A LOVING QUEST
Francezka had a natural desire to see the spot from which Gaston had
disappeared, and to satisfy herself as to the search in those parts.
We traveled to Hueningen, therefore, crossed the Rhine at the point
below where the boat had crossed and came to the place, a low-lying
Austrian outpost, at which Gaston had been last seen alive. From
thence we hunted the Rhine country on both sides of the river before
proceeding to Prince Eugene's headquarters, which had been moved
farther back in the interior, toward the Taunus hills.
We traveled rapidly. A journey is fast or slow, according as there is
money forthcoming. Old Peter, in spite of his years, acted admirably
as an avant-courier. He always rode ahead two stages to secure
post-horses; and if there was any dispute about it, I could always
bring the postmaster to the right way of thinking. But what was quite
as effective was Francezka's soft and insinuating address, which never
failed to get horses or anything else she wanted. It is a part of
human nature to delight in exercising a power with which one is
gifted. Francezka had the power of persuasion in a high degree, and it
pleased her self-love to see a postmaster or an innkeeper succumb to
it, as quickly as a Maurice of Saxe.
We had fine weather from the day we left Philipsburg. The Duke of
Berwick used to say that travel was the best means ever devised to
wean the human mind from the continual contemplation of sorrow. So it
proved in this instance. There is something in the motion of a horse
under one, which is a subtile distraction. The horse itself becomes a
component part of being, and exacts a share of attention. Francezka,
who was fond of horse exercise, left the chaise almost entirely to
Madame Chambellan and rode on horseback with me.
There could be no doubt of her high and even feverish hope. She was
never more to have that serene expectation of happiness which I had
seen in the soft and lambent light of her eyes on my first knowing of
her marriage to Gaston Cheverny. Rather was it an excited and
over-sanguine hope that built itself most lovely visions on nothing at
all. She seemed to think it probable that at any moment Gaston might
appear. The least movement startled her. If she were at table and the
door opened suddenly she would half rise, with the flash of
expectation in her face. At night every sound brought her to the
window. She was still under the sweet illusion of youth, that
happiness was her right. I really believe she thought that God, having
given her so much--such love, beauty, youth, health, and wealth--could
not in justice refuse her happiness.
As we traveled on we found the highroads full of equipages: officers'
wives, French and Austrian ladies of rank and many persons of
consideration from such large towns as Brussels and Cologne, to say
nothing of the constant passing to and fro, such as two great armies,
one on each side of the Rhine, required. Francezka was known to many
of these people. The story of her romantic marriage and her loving
quest for her husband had got abroad, and at every stopping place she
received sympathy and wishes for success in her search. I saw that
Francezka took all these polite expressions for gospel truths, and
thought everybody who spoke a word of encouragement to her was
profoundly versed in wisdom.
I had neither the power nor the wish to rob her of this beautiful
illusion. She had by nature a great and glowing imagination, and she
pictured to herself and to me the charm of her return journey with
Gaston. She admitted the possibility that he might be ill and worn,
but then her tenderness would nurse him back to health. It would be
necessary for him to ride in a chaise, perhaps, so she would give
up her horse and ride with him. How exquisite it would be, as they
passed along the swift flowing Rhine, through the purple vineyards,
the radiant mornings, the glorious sunsets, the dreamy purple
twilights--all would be beautiful. But these glowing visions did
not impair Francezka's watchfulness nor lead her to relax one
single effort in her vigilant hunt.
This rosy hope lasted her until we reached Prince Eugene's headquarters
in the Taunus hills. There, one interview with Prince Eugene himself
brought home to Francezka the gray and gloomy outlook before her. It
left her with but one rational basis of hope, that of finding Gaston
in some Austrian prison.
On the night of this interview with Prince Eugene, at which I was
present, Francezka sent for me to come to her room at the little inn
where we were staying. I saw by the gravity of her look that the old
hunchback prince's clear, but not unkind, statement of the case had
produced its effect upon her. And she also proved to me, in our
conversation, what I had long known, that although self-willed and
impetuous, Francezka was neither selfish nor inconsiderate.
"Babache," she said to me on entering, "I think you know that you are
the most comforting and helpful person in the world to me now, and
that if I consent to part with you it is not because you are of no
more use or good to me. But I see plainly that my search in the
Austrian prisons for my husband is likely to last the whole year if,
oh God! I find him even then! And I see that I can contrive all that
is necessary myself. Therefore, much as you are to me now, I can not
think it right to deprive Count Saxe of your services, and so I give
you leave to return at once. When I want you, be sure I will send for
you."
In reply, I told her that I belonged to her and to Count Saxe, and
either could make any disposition of me that was desired.
We then deliberated on the singular silence of Regnard Cheverny.
Although he was not with Prince Eugene's own contingent, yet it was
scarcely possible that he had not received one of the several letters
which had been written him by Francezka as well as other persons,
concerning his brother's disappearance; nor could he fail to know of
the catastrophe from other sources; but not one line or word had come
from him. Francezka was very deeply incensed at him. She had never
really liked nor trusted Regnard, and was not disposed to excuse him
in anything.
Her next move would be to Vienna, in order to complete her plan of
searching the Austrian prisons. With her usual promptness, she decided
to start on the morrow.
The next morning I saw her depart. She went in the chaise with Madame
Chambellan, discarding her riding horse. When she bade me farewell at
the chaise door she tried to express her thanks to me, but instead,
she burst into a passion of tears. I closed the door hastily and
turned away. I could not bear to see her weep, and I could not,
myself, utter one word.
I returned to Count Saxe. On the first of January, 1735, peace was
proclaimed; and as Count Saxe said, the rain having ceased, the cloaks
were laid away.
For the two years that followed I was often with Francezka, and never
out of her reach, and worked for her diligently; yet I speak of some
things that I did not actually see, but heard.
Francezka proceeded to Vienna, where she was received with distinction
by the Emperor Charles and his empress. They became much interested in
her story, and gave her every facility possible. The young Princess
Maria Theresa, who was destined to reign with the energy of a king and
the sweetness of a queen, was then in her eighteenth year. She became
deeply interested in Francezka, and showed her many kind attentions.
Armed with letters from the emperor, Francezka proceeded to examine
the Austrian prisons, from which the prisoners were being released on
their exchange at the prospect of peace, and all of the records were
laid before her. But she found not the smallest trace of her husband.
This consumed the entire autumn, winter and spring. At the beginning
of summer, this source of hope being exhausted, Francezka reluctantly
turned toward Brabant. But on passing through the Taunus country she
made a discovery at the very center of the region that had been combed
over a dozen times for Gaston Cheverny by the French, the Austrians
and Francezka herself. This was the indubitable proof that Gaston
Cheverny had been alive and at that place three months after his
disappearance, and in the very midst of the hunt for him!
Francezka unearthed this fact by the acuteness of her understanding,
which reckoned nothing too small or too great for her to attempt in
this undertaking. On her way to Brabant, after nearly a year of
fruitless effort, she stopped over night in a village not far from the
Rhine and on the way to Frankfort. She did not fail to ask of the
authorities if any person answering to Gaston Cheverny's description
had been seen at any time in the place, and to cause a large reward to
be posted; but no one could tell her anything.
At the inn she noticed a pointer that somewhat resembled Bold. The dog
took a fancy to Francezka, which she returned, being touched by the
dog's resemblance to her old friend. The innkeeper's little daughter,
not ten years old, seeing this, said in Francezka's hearing, that the
dog was as fond of "the great lady" as it had been of "the French
prisoner with his head bound up." Francezka, calling to the child,
questioned her closely, and received the startling information from
the little girl that the prisoner, who was a gentleman, had fondled
the dog, because he said it was like a dog at home which he loved. It
was brought out at once that this prisoner was one of a number on
their way to Bohemia. His description tallied perfectly with Gaston
Cheverny, and the absolute certainty was reached by the innkeeper's
wife producing a fine handkerchief which had been left behind, with
Gaston Cheverny's initials embroidered on it by Francezka's own hand!
When Francezka heard this she was like one ready to die with joy. It
proved at once that nothing concerning Gaston's disappearance could be
taken as final. Francezka, by her own wit, had found out what all the
machinery of two great commanders had failed to discover. Was it
strange that after this she should trust to no one's efforts but her
own? All this I gathered in hurried but ecstatic letters written me in
the first flush of her delight. At once all her hopes bloomed
afresh--nor could any one, in reason, discourage her.
But this joy was the joy of Tantalus--for in spite of months of time
and great sums of money spent on the spot by Francezka, not one
scintilla of light more was thrown upon this tragic mystery of her
life.
At last, having spent a whole year in her pursuit, Francezka was
forced to turn her steps homeward. This did not mean that she gave up
either hope or work, that was impossible to her; but that she would
rest and wait a while. She told over to herself, so she wrote me, all
the stories she had ever heard, including those of Count Saxe, of
persons who, having been sought diligently, at last returned when all
hope was abandoned. Francezka apparently forgot that although strange
disappearances and equally strange reappearances take place often in
troublous times, but few persons in the world had been searched for
as thoroughly, as patiently, and with such lavish expenditure of time
and money as had Gaston Cheverny. To his honor be it said that at no
time was there the smallest suspicion in any mind that he had made way
with himself, or had voluntarily abandoned Francezka.
It was in September of 1735 that Francezka again saw the chateau of
Capello. She entered her own house with sadness and disappointment,
but not in despair. Hope could not die within her. As she wrote me,
"My heart can not--will not--break."
It is not to be wondered at, however, that the rest of Francezka's
world reckoned Gaston Cheverny a dead man. Father Benart, the little
priest, who was a courageous man, even hinted to Francezka that she
should wear mourning. This went to her heart like a knife. To put on
the garments of widowhood would be the last abandonment of hope, and
to this she would not consent. She adopted, however, the Spanish
costume, which is black, but not mourning, and no one could accuse her
of unseemliness in her attire.
She found her house swept and garnished, for Francezka's administrative
qualities were of that order which make affairs apparently go on of
themselves. The dog Bold was overjoyed to see her and became, as
formerly, her inseparable companion. The harvests had been good, her
flocks and herds had prospered; all belonging to Francezka seemed to
bask in the sunlight of good fortune, except Francezka herself.
As soon as her return was known she was overrun with visitors, mostly
impelled by curiosity, who pestered her with questions. Francezka met
these with the spirit and courage which were a part of her. Being
naturally and incurably humorous, she often smiled, and even laughed,
though her heart was near to breaking, at the air of surprise and even
chagrin with which her calm announcement was received that she did not
yet admit her husband to be dead, and should ever hope for his return.
But these idle persons inflicted upon her pride a burning smart; she
continually felt that she was reckoned foolish and visionary--she, the
most practical, the most resourceful, the most entirely sensible of
women.
She had greater courage, a more powerful imagination than most people,
and so the commonplace of the earth had ever been eager to deny her
common sense. She had proved herself possessed of the most sublime
common sense in the management of her life and her affairs. Beautiful
and alone, she had escaped slander; with a great fortune and perfect
liberty, she had avoided the ever present snare of being married for
her fortune, and had chosen a man who loved her for herself alone, and
would have married her in her smock. She had proved herself capable in
every emergency, and had commanded love and admiration, a thing not
easily forgiven. Now, the small-minded, the carpers and the critics,
had their opportunity, and they fell upon her in full cry like a pack
of wolves.
She could sustain herself against them. They might whisper and
backbite--they might point with unctuous hypocrisy at the terrible
results of a marriage made solely to please herself, but none of them
dared to speak before her face. It was, however, mortifying for her
self-love to know that they dared speak behind her back. Francezka
was, in some respects, a spoiled child of fortune. She did not for one
moment relax her efforts to find Gaston Cheverny, although she no
longer attempted it personally. A number of trained men were employed
by her to keep the matter alive, the rewards before the public, and to
follow up every possible clue.
And then she went upon her way, unchanged and unchanging in some
respects. She again took up her reading and studying; the Brabant
ladies were much scandalized at the amount of money which Madame
Cheverny spent on books. She again had her music and singing masters
to attend her. She did all these things diligently, though she had
lost much of the enjoyment they once gave her. Such hope as she had
left was enough to make her unmurmuring in her present life, but not
enough to make her happy. And so the year of 1735 passed.