
that quick transposition showed the child had vast power and
originality. And Jacques Haret--what has become of the creature?"
I replied, with truth, that I neither knew nor cared, not wishing to
wring Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's tender heart with the story of Jacques
Haret's latest villainy.
We remained an hour. Several times I would have left, but Monsieur
Voltaire detained me by a glance. At last, when Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur was inclined to sleep, we departed. Once outside the door,
and under the shadow of the tall old houses, Monsieur Voltaire grasped
my arm, and said in a voice full of tears:
"Captain Babache, we are watching the setting of a star--we are seeing
the Pleiade as she is gradually lost in the universal abysm. Soon,
Eternity, with its unbroken, derisive silence, will lie between
Adrienne and all whom she loves and who love her--" He suddenly broke
off, and went his way in the night.
Before I slept, I repeated every word of what had happened at our
interview, to my master, and Madame de Bouillon did not get him in her
coach again. After that he spent every hour that he could at
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's house. He and Monsieur Voltaire no longer
avoided each other. There was the truce of God between them for the
few days that Adrienne Lecouvreur remained on earth.
Few persons believed that she would be able to play again, but the
mere hint of it crammed the Theatre Francais to the doors on that
last, unforgettable night. Gaston Cheverny and I had secured seats in
the pit of the theater. Gaston had been admitted to the honor of
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's acquaintance and admired her at a distance,
like a star.
There was a breathless excitement in the crowd, something in the air
of the theater seemed to communicate excitement. It was like that
tremulous stillness which seems to overtake the world when the earth
is about to be riven asunder, and volcanoes are making ready to
explode in oceans of fire and flame and molten death.
Not one more person, I believe, could have been packed into the
theater five minutes before the curtain rose, except in one box that
remained empty--the box of the Duchesse de Bouillon. I looked around
for Count Saxe, and caught a glimpse of him afar off in the
crowd--then he disappeared. Again I saw him passing quite close to me.
By some accident, he wore a full suit of black that night--black
velvet coat, and black silk small-clothes--perhaps to render himself
less conspicuous; but he was a man to be noted in a crowd because of
his beauty, even if he had been the veriest oaf alive--or marked out
for a great man, if he had been as ugly as I am. That night he was
like a perturbed spirit seeking for rest and finding none; unable to
drag himself away from that last touching and splendid vision of
Adrienne Lecouvreur, and yet, almost unable to bear it.
Everybody in the theater knew to whom that empty box belonged--it was
to the worst enemy of Adrienne Lecouvreur. The story had gone forth
that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's illness had come from poison
administered by the Duchesse de Bouillon, out of jealousy of Count
Saxe. It is true that Madame de Bouillon would no doubt have poisoned
anybody whom she thought stood between her and Count Saxe; and it is
also true that the young Abbe de Bouret confided something concerning
Madame de Bouillon's schemes to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, one night, in
the gardens of the Luxembourg. The Abbe de Bouret was quickly silenced
by a _lettre de cachet_ and the Bastille by the powerful De Bouillon
family--but beyond that, I think no one knows. The public however, was
ready to believe anything against Madame de Bouillon in its passion
of regret over losing Adrienne Lecouvreur; and Madame de Bouillon's
brazen defiance of this sentiment in coming to the theater to witness
this last farewell of Adrienne's to the public which had loved her so
well, was bitterly resented.
In the midst of an oppressive silence, one minute before the curtain
rose, Madame de Bouillon appeared in her box. She was quite alone. As
she seated herself, she displayed upon her beautiful white arm, a
miniature of Count Saxe, set in diamonds. I dare say she stole it. She
sat there, smiling and unconcerned, with every eye in the theater
turned on her with hatred. But then sounded the three knocks which
herald the rising of the curtain, and the play began.
When the time came for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur to appear and the first
glimpse of her as Phedre in her classic garb was seen, a frantic roar
of applause went up--men shouting, women weeping their welcome. It was
plain that she was very ill, but likewise every human soul in that
house knew that she would go through her part. I will not speak of her
acting that night: how she brought us to tears, and plunged us into
despair and pity and horror at her will. But there was a climax, the
essence of all feeling when she advanced to the front of the stage,
and, fixing her beautiful, despairing eyes on Madame de Bouillon,
repeated those immortal lines in a voice that might have been that of
an accusing angel.
Je sais mes perfides,
OEnone, et ne suis point de ces femmes hardies,
Qui, goutant dans le crime une tranquille paix,
Ont su se faire un front qui ne rougit jamais!
How shall I describe what followed? The pity, fury, and despair that
filled all hearts; the cries, the maledictions directed toward Madame
de Bouillon; the tears for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur; the passion of
regret, the tears, the words of endearment lavished upon her. When I
came to myself after a period of frenzy, Gaston Cheverny had thrown
his arm about my neck and was weeping like a woman. The Duchesse de
Bouillon had vanished. Hereault, a lieutenant of police, had told her
he could not answer for her life if she remained in the theater.
Adrienne was still on the stage, supporting her frail body by leaning
against an urn, and tears were dropping upon her cheeks; she looked
like some fair effigy of patient grief. She wished to live--and she
was so soon to die! I know not how the play ended, or if it was ended
at all when the curtain went down.
An agitated crowd blocked all the streets leading to the theater.
Adrienne's coach was waiting to receive her. Presently, there was a
sudden rush. Adrienne was being supported to the coach, and in the
arms of Count Saxe--for she was more carried than led. A murmur of
approval, of relief, of sorrowful satisfaction ran through the
multitude. Adrienne, the paint washed from her face, was of a deathly
pallor, but her eyes were full of light and joy. She was to die, but
yet to die as she would have wished, with Count Saxe once more her
own, won in triumph from her enemy, and the affectionate plaudits of
the public which ever loved her, ringing in her ears.
Count Saxe caught sight of me in the crowd, and made a signal to me. I
forced my way to the coach, and got on the box with the driver. Then,
glancing back, I saw Monsieur Voltaire and the Earl of Peterborough
spring upon the footman's running board behind. The people gave one
single loud cry of approval, and then amid the tears and farewells of
thousands, Adrienne Lecouvreur was borne away for the last time from
the Theatre Francais, of which she had been the chiefest ornament.
When we reached her house, Monsieur Voltaire and Lord Peterborough
sprang down, opened the coach door and let down the steps. Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur laughed a little when she saw what manner of footmen she
had; she was then in perfect peace, and could smile and even laugh.
Monsieur Voltaire took her in his arms and carried her up the long
stairs to her apartment, Count Saxe following. Their jealousy was dead
and about to be buried in Adrienne's grave.
I went up the stairs and sat in the anteroom. Within Adrienne's
chamber there were my master, Monsieur Voltaire, Lord Peterborough,
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's sister, her two faithful servants and the
doctor. There was a strange quiet for so many persons. The windows
were opened, letting in the mild air of the spring night. Beneath the
windows, a vast, silent and sorrowing crowd stood through the night,
while the moon and stars watched and waned. The eastern sky grew rosy,
and the long lances of the sun's advance-guard tipped the roofs and
spires with glory. While I was watching this miracle of a new day, I
heard the door to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's room open behind me. I
caught one glimpse of Monsieur Voltaire as he leaned weeping over the
pillow whereon Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's head lay, naturally as if
she had fallen asleep. Her face was turned a little toward the window,
and one hand, half open, lay outside the coverlet--as Count Saxe had
dropped it last. He came out of the room. I saw that he was almost as
pale as the dead Adrienne; for she was dead, the beautiful, the
loving, the generous, and gifted. He walked steadily enough toward me;
then suddenly tottered. I helped him out of the room, and below and
into a coach. He spoke not one word as we drove toward the Luxembourg,
but wept--oh, how he wept!
I left him in his room, alone with his grief and his remorse. I went
to my own. At my writing table sat Gaston Cheverny, writing, his tears
dropping upon the paper. I believe everybody in Paris wept when
Adrienne Lecouvreur died.
"I am writing an account for Mademoiselle Capello," he said; then laid
down his pen, when he saw by my face what had happened.
Four days later Adrienne Lecouvreur was buried at midnight. I was
among the few at her interment. Monsieur Voltaire managed it all, with
a delicacy, a tenderness inexpressible. Those who say that man could
not love, knew not the nobility of his love for Adrienne Lecouvreur.
When her will was opened it was found that nearly all of her property
was left to the poor.
The death of Adrienne Lecouvreur made an epoch with my master. Except
her, he had not been fortunate in the women he had known best; and
there were no more, for him, like Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. He never
again spoke to the Duchesse de Bouillon. In that, he was unfailingly
true to the memory of the woman who had loved him so well.
This was in March of 1730. It seemed to me as if the days were growing
heavier, and Paris drearier, every week that passed. Not that Paris is
reckoned a dreary town; particularly in the spring and summer, when
everything is in full leaf and flower, and the whole population is out
of doors all day in the yellow sunshine and half the night under the
laughing moon and merry-twinkling stars--for the people of Paris think
that the moon was made for their chief torch-bearer, and that the
stars were set in the sky that Paris might be supplied with a handsome
set of girandoles. But I was not of that mind. For a long time after
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's death, Count Saxe never spoke her name. He
longed to be away from Paris. In June, the King of Saxony, his father,
was to form a great camp at Radewitz, and Count Saxe, to his
satisfaction, was invited to attend. So, preparing for that event, in
which he was to take a considerable part, gave him some distraction
during that sad springtime of 1730. I wished him to leave Paris, too.
I never thought the air of that town agreed with his constitution.
Gaston Cheverny, as became a young man whose blood runs quick and red,
liked the springtime. He had not enough money to go to court often,
which he would have liked, so he put up with humbler pleasures. I do
not believe he could, to save his life, pass one of those impromptu
balls on the corner of the street, where the people, young and old,
dance to a pipe or a fiddle. He always joined in, and as he danced
with grace and skill, the little milliners' girls and the merry old
women always liked to have a fling with him.
We made many excursions on foot as well as on horseback, in those
hours when Count Saxe had no need of me. We often loitered past the
deserted garden of the Hotel Kirkpatrick, where the lilacs and
syringas drenched the air with perfume as on that spring afternoon,
four years before. Gaston would say to me:
"See yonder balcony--it was from that balcony Francezka bade me good
by. And look--the very guelder rose-bush by which I once spoke with
her, on coming to pay my respects to Madame Riano! I can conjure up
that charming Francezka as if she were before me now!"
So could I.
By the artful subterfuge of sending Madame Riano the news of Paris,
for which she thirsted, Gaston had been lucky enough to keep in
constant communication with the chateau of Capello. Madame Riano often
used Francezka as her amanuensis, and I grew to know her clear, firm
handwriting well. Her letters were written at Madame Riano's
dictation, but it was plain that Francezka managed to express in them
her own thoughts as well as Madame Riano's. She often spoke of Regnard
Cheverny.
"Monsieur Regnard was with us yesterday, at our fete champetre." And
"Monsieur Cheverny is reading a Spanish story to us, which I
understand quite well, although I have scarce spoken ten words of that
language since I was a child." And once--oh, blessed letter!--she
said, "My aunt and I desire our regards to Captain Babache. Tell him,
as I know he is a poet in his heart, if not with his pen, that there
is a beautiful poem being made now by a lady in Brabant. The lady is
Mother Nature--period, this present springtime. It is a play in
several acts. I watch it daily from the Italian garden. It is a
comedy, with some tragic aspects--for Nature has her tragic moods. The
comedy is in the birds and the laughing river, and the leaves and
blossoms. These last are defying their cruel old father, Winter, as
they come out in spite of him, at first shyly, and then boldly, to be
kissed by their lover, the sun. The lake remains always tragic; it
never laughs nor even smiles, but is always sadly beautiful, like
Niobe, poor, childless one. This is all for Captain Babache. And so
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur is no more--and how are we all impoverished by
her loss!" And much more of the same sort.
In June we started for Radewitz, near the Elbe. Thirty thousand
soldiers were assembled there, many royalties, including the King of
Prussia and the Crown Prince Frederick, afterward known as the Great,
and every pretty woman in Europe. It was a huge, royal fete champetre,
in which the river Elbe seemed to run with champagne. I had expected
it to be a practice camp, and so made preparations with pleasure for
Count Saxe to go.
Gaston Cheverny was overjoyed to go, for several reasons; one was,
that our road would lie directly toward Brussels, and he would have a
chance to stop at his own house, and so, to see the lady of his love.
As soon as it was known that we were going, we received kind
invitations from Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello to become
guests at the chateau. It was not possible for Count Saxe to accept,
however, and Gaston got only a week's leave, departing from Paris in
advance of us and joining us at Brussels. My master seeing I was
disappointed in not stopping at the chateau on our way, promised that
I might stop on our return in July; and with this I was satisfied.
Gaston Cheverny left Paris the middle of May--he was in the highest
spirits, as well he might be. The morning he set forth, I rode with
him to the barriers. He had a good horse under him, he was to see the
lady of his heart, he was then to take part in a great military
pageant, beautiful to the eye of a soldier--he was, in short, a very
happy young fellow, and forgot that his purse was light. He rode away
along the highroad, waving me farewell, and I returned to work like a
Trojan to get my master's escort in trim for the journey. I was glad
for Count Saxe to be away from Paris then. Those who think that he was
not grieved at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's death, or did not silently
lament her, know not the man. But a soldier must take arms against his
sorrows, as against his enemies.
Another week found us on the road to Brussels. The very night of our
arrival there, Gaston Cheverny turned up; and with him was his
brother, Regnard.
Regnard, as usual, was handsome, smooth, well dressed and well
equipped with horses and servants to make a good appearance at
Radewitz. He was far better off externally than was Gaston; but the
same brotherly feelings which made him perfectly at home in Gaston's
house, made Gaston free of Regnard's servants and horses. The two
brothers lived upon the same terms of amity and cordial intimacy as
always, in spite of the fact that as they were now men, and not
youths; and as Mademoiselle Capello was her own mistress, their
rivalry had become far more serious.
After supper at the inn, I left Regnard with Count Saxe, while Gaston
and I walked together upon the city ramparts, under the soft dark
skies of the summer night. It was plain, without the telling, that his
visit to Brabant had been highly satisfactory. He gave me a kind
message from Mademoiselle Capello, and also one from Madame Riano. He
told me that Francezka had developed the same capacity for affairs
which marked Madame Riano; and to the surprise and chagrin of the
wiseacres who expected to see everything at Capello at sixes and
sevens under a woman's rule, hers was the best managed estate in the
province. She had stewards, but looked after them herself, not being
free from a fondness for ruling. Old Peter was still her right hand
man, but aged and inexpressibly sorrowful at the humble tragedy of the
lost Lisa. Jacques Haret had not since been seen in those parts; and
Gaston Cheverny had given his word to Mademoiselle Capello that the
next time he saw Jacques Haret, the scoundrel should have a double
dose of punishment on old Peter's account, as well as on Gaston's own,
and Francezka seemed mightily contented with the idea. Revenge, as
well as all the other elemental passions, was a part of Francezka
Capello's nature.
Madame Riano, Gaston said, was the same Madame Riano, but a late
fantasy of hers was giving Mademoiselle Capello some anxiety. Madame
Riano had been seized with a raging desire to go to Scotland. She had
a notion that the time was ripe for another uprising against the
Hanoverians; and I believe that woman was capable of raising the clans
and marching at their head to recover for Charles Edward Stuart the
throne of his ancestors. This sudden passion of Madame Riano for
Scotland was very embarrassing for Mademoiselle Capello, because it
would almost force her to seek the protection of a husband, as she had
no intention of forsaking her home in Brabant. I do not think this
decision of Madame Riano's seemed to trouble Gaston Cheverny very
deeply, although he candidly admitted what the consequences would be.
It was plain, however, that his prospects in that quarter were such as
to warrant his taking a certain risk; and I believed he played fast
and loose with the ladies slyly encouraging Madame Riano to go to
Scotland, while ostensibly urging her to remain in Brabant. I asked
him if his brother had yielded the field to him.
"By no means," he replied, "but the only way to make him yield is to
carry the lady off. There is no waiting game to be played in love--one
must be ready to take the hazard of the die at any moment. My brother
is not my only rival--there are scores of others; but I do not count
up my chances of failure--I only count my chances of success. Oh,
Babache, if Francezka Capello should exchange her dower for the
smallpox, it would make no difference to me--" and he quoted to me
that sonnet of Master William Shakespeare's, in which the poet makes
it clear that true love is not Time's fool.
We started next morning, in beautiful summer weather, which lasted us
until we reached Radewitz.
What shall I say concerning the splendors of that place? The
temporary palaces, built of painted and gilded canvas, adorned with
pictures and statues, and surrounded with gardens and shrubberies,
where kings and princes were served from gold and silver plate; where
after the most magnificent military pageants all day long, at evening
came soft and dulcet music, concerts and serenades and even operas;
where all the splendor and beauty in Europe seemed gathered together.
It was like the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and it lasted for a whole
month. I sometimes wondered why, among the great number of ladies
present, there should not be Mademoiselle Capello and Madame Riano;
and one summer afternoon, my question was answered, for rolling along
the highway, toward a fine country mansion, where many guests were
entertained, I saw a splendid traveling coach, well horsed and with
outriders. The liveries were not the purple and canary of Madame
Riano, but a superb crimson and gold. In this coach sat Madame Riano,
and by her side, Francezka Capello--Francezka, in the very flush and
flower of her exquisite beauty.