CONFIDENT TO-MORROWS
It does not matter how that time went with me, Babache. I was with my
master, Count Saxe, whose glory increased with time. Every day and
hour Francezka was in my mind, and so far as I could I kept up the
search for Gaston Cheverny. I never met a man from the Rhine country,
nor one who had taken part in any of the campaigns of 1733-34, of whom
I did not make inquiry concerning Gaston Cheverny.
One thing was strange and tantalizing: while it was impossible to
prove that he was alive, it was equally impossible to prove that he
was dead. Nor was this an unknown man who had vanished, but an officer
of distinction, for whom the search had begun within six hours of his
disappearance, which was taken part in by Count Saxe and the armies of
France and Austria, and carried on steadily by a woman of the wit, the
wealth and the resource of Francezka Capello. I have known of strange
vanishings in war, but never have I known one in the least like Gaston
Cheverny's. Regnard Cheverny seemed to have vanished, too, but his
disappearance was entirely voluntary.
The only communication which was received from him was to his agent.
As soon as peace was assured this agent received orders from Regnard
Cheverny to sell Castle Haret, which he presently did, for a good
round sum. It was known soon after that Regnard had resigned from the
Austrian army and had accepted a high command in the East India
Company's army in British India. I concluded that the chagrin Regnard
had felt at losing Francezka was very deep and had much increased his
distaste for his native country, but on the whole, his conduct
appeared both unfeeling and ungenerous. Madame Riano oscillated
between Paris and Brabant. I think the attitude of her mind had
something to do with Francezka's obstinate clinging to the belief that
Gaston Cheverny was alive and would be found. Madame Riano's belief
was superstitious, pure and simple. She actually believed that nobody
married to a Kirkpatrick could be called out of this world without
ceremony. There must be all the ghostly accessories by which the exits
of the Kirkpatricks were made as imposing as the Deity could
contrive--so thought she; but to Francezka it always seemed the height
of wisdom to believe Gaston Cheverny to be alive.
Much of the year 1736 we spent at Paris, and Count Saxe again occupied
himself with his _amusettes_, and in the invention of a wheel by which
boats could be propelled through the water. The women, I admit, still
chased him vigorously; one brazen princess would not let him get the
length of a cow's tail away from her. But was this to be wondered at?
Maurice of Saxe seemed to be sent into this world to conquer all women
as well as all men.
We were always lodged magnificently in Paris, at the Luxembourg, and
at Versailles and Fontainebleau, and Marly-le-Roi, when we went to
court. The king could not do enough for Count Saxe, and had already
begun to consider giving him the Castle of Chambord, as he afterward
did. Count Saxe could, if he had wished, put the king's shirt on him
every morning, but Count Saxe was not a perfect courtier, after the
sort described by the Regent of Orleans, who defined a perfect
courtier as a man without pride or temper. Count Saxe had both, and
did not like the business of valeting, even for kings.
He spent much time on his book, _Mes Reves_, he dictating and I
writing it. He also studied the seven books on war by that Florentine
secretary, Niccolo Machiavelli, who knew more about war than any man
who ever wore a black cloak. He was the first who invented the
battalion formation. Count Saxe used to say, laughing, that according
to Machiavelli, I lacked an essential of a good soldier--gaiety of
heart. I always replied that the Tatars, my royal ancestors, like
other princes, had not much cause for gaiety, and that my somberness
was due to the exalted rank with which I had been invested. When I was
a barefooted boy, trotting about the Marais, I was as happy as a bird
in spring.
I think Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's death had a lasting effect on Count
Saxe. I ever believed that he grieved more for her than did Voltaire,
who wrote verses on her. Voltaire, at that time, was hanging to the
petticoats of that lean, brown Madame du Chatelet, who spent her time
working out Newton's Principia and henpecking Voltaire. No woman ever
henpecked my master. But I must admit Voltaire was a sorcerer, and
could spur a dead horse into life. He confused me very much about that
time by asking me if the writing I was engaged upon was a life of
Count Saxe, and when I said not, the rogue remarked that he supposed I
was like Amyot, who said that he did not write the life of his various
masters because he was too much attached to them. Now, what answer is
a man to make to such things?
In spite of all the distractions of Paris, Count Saxe by no means lost
interest in Francezka, and kept in constant communication with her.
Madame Riano had urged Francezka to join her in Paris, but Francezka
declined to leave Brabant for two reasons why she must not stir from
home; that Gaston, if living, might find her there; and if he were
dead, she preferred the seclusion of her own home to the gaiety of
Paris.
In the spring of 1737 Madame Riano was seized with the notion of going
to England again. I judge she had had enough of Scotland, that land of
milk and honey, as she represented it to be. This time she went
straight to London, where she took a great house, proclaimed herself a
Jacobite, put white cockades on every one of her servants, down to the
very scullions in the kitchen, and defied Sir Robert Walpole's
government to arrest her. To her cruel disappointment, the ministry
took not the least notice of her. In vain she gave balls on Prince
Charles Stuart's birthday, whom she called James III, made everybody
curtsy to his portrait, which was placed in the main lobby of her
house, and never failed to revile and ridicule the Elector of
Hanover, as she called King George, and all his family. The straw that
broke the camel's back was when her coach locked wheels with that of
the Duke of Newcastle, then secretary of state under Sir Robert
Walpole, and known as the greatest fool in England. It was on the way
to a levee at St. James's Palace. Madame Riano upbraided the duke for
his treachery to his lawful sovereign, King James the Third, called
King George a Hanoverian rat, and then triumphantly demanded in the
face of a great crowd which collected around the combatants:
"And now, will your Grace have me arrested?"
The poor foolish duke, who stuttered and stammered fearfully, replied
to this:
"M-m-m-madame, the king's orders are n-n-not to arrest anybody except
p-persons of the f-f-first consequence, M-madame!"
Fancy Madame Riano's rage! And the crowd actually cheered the duke, so
we heard in Paris. This, however, drove Scotch Peg out of London. She
returned to Paris, reopened the Hotel Kirkpatrick, and announced that
she only lived for the purpose of hurling the Hanoverian rats from the
throne of England and Scotland. My master went to call on her and took
me with him. Madame Riano received us in her usual state, which was
lofty, for one of the merits which Madame Riano possessed in common
with Francezka was a perfect capacity for affairs. Madame Riano might
furnish food for laughter in Paris and London and Brabant, but her
debts were always promptly paid; she lived splendidly, but without
waste, and she always had more money in her pocket than those who
laughed at her.
She was kind, if patronizing, to Count Saxe, and acted as if I were
rather the more important of the two. She delivered a long account of
the outrages heaped upon her by the Elector of Hanover, as she called
George of England, which outrages, as nearly as I could make out,
consisted wholly in not having her sent to the Tower of London and
tried for high treason as she ardently desired. After the recital of
Madame Riano's wrongs at the hands of the Kings of England, Spain and
France--for she had something against the last two as well as the
first, and complained that they had all treated her as if she were of
no more account than the drummer's cat--the conversation turned on
Francezka. Madame Riano heard from her regularly. She was well,
endeavored to be cheerful, and held an undying hope.
Madame Riano freely declared she believed Gaston Cheverny to be still
alive, but could give no better reason for it than the belief that
Omnipotence would not trifle with the life of one connected with the
Kirkpatrick family by marriage. She told us that she was going to
Brabant for the summer and later to pay a round of visits in
Luxembourg. Shortly after our visit she took her proposed departure.
That year of 1737 was an active one for Count Saxe. I could make a
very pretty history of our travels and adventures in Paris, Dresden,
Leipsic, Brussels and other gay towns, but I will not. For myself all
places were alike to me, provided I was with Count Saxe or with
Francezka. I hoped eagerly that Francezka would send for me, knowing
that would mean some clue to Gaston Cheverny, but she did not. I had
from her three letters, however, in which her soul shone forth. In the
spring of 1738 we were at Paris again. The women were very troublesome
that year after Count Saxe, and a gay set of rival duchesses came near
driving him to drink. One night in May he came into my chamber at
midnight, and throwing himself on a chair, said:
"Babache, I am weary of this town of Paris, and there is a duchess or
two that I would as lief were somewhere else. But as they will not go,
I have bethought me of our errand to Brussels. We can travel slowly
through the pleasant French country in this month of May; we can stop
at the chateau of Capello and see that matchless Francezka, and for a
little while we can live like men, instead of courtiers. What do you
think of this?"
I thought it well; my heart leaped at the mention of the chateau of
Capello. It was arranged that we should not give the least hint where
we were going. In fact, I was instructed to say that we were going to
the Pyrenees, and the story took so well that both the duchesses sent
their private spies to Spain to find out what my master was doing
there. Meanwhile we were on the high road to Brabant.
No one was with Count Saxe except myself and Beauvais. We left Paris
on a spring morning, very like the one so many years before when I had
been led out to be shot. We traveled briskly, and at every step that
we left the duchesses behind my master's spirits rose. As we had
given out that this journey was to the Pyrenees, the ladies sent their
couriers with their love-letters in the wrong direction, and Count
Saxe did not get a single love-letter between Paris and Brussels, and
his health and spirits visibly improved. Trust a woman of rank for
hounding a man to death.
We sent word ahead to the chateau of Capello of our coming, and
planned to arrive about sunset. The country of Brabant is everywhere
beautiful, rich and well tilled, but the estate of Capello was the
most beautiful, the richest and the best tilled of any we saw.
Francezka had not increased the park land, rightly thinking she had no
right to reduce the arable land of the peasants, but she had made them
keep their cottages like the cottages of a theater scene, and she had
planted most charming hedges of roses and of lilacs, and other
beautiful plants and trees. I think I never saw anything lovelier than
the rich meadow, where cows were grazing, almost encircled by a lilac
hedge, with occasional rose trees; and the cows had sense enough to
prefer the rich grass to the thorny roses or tough lilac foliage. This
was characteristic of Francezka. She loved beauty, as a Spaniard does,
but this love was tempered by that stern Scotch sense which does not
lose sight of what is useful.
Count Saxe had not seen the chateau since 1732, and he, too, was lost
in admiration at the beauty, order and fruitfulness of it all. The
windows of the chateau blazed in the sinking sun when we crossed the
stone bridge, dismounted, and walked up the steps of the terrace.
Francezka met us on the highest terrace. She wore, as when I had last
seen her, a rich Spanish costume of black, but not of mourning. She
was then in her twenty-seventh year, and was in the full perfection of
her charms. She received us joyfully, gave Count Saxe her cheek to
kiss and me her hand, and thanked us for coming to see her. Bold was
still her inseparable companion, and barked a joyful welcome to me.
As I had noted in her, after she had married Gaston Cheverny, a new
and sweet humility, so I now saw a new development of gentle patience
and quiet courage. She had taken up at last the burden of anxiety
which is a part of every creature's burden on this earth, and she bore
it more sweetly than would have been thought possible by one who knew
how dazzlingly happy and brilliant her path had been heretofore.
Unlike most persons whose lives and fortunes are dedicated to a single
pursuit, Francezka had not become ill balanced or fanciful. I thought
I had never seen her more dignified or sensible than when she presided
at supper that night.
She was perfectly informed on public affairs in Europe, being
naturally a great reader, and the retired life she led inclining her
the more to reading. She blushed with pleasure at Count Saxe's
compliments upon her acquirements. But Francezka, in spite of all
changes, was still Francezka. She knew perfectly well how to entertain
a great man like Count Saxe. While we supped she had musicians in the
gallery, who sang a song recounting Count Saxe's triumphs in war. My
master listened with pleasure, the greater when Francezka admitted
that she was the author of both the words and the music. In her
voluntary retirement she had cultivated gifts that would have lain
fallow had she kept her place in the world.
Old Peter waited on us, as usual, at supper. There was something in
his response to my inquiry after his health which was more cheerful
than I had seen in him for years. I was not surprised, therefore, when
Francezka whispered to me, during Peter's absence from the room, that
poor little Lisa had returned.
Madame Chambellan was still of Francezka's household, but being, as I
think, incurably lazy, she kept her room and asked to be excused to
us, which we cheerfully granted.
When supper was over it was still warm enough to go out of doors, so
Francezka led the way to that well-remembered spot, the Italian
garden, and there, under the solemn yew trees, and looking down upon
the somber lake, dark, although the twilight was still mellow, we sat
and talked with the joy and peace of friends after a long separation.
Bold, of course, was of the party, and continued to honor me with his
friendship.
The first thing Count Saxe asked Francezka was, if she had any news of
Gaston. Francezka shook her head.
"But I have not given up hope; if I did I should throw myself into the
lake. And, after all, what does any search amount to, after my
discovery that my lord was alive and present in a place which had been
searched a dozen times in three months? Could any wife give up hope
after that? No! All I can do is to wait and watch and hope and pray
and work, for work I do, that when my husband returns he may find a
wife to his taste. I read somewhere lately that Hesiod, an old Greek,
said that the gods have placed labor as a sentinel over virtue. As
long as I work and stay quietly at home no one can slander me, no one
can accuse me, and I can live my own life of work, study and prayer."
Count Saxe looked at her in silent admiration. There was something
heroic in the steady fight this woman was making for her love. She
told us that she still spent a great part of her income in promoting
the search for Gaston Cheverny. She acknowledged that much of this
money went to deceitful and designing persons, who professed to have
information to sell which was no information at all, but as Francezka
said coolly, she would rather spend her fortune in that way than in
any other. Then she told us about Lisa's return.
"Jacques Haret, it seems, had deserted her after six months," said
Francezka, "and poor, doglike Lisa followed him for almost a year from
place to place, not to force herself on him, but only to get a glimpse
of his face. Think of such love being wasted on Jacques Haret! Think
of such devotion to him as old Peter's! Well, Lisa, at last, came face
to face with Jacques Haret. He spoke to her, gave her a silver
snuff-box in default of money, and when she threw it away before his
face, the only act of spirit I ever knew in her, Jacques Haret laughed
at her. That stung even her patient soul.
"She fled from him, and in her despair thought to drown herself. She
was stricken with remorse at her thought, however, and little by
little the desire to kill herself departed. Then the longing to see
poor old Peter and her home overcame everything, and she turned her
face toward Brabant. It took her long, of course, to reach here; she
was quite on the other side of Paris; she had to live and to work, but
with steady purpose she came toward Brabant. One evening, in the late
winter, when Peter went home, he found Lisa sitting in rags by the
fire. She fell on her knees before him and was forgiven in a breath.
"Next morning Peter came to me, and, with tears, implored me not to
send Lisa too far away. He was overwhelmed when I told him she might
stay in the cottage. Poor Lisa! If all sinners were as penitent!
Father Benart is kind to her, and the poor soul works and prays. Some
of the people in the parish are indignant with Father Benart, and with
me, too, for countenancing Lisa, but they have not so far ventured to
speak to me on the subject. If they did--" Francezka turned her head
with an air that showed that neither sorrow nor disappointment had
impaired the lofty martial spirit she had inherited from the
Kirkpatricks.
She also told us that Madame Riano was absent upon her tour of visits,
but would return within a fortnight. That night, before we slept,
Count Saxe told me he did not propose to remain long enough to
encounter Peggy Kirkpatrick.