A VINDICTIVE ROGUE
One afternoon, during our stay at the Manoir Cheverny, Gaston Cheverny
entertained the ladies in very good style at an outdoor fete. Regnard
Cheverny, of course, was present, and also the handsome, foolish Count
Bellegarde, whom Francezka treated with airy indifference. For
amusement there was peasant dancing and singing to rustic pipes, and
afterward a collation under the trees, at which the servants were
dressed in the national costume of Brabant; the national dishes were
served, and musicians, concealed in the shrubbery, played and sang the
songs and airs of Brabant. It was extremely pretty, the afternoon
being bright and soft. When the collation was over, Gaston escorted
Madame Riano and Francezka about the house and grounds. There was a
handsome drawing-room in one wing, which was seldom used, but was open
on this occasion. Gaston led the way to this room, where there was a
harpsichord, which he opened that Francezka might play on it. As she
fingered the keys with one hand, the other hanging down, she started
with a little shriek of dismay. A dog, crouching unseen under the
harpsichord, stood with his forepaws on the edge of Francezka's
chair, while he licked affectionately the little white hand so
temptingly within his reach.
"Good dog--wise dog," said Gaston Cheverny, patting the creature. He
was a Spanish pointer, of a reddish liver color, remarkably handsome,
with satiny, pendulous ears, and the most intelligent eye I have ever
seen in an animal. There are other dogs reckoned more affectionate and
intelligent than these Spanish pointers, but I never knew any dumb
creature superior to this one, as time strangely proved; for this dog
afterward played a great part in the drama of Francezka Capello's
life.
The dog seemed enraptured with Francezka, and she with him. She passed
his long ears through her white fingers, the dog giving a little whine
of delight, and rubbing his head against her satin gown of the color
of spring violets.
"What is his name?" she asked--the first question every woman asks
concerning a dog or a horse.
"Bold," replied Gaston. "And his taste and discernment on this
occasion has fixed his fate. I have been debating whether I should
take him or his brother, Rattler, with me to Paris, and was until now
inclined to Rattler--come out, my dog."
Gaston hauled Rattler forth from under the harpsichord. He was a
handsome dog also, but nothing like so pleasant mannered as Bold. I
had noticed the two dogs about the place since my arrival, and had all
along recommended Bold as the worthier dog. Regnard Cheverny, on the
contrary, believed in Rattler.
"I think Rattler the better dog," said Regnard, coming forward and
patting Rattler, who took no manner of notice of Francezka, while
Bold overwhelmed her with evidences of affection. "But Bold is better
adapted to be a Paris dog. He has a taste for luxury, and instead of
being satisfied with a good woolen blanket to sleep on, he will
persist in taking his ease on the satin sofa in this saloon. He is a
_petit maitre_ of a dog. Take him to Paris, brother, by all means--and
give me Rattler."
At this Bold seemed to realize that Regnard was not his friend, and
gave him a look of dislike altogether human, turning his back
meanwhile with an air of unmistakable contempt. All present laughed at
this dialogue between the man and the dog.
"Bold is bound for Paris, then," said Gaston, "and you will see how he
will give up his _petit-maitre_ ways and become a seasoned soldier
after one campaign."
Francezka then took her attention long enough from the dog to play
some beautiful airs upon the harpsichord. That, if anything, increased
Bold's infatuation for her and recommended him still more highly to
his master.
The evening falling, the ladies made ready to depart, after many
thanks for their entertainment. The coach was to come for them, but
the July evening being inexpressibly sweet, Francezka persuaded
Madame Riano to walk the short distance to the chateau. The
arrangement of the walking party scarcely fell out to suit any one.
Gaston was obliged to escort Madame Riano, who stalked ahead like a
grenadier--never woman had such a stride--with Bellegarde, the most
insipid man on the globe, on the other side of her. Francezka was
escorted by Regnard Cheverny, whose company she never showed any
pleasure in, and myself. She was civil enough to Regnard, but was most
pointedly kind to me, partly from good-will to me and partly from
ill-will to Regnard. He took it politely and debonairly, as became a
gentleman. But I saw in his eye that he did not thereby for one
moment abandon his resolute pursuit of Francezka Capello. Bold
accompanied us, and had to be dragged, yelping, from Francezka's side,
when we returned home. This was four days before we left.
The last evening we spent as we had spent many others, at the chateau
of Capello. It seemed to me a momentous parting between Francezka and
Gaston Cheverny. Her attitude to him now was that of a young
sovereign, who airily bids her lover wait until she is ready to marry
him; but Madame Riano's departure might change all that. I had not the
least doubt, if Francezka were compelled to make instant choice of a
husband, that Gaston Cheverny would be the man. On the other hand,
Madame Riano's remaining might change Gaston Cheverny, for he was not
the stuff out of which patient lovers are made.
At midnight we said adieu. The last sight we had of Francezka was as
she stood on the balcony of the red saloon, waving her white scarf in
farewell to us. She wore a white gown, and a great resplendent moon
overhead bathed her in its silvery radiance. She might have been an
angel alighting upon the earth and ready to wing her way back to
heaven with the dawn of day. When we reached the Manoir Cheverny I
went direct to my bed, but the brothers remained an hour or more in
conversation in Gaston's room. It was near two o'clock in the morning
when they parted in the corridor upon which my chamber opened, and I
heard Gaston's clear voice saying:
"Brother, you have chosen another country than I; we can no longer say
_Un Foy, Un Loy, Un Roy_, but we need not be any the less brothers."
"True," replied Regnard. "Our mother's father chose another faith,
another law, another king, when he left Scotland, wherefore should I
not rather be Austrian than French if I like? How many times has this
province changed sovereigns? French, Spanish, Austrian, Flemish--I go
with the Austrians because I think there is a better chance for
fortune and promotion with them. Besides, I ever loved the English,
and the English and Austrians will be allied for all of our time. I
shall not yet sell Castle Haret--" here he paused a minute; I thought
I knew why he would not sell all his landed possessions, which were so
very convenient to the chateau of Capello--"but it depends on events
whether I shall occupy it permanently or not."
Gaston, I fancied, was too proud a man to express any jealousy of his
brother's continued nearness to Francezka, so he replied coolly:
"By all means, retain Castle Haret. You got it for much below its
value, and you would do well to keep it; and besides, you will not be
entirely Austrian or English either, as long as you retain Castle
Haret in the Low Countries."
Then they parted for the night, and at sunrise we were in the saddle.
Regnard Cheverny rode a stage with us, and the parting between the
brothers was affectionate. They knew not, when they next met, whether
it would be in peace, under the roof of one or the other, or in
mortal strife on the field of battle. Gaston did not forget to take
Bold with him, the dog trotting by the side of our horses until he was
tired, and then finding a perch, usually behind Gaston's saddle. Bold
was in the greatest favor with his master, after having won the good
opinion of Francezka.
Our rendezvous with Count Saxe was at the second stage from Brussels.
There we found him awaiting us, with Beauvais and his other servants.
He was good enough to tell me that he had needed me for one purpose or
another every hour that I had been away, and that I should never get
out of pistol shot of him again. We continued toward Paris that same
day, and reached it after three days of easy travel. And then began a
repetition of that dreary life of the two years past--dreary to me,
that is. But no matter how dreary, I remembered the stars in their
courses, "everlasting, yet unresting," and bore the hours as well as I
could.
War with Austria was imminent at every moment, although it did not
actually break out until the spring of 1733. This prospect prevented
Count Saxe from making any further attempt on Courland. He was sought
after in Paris and at Versailles as no man ever was before or
since--at court, everywhere. There was no Adrienne Lecouvreur to fix
his wandering heart upon herself. As for Madame de Bouillon, he hated
the sight of her. Monsieur Voltaire was daily rising in glory. The
king did not like him, and for all Monsieur Voltaire's efforts to get
on at court, he never could contrive it. I often wondered he should
not see that men cast in his mold have nothing to hope or fear from
kings; they enjoy a sovereignty of their own on which no mere
hereditary monarch may infringe. Count Saxe knew this, for whatever
might be his relations with Monsieur Voltaire, he did not make the
ridiculous blunder of undervaluing that notary's son. There was,
however, peace between them after they had stood together at Adrienne
Lecouvreur's death-bed. I think her gentle and loyal spirit breathed
peace even when she was no more.
Count Saxe gave much attention to his regiment of Spar, which was a
model. Of his lieutenants, none was better than Gaston Cheverny. The
personal affection which Count Saxe always had for Gaston Cheverny was
extreme, and that was the best guaranty of Gaston's military fortunes;
for Count Saxe would never let a good soldier go unrewarded.
The narrowness of Gaston Cheverny's fortune made him lead the same
life in Paris he had led since he first joined with us. Whether it
were choice or necessity, his only intimate friends were myself, and
his dog Bold. This dog was to him what I have tried to be to Count
Saxe. No man need be ashamed to have his faithfulness and devotion
compared to that of a dog of the right character. Bold had some of the
noblest virtues of humanity as well as of caninity. He was faithful,
honest, watchful, kind, scorned to fight a weaker dog, while
presenting a courageous front to one larger than himself; and although
a warrior by nature, yet by the excellence of his heart, and the
soundness of his judgment, he became a philosopher, not so brilliant
as Monsieur Voltaire, for example, but far more consistent.
Once a year Gaston Cheverny visited Brabant, always taking Bold with
him. Mademoiselle Capello remained at her chateau of Capello, and so
did Madame Riano, although she was ever, like ourselves, expecting to
be on the march. The time had expired when Francezka professed to be
bound by her father's will not to marry, yet she showed no inclination
to reward any of her numerous suitors. She continued to live in gaiety
and splendor at the chateau of Capello, and I imagine rather enjoyed
the torments of her lovers. Regnard Cheverny kept up his pursuit of
her, so Gaston told me. Regnard had then joined the Austrian service,
being a captain in the Grenadiers. He contrived, however, to get leave
to visit Brabant at the same time that Gaston did, once a year. The
brothers played a very watchful but perfectly fair and honorable game
with each other in this love affair, which had already lasted six
years. Meanwhile Francezka had not forgotten her friend, Captain
Babache, but often sent me kind messages. Through Gaston Cheverny, I
knew quite well all that passed at the chateau of Capello. I was
concerned to know what had become of that prince of rascals, Jacques
Haret. At last I heard of him, and to my great satisfaction. It was
after Gaston's return from his annual visit to Brabant in the autumn
of 1732. It was the first thing he told me, on his arrival, as we
walked up and down the gardens of the Luxembourg on a drear November
afternoon. He had but just reached Paris.
"God be praised, Babache, I have met Jacques Haret and given him the
handsomest drubbing imaginable," he said.
"Thank God," I replied.
"It was at a little inn on the border line of France. Part of the inn
is in the Netherlands and part is in France, and a chalk line drawn
across the floor of the common room shows you, if you wish, when you
are in France and when you are in the Netherlands. One day affairs
took me to this little place. There, sitting and drinking in the
common room, was Jacques Haret, looking not one whit changed in four
years. He was dressed as usual, half shabbily and half splendidly. He
greeted me as if he had led the most blameless life in the world since
I had seen him last. You know, Babache, besides my own indignation at
his shameful breach of hospitality, I had Mademoiselle Capello's
injuries to avenge. So I went up to Jacques Haret and said: 'Rascal,
where is Lisa Embden?'
"'God knows,' says he, 'but what is your interest in Lisa Embden, the
niece of a servant, and little more than a servant herself?'
"'This much,' I replied. 'If I had known what was going on while you
were staying at my house four years ago I would have broken every bone
in your scoundrelly body.'
"'Oho,' said he, 'if that is the way you talk, I suppose you want
satisfaction.'
"I told him I did, but not with the sword. You know, Babache, I have a
faculty of fist fighting from my Scotch ancestor, and I never meant to
degrade my good sword in a contest with a rogue like Jacques Haret.
So, reaching over, I caught him by the collar, and gave him then and
there the hardest beating I could. We fought all over the room, first
in France, then in the Netherlands. Jacques Haret could make but a
poor defense. The life he has led does not equip a man with brawn and
muscle, so I had things my own way with him. When I was through, both
of his eyes were blacked, his nose was as big as my fist, and there
was blood on him. I had not a scratch. He took his injury with that
outward calm which seems the peculiar virtue of a rogue, but he showed
a quiet vindictiveness which amazed me. I have ever found before this
that men who forget benefits easily forget injuries quickly. Jacques
Haret is different, for he forgets all benefits at once, and treasures
up his injuries. I think it was the fist beating that infuriated him.
There are some rags and remnants of a gentleman left hanging to him,
and although he would have forgiven completely any hole I might have
made with my sword in his carcass, he could not stomach the beating
outright. He sat on a chair, wiping the blood from his face, and said
to me in a cool, determined voice:
"'Gaston Cheverny, I am in your debt for this. I will promise to pay
you off, with a balance to your credit.' That was all he said--I
scorned to have anything further to say, and mounting my horse, rode
off, but I have made a good enemy out of a remorseless scoundrel. At
all events, however, it is better than having him profess friendship
for me."
"Quite so," I answered, "and what did Mademoiselle Capello say when
she heard of it?"
"Of course, I did not speak of it to her, but equally of course, she
heard of it, and thanked me for it. And she had also heard that
Jacques Haret had promised to revenge himself. But she is no more
afraid of him than I am. She still hopes and believes that Lisa will
return, but no word has come of her, whether she be living or dead."
He then told me that Regnard, as usual, had timed his visit to
Brabant, so the brothers could be there together, and half laughing
and half chagrined, told me that Regnard, in his white Austrian
uniform, was very captivating to the eye. And they both desired
Francezka, who laughed at all suitors to her hand. Yet there was a
cheerfulness about Gaston Cheverny, which showed me that Francezka was
not less kind than formerly. Madame Riano was talking with renewed
earnestness of going to Scotland, and Gaston based great hopes on
that.
But the time of action had arrived, and soon we would all be on the
march. In the first days of February, 1733, Count Saxe's father, the
King of Poland and of Saxony, died. He left Count Saxe a fine fortune,
and he left war to Europe. The King of France was minded to have his
father-in-law, Stanislaus, ex-King of Poland, back on the electoral
throne of Poland. Nobody else wanted him there. I doubt if the poor
old man himself would not rather have lived and died peaceably at
Luneville. But he must try for it, against the wish and will of
Austria. A conflagration in Europe was impending, and meanwhile
another one occurred in a small way in Brabant. The same _estafette_
which brought the news of King August's death, also brought
intelligence, gleaned by chance, that in the middle of the night, four
days before, every granary, stable and outbuilding of the Manoir
Cheverny was burned to the ground; and on St. Valentine's day of 1733
Gaston Cheverny got letters saying that the Manoir Cheverny itself
was but a heap of ashes. Not a book nor a chair had been saved. The
fire occurring in the night, it was beyond control before it was
discovered, and by daylight the old manoir was a pile of ruins, only a
part of the blackened wall remaining.
Gaston Cheverny received the news early in the morning of a very
important day. It was the day on which the king announced to his
officers of high rank that any interference on the part of Austria
with the election of a king in Poland would mean war. And Austria, it
was well known, would interfere.
When the letter telling Gaston Cheverny of his losses was placed in
his hands, we were in the act of starting from the Luxembourg for
Versailles, accompanying Count Saxe. Gaston glanced at the letter
hurriedly, and his face grew pale, but he mounted and rode forward
without a word, thrusting the letter in his pocket. It was a cold,
bright February morning, and we traveled briskly. Count Saxe called me
to his side, and as we followed the road, talked with me concerning
the change in his affairs made by the death of the King of Saxony and
the impending war. For my part, since the dose I had had in Courland
of elective crowns, I had a rooted aversion to them and only pitied
the man who would aspire to one of the accursed baubles.
When we were some miles on our way, Count Saxe turned his head, and
seeing Gaston Cheverny with a rueful face, riding among the suite,
asked me the cause; for Gaston had a natural gaiety of heart, very
becoming to a soldier. I told Count Saxe of the ill news Gaston had
just received. Count Saxe then called to him, and on Gaston's riding
up, promised him some recompense in the way of a fortune, that he
might rebuild his house, for which Gaston expressed his thanks.
"And there is great joy ahead," continued Count Saxe, loud enough to
be heard by all of the suite, "for we may reckon to be at odds with
the Austrians by June, at least."
With that Gaston's countenance cleared as if by magic and the
youngsters in the suite began cheering with pleasure. We were crossing
the bridge near Sevres, that bridge where Monsieur Voltaire got one of
his celebrated canings, and the thought of fighting so pleased Gaston
Cheverny that besides cheering loudly with the rest, he stood up in
his stirrups, and for very joy flung his hat into the river. The other
youngsters followed this gallant example, and except Count Saxe and
myself, not a man in the party had a hat when we reached Versailles.
Count Saxe told the story to the king, who was vastly diverted by it,
and next morning, before we left Versailles, every man who had thrown
his hat away in the exuberance of his joy received from the queen the
gift of a handsome laced hat. So much for Gaston Cheverny's flinging
his away. He showed a steady and cheerful fortitude under his losses.
Besides the actual loss to him, whose fortune was already small, he
was deeply attached to his home and his belongings. He told me with a
rueful smile that only the fine gateway of the Manoir Cheverny had
been spared. There was no doubt in the minds of either of us that
Jacques Haret was the guilty one in these crimes.