COME AND REJOICE
We went on to Brussels; but though my body was in Brussels, my soul
was still at the chateau of Capello. I had not the slightest doubt in
my own mind that Gaston Cheverny was dead, and the spectacle of this
poor Francezka, with her passionate faithfulness, unable to part with
that lingering ghost of hope, was enough to touch any heart. It deeply
touched Count Saxe's. He was the last man on earth to forget that
through devotion to him Gaston Cheverny had been lost, and I believe
he would have given his right arm could Gaston Cheverny have been
found.
By the time we got to Brussels, the women in Paris had found out where
Count Saxe was, and a bushel of love letters awaited him--which
spoiled that place for us. We went as far as Dresden, and going to
Strasburg, returned to Paris by that road, without passing near
Brabant. In fact, two whole years passed without my seeing Francezka;
and when I saw her--but no more--
Many things happened to Count Saxe in those years, the most important
being the gift of the Castle of Chambord with an income to support it,
and the promise of being made Marshal of France if he were successful
in the war which was bound to break out soon, and actually did break
out in 1741. This gift of Chambord was made in January of 1740. The
king always had a fear that he might lose Count Saxe's services, for
the Courland business haunted my master--that dream of a throne and a
crown never quite left him. For that reason Louis XV determined to
attach Count Saxe permanently to France; and this royal gift of
Chambord, with its vast estates, its forests, fields and parks, made
Count Saxe at once the ruler of a principality.
There had been some hints of this, and Count Saxe had told me
privately that he would not accept any gift from the king, unless
coupled with the promise of the marshalship in the event of a
successful campaign. I can say of my own knowledge that Count Saxe
would rather be Marshal of France than to own Chambord, with
Versailles and the Louvre thrown in as makeweights.
On that January day, when Count Saxe was sent for to Fontainebleau to
receive this kingly present, I was with him. He was summoned to the
king's closet by Marshal, the Duc de Noailles--the one who always
called my master "My Saxe." As soon as Count Saxe disappeared, I was
left in the anteroom with the mob of ladies and gentlemen; they
flocked about me. They knew that a great honor for Count Saxe was
impending, and by some strange logic, they persuaded themselves that
they were entitled to share in it, and they looked upon me as a
shoeing horn. I was "good Babache" to people I had never seen before.
My health, all at once, seemed to become of consequence to everybody
at Fontainebleau; and the proverb that a beggar, on falling into a
fortune, has neither relations nor friends, was speedily disproved. I
found I had hosts of friends, and no doubt could have found some
relations if I had tried. Courtiers are very childlike creatures after
all. The continual frank pursuit of their own interests brings them
back to the starting point of a savage, who does not see or know
anything beyond to-day and its wants.
Among the waiting crowd was Monsieur Voltaire. I had seen him several
times in the preceding two years. He always greeted me civilly--a
tribute I think to the poor lost Adrienne, whom none who knew her
could forget. On this day, however, Voltaire eyed me somewhat
superciliously, and I protest I relished it by contrast with the
smirks and bows and smiles and honeyed words lavished upon me by
others in hopes of an invitation to Chambord.
My master remained with the king a full half hour. When he came out,
he was accompanied, as when he went in, by the old marshal, Duc de
Noailles. As soon as I saw Count Saxe's face, I knew that something
more and better had befallen him than a life interest in a great
estate. His eyes, the brightest and clearest in the world, sought me
out, and by a look, he brought me to his side, the people making way
readily enough--real princes cheerfully taking the wall for this Tatar
prince born in the Marais! When I got quite close to my master, he
whispered in my ear:
"Marshal of France, if successful!"
I felt myself grow hot with joy. Marshal of France! How much greater
was that than a huge pile of stone like Chambord!
The Duc de Noailles was then giving out the news, and, turning to my
master, the white-haired marshal embraced him as a brother in arms.
But I had been the first one told by my master.
The ladies and gentlemen all showed great joy and complaisance. They
knew that Count Saxe was not the man to do things by halves, and that
at Chambord the gay days of Francis the First and the _escadrons
volants_ would be gloriously renewed. I watched Monsieur Voltaire, as
with his wonderful and unforgettable eyes he gazed upon Count Saxe and
probably reflected on the difference of the reward given a successful
general and a great wit--for I am not denying that Monsieur Voltaire
possessed a very considerable share of wit. He was among the last to
congratulate my master, but he did it finally, winding up a fine
compliment with this:
"And now, Monsieur, I presume you will be elected to the seat in the
Academy. You shall have my vote. You can always spell victory--and
what matters the rest?"
This was the meanest allusion possible to my master's never having
time or inclination to devote to such common things as spelling. But
Count Saxe came back at him thus:
"Oh, no, Monsieur Voltaire. I am not a candidate for a seat in the
Academy. I am pledged to support a friend of mine for the vacancy."
All the people pricked up their ears and Monsieur Voltaire was the
most eager of them all.
"My candidate," said Count Saxe very impressively, "is Captain
Babache"--here he whacked me on the shoulder--"a prince of the royal
blood of Tatary, who can spell like any clerk, and write a better hand
than any academician, living or dead, ever did."
Monsieur Voltaire was a picture. The people present shouted with
laughter--Monsieur Voltaire never was very popular at court--and my
master grinned, and I felt myself grow weak in the knees with all
those laughing eyes fixed on me. It was said afterward, that some of
the Academicians were sore over this joke of Count Saxe's. I had my
turn at Monsieur Voltaire shortly after, for having occasion to write
him a note in my master's name, I directed it in full to "Monsieur
Francois Marie Voltaire, Member of the French Academy"--which he was
not until some time afterward--"at the house of Madame du Chatelet, on
the Isle of St. Louis, Paris." "Voltaire, Paris," would have taken any
letter straight to him, but I chose to assume that very explicit
directions were necessary to reach him, as if he were quite unknown,
and difficult to find. It made him very angry, so I heard, and that
was what I meant it for.
The whole of that winter and spring, I spent running to and fro
between Paris and Chambord, for it is no easy thing to get in order
such an establishment as Count Saxe set up, in that vast palace. There
were four hundred rooms, and thirteen grand staircases, to say nothing
of the smaller ones, and there was stabling for twelve hundred horses.
The king had given Count Saxe permission to increase his body-guard of
Uhlans, in view of the war known to be coming, and all these men and
horses had to be assigned to their proper quarters, and provided for
otherwise. The hunting establishment alone required the services of
more than a hundred men; for there were wolves and wild boars to be
hunted besides smaller game, in the forests of Chambord, and the
plains of Salon. It is in this region that Thibaut of Champagne, so
the peasants believe, follows his ghostly hunt. Often, at midnight,
the winding of his horn echoes through the darkness of the forest, and
the cry of his dogs from the nether world rings to the night sky--so
say the peasants. I never saw or heard this supernatural hunt.
With the internal management of the castle I had nothing to do.
Beauvais was promoted to be _maitre d'hotel_, and a hard enough time
he had, losing, in one year, a very good head of hair over it. The
only authority I was made to assume was over the pages of honor. There
were ten of these brats, all dressed in yellow silk breeches and
waistcoats, and black velvet coats, and they gave me more trouble,
grief and perplexity than my whole battalion of Uhlans. Will it be
believed that these little rascals in yellow silk, of whom the eldest
was barely fourteen, kept me perpetually in anxiety about fighting
duels among themselves?
They would beg, borrow or steal rapiers, and sneaking away by night or
in the early morning, would fight on the edge of the moat on a little
embankment, from which they were extremely likely to tumble into the
water, if they missed each other's swordpoints. I could not cure them
of it, but whenever I caught them I cuffed them soundly. They made
great outcry over this, being of the best blood of France. But when
they ran with their tales to my master--particularly one little
Boufflers, who was about to run me through--my master always told
them that I was of the royal blood of Tatary; so it was rather an
honor, than a disgrace, for me to lay hands on them.
Let it not be supposed that all these labors and perplexities put
Francezka out of my mind for one hour. Nor had Count Saxe forgotten
her. He caused me to write to her more than once, and delicately
intimated a desire that she would honor Chambord at some time with her
presence. I little thought when I wrote that letter that Francezka
would be likely to see Chambord. But events were moving silently but
swiftly, and when I least expected it--when Francezka's sad fate
seemed fixed; when her life had apparently adjusted itself finally, a
great, a stupendous change was at hand. It came suddenly but quietly,
and the news of it met us at the last place and from the last person
one might possibly expect. It was May, when being overtaken by sunset
on the way to Paris, and the horses being tired, Count Saxe and myself
stopped at a little roadside inn, just one stage from Paris. Count
Saxe had not even a servant with him, thinking to spend only a few
hours in Paris and then to return at once to Chambord.
The inn was a plain, but comfortable place, with good wine, and
excellent plain fare. After supper, Count Saxe, being weary, went to
bed, the innkeeper valeting him, while I remained out of doors. The
evening was softly beautiful. The sun was slowly disappearing; it was
not far from eight o'clock, and the sky was all red and gold and
amber. The rich and quiet landscape was not unlike that of Capello,
though far from being so rich and so lovely. It was the sweet hour at
which I always thought of Francezka, the hour she always kept her
vigil in the Italian garden--a vigil that had seemed to me to be
taking the form of remembrance of the dead, rather than expectation of
the living. And knowing exactly what she was doing at that hour often
produced in me a sense of nearness to Francezka.
On this evening she seemed to hover near me, and it was not the
Francezka I had last seen, the bravely patient, the undyingly
courageous; but the Francezka of her first wild, sweet youth,
high-hearted, all fire and dew, laughter and tears, haughty and
merry--the Francezka who claimed happiness as her right. And with this
presence near me, and her voice ringing in my ears, I was suddenly
brought back to this earth by seeing before me the unwelcome face of
Jacques Haret.
I had not seen the scoundrel for four years, and never wished to see
him again. He was sitting at a table in the garden of the inn--for I
had unconsciously wandered from the orchard into the garden. He looked
more prosperous than I had ever seen him, being well dressed all over,
and for the first time evidently in clothes made for him. I was for
passing on with a brief word, when he stopped me.
"Have you heard the great news?" he asked. "No, of course you have
not. Gaston Cheverny has been found. I compute that he reached the
chateau of Capello this afternoon--probably at this very hour."
The earth began to rock under my feet, the heavens broke into long
waves of light, as if the oceans and a million voices were shouting in
my ear at once. In the midst of all this, Jacques Haret's cool,
musical voice continued:
"Yes. He should reach there about this time. And a tragedy may have
preceded him--Madame Cheverny may have driven a nail into the eye of
Count Bellegarde, as Jael did to Sisera, or cut off his head and put
it in a bag, as Judith did that of Holofernes. For Bellegarde--the
greatest fool alive--told me that on this date he meant to go to
Capello and make a formal offer of his hand to the supposed widow, and
by the blessing of God he hoped to own Capello. I have just come from
Brabant, you see. I advised Bellegarde to make his will and to repent
of his sins before going on such an errand, for Madame Cheverny has
the spirit of all the Kirkpatricks in her beautiful body, and is
dangerous when roused."
While Jacques Haret was speaking, I recovered my composure, although
my soul was in storm and tumult, but I could not ask one of the
thousand questions burning upon my lips. Then I saw a figure
approaching, hatless and unpowdered, and wrapped in a bed coverlet. It
was Count Saxe. He had not gone to sleep, and hearing through his open
window Jacques Haret's tale, had sprung from his bed and rushed into
the garden. Next to Francezka, Count Saxe, of all the world, wished
Gaston Cheverny to be found for reasons easily understood. He called
out as he stalked forward in his bed coverlet:
"Do you know anything else about it?"
"Nothing," replied Jacques, thrusting his hands in his pockets; "but
it has ruined Bellegarde's chances of living at Capello, the palace of
delights."
"And some one else has come back to Capello," I added. "Lisa, Peter
Embden's niece."
Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Jacques Haret show any shame at
the mention of the unfortunate girl's name, or of poor old Peter's.
Count Saxe, however, standing a little way off, and gesticulating in
his coverlet, cried loudly:
"Jacques Haret, you are the blackest villain, cheat, scoundrel, rogue
and rapscallion yet unhung. The jail yawns for you, the gallows yearns
for you. May they both get you!"
"Thanks, Monsieur," replied Jacques Haret; "I am as God made me--and
He makes men different. As Monsieur Voltaire said of your Excellency,
'God has not seen fit to give wings to the donkey.' God has not seen
fit to make me like the founder of La Trappe. That is all."
Count Saxe turned to me:
"Get post-horses, Babache. We must go to Paris this night; no doubt
there are letters for us. This news, if it be true, is worth a hundred
thousand crowns to me."
The innkeeper got horses for us, and we started for Paris in a
ramshackle chaise. Jacques Haret watched our departure with the
greatest interest and entirely at his ease.
When I was stepping into the chaise, I called out to him, as he stood
on the grass, in the shadowy light:
"I have not time now to give you a good beating, Jacques Haret. But
when next we meet, I promise it to you, and will let nothing interfere
with my engagement."
"Thanks," replied Jacques, "I have been promised not less than a
million of beatings and have not yet got the first one. Adieu."
As we jolted along through the May night, all sorts of agitating
thoughts poured into my mind about Francezka. She was at that moment,
probably, in a heaven of her own making; for, be it observed, I
doubted not in the least that Jacques Haret knew what he was talking
about. I was somewhat surprised that he knew in advance of Gaston's
arrival, but that was easily accounted for. Gaston would not travel
incognito, and the news must have flown in advance of him.
Count Saxe, lying back in his corner of the chaise, talked of Gaston,
of his manliness, his courage, his charm; and of Francezka, whom he
could not praise enough. I saw that a cloud had passed from his life
with Gaston's return. He told me that Francezka's face haunted him,
and the absence of any reproach on her part for the imprudence which
led to Gaston's capture went like a poniard to his heart. We reached
the Luxembourg before midnight, and were abroad by daylight. I,
myself, went to the cafe of the Green Basket, where news was to be
gathered, and found that wild rumors were afloat concerning Gaston
Cheverny's return. Within the next two days we got positive
confirmation of it, and, also, a letter from Francezka. It was written
in a trembling hand, unlike her usual firm, clear writing. It ran
thus:
Count Saxe and dear, faithful Babache:
My best beloved has returned to me. Come and rejoice with me.
Francezka Cheverny.
That was all; none of her other names and titles, scarce one
superfluous word--but a letter written in the very ecstasy and
palpitation of joy.
It took Count Saxe not an hour to fix a day for our departure for
Capello, and I wrote a letter telling Francezka when we should arrive;
and trying to tell her how deep was my joy in her joy.
Within a week we rode for Brabant--only myself and Beauvais with Count
Saxe--and traveled leisurely in the pleasant spring weather.
What Jacques Haret had told concerning the poor Count Bellegarde was
true. He, the most absurd creature alive, who had believed for years
that this glorious creature was his for the asking, had come to the
chateau of Capello that May afternoon, and had made Francezka a formal
offer of marriage. It had been easy enough to dispose of the poor
gentleman. Francezka's temper was naturally warm. In this case, her
heart eating itself with despair, her nerves racked with hope
deferred, she had turned like a lioness upon the unfortunate
Bellegarde. He had fled from her indignant presence, and from the
wrath which shone in her eyes and blazed in her cheeks; and Francezka,
trembling and tempest-tossed, had, in her turn, fled to the Italian
garden, where she could be alone. For she needed to be alone to face
the specter which now took shape before her. It was no less than her
dead hopes, clad in their grave clothes, which told her that Gaston
Cheverny was no more. And while she walked slowly up and down the
path, with this horror walking beside her, she looked up, and, behold!
There stood Gaston Cheverny in the flesh.
Of what she said or did, Francezka had no memory. When she first
became conscious of thought, she was lying in Gaston's arms, in an
agony of sobbing and crying, and he was soothing her, and lavishing
upon her every tenderness that love could devise. And after a time,
when the first great shock of joy was over, Francezka rallied and
became herself again--brave, resolute and loving. And then they looked
into each other's eyes with rapture, and Gaston cried:
"We can never again be apart beyond the touch of each other's hand."
And after an hour spent in paradise, Francezka and Gaston walked hand
in hand to the chateau, the servants and dependents were summoned, and
Francezka, kneeling among them, with her hand on Gaston's shoulder,
humbly gave thanks to God for having restored her best beloved to her.
The news spread like wildfire, and roused the entire country. The next
day, when Francezka and Gaston publicly gave thanks in the church,
half the province was present.
Gaston was, of course, besieged with inquiries concerning the
vicissitudes which had befallen him. They turned out to be quite as
strange as might have been expected. The wound on his head had been
severe, and had caused him great suffering, and, what was worse, had
brought upon him long periods of forgetfulness. He had no recollection
of anything that had happened to him after being struck by the
Austrian bullet, and could not recall even the incident of the little
village in the Taunus, where he had been seen three months after his
capture. His first connected impressions were, on finding himself in
Holland, and next, he knew not how, on a Dutch ship bound for Batavia.
After nearly a year he had reached Batavia, and then began the
struggle to return to Europe. He had written repeatedly to Francezka,
and to his friends; that is, scrawled as well as he could, with his
left hand, for his right hand, although it had no outward mark of
weakness, was quite unfit for writing. He could not explain the cause
of this; it was one of those blanks in his memory, in which some of
the most painful as well as some of the dearest of his recollections
were erased.
Being bred to the trade of a soldier, he knew no other means of
livelihood and he found it hard, in his wanderings, to keep body and
soul together. He was alone in a far country, unacquainted with the
languages, and further borne down by those physical and mental
ailments which only mended in the course of long years. Only two
things remained ever clear and unclouded with him: one was, the
remembrance of Francezka; the other was, a fixed determination to
return to Europe. By degrees, his mind recovered its poise and his
body its health; but seven years were consumed from the time he was
snatched away from his country, from his love, his health, his
understanding, until he was again restored to them.
Some of this we heard before we left Paris. Of course, the women would
not let Count Saxe depart in peace. The Countess Vielinski followed us
with post-horses as far as Mezieres, and Count Saxe only saved himself
by decamping in the night, galloping out of one gate of the town, as
Madame Vielinski's berlin rolled into the other. And yet this man is
called a gay Lothario!
Everywhere on the road people were talking of Gaston Cheverny's
wonderful return. The number of persons who knew that he must
eventually come back was very large--I believe I did not see one
single person who was not convinced all along that Gaston would be
found. And the country rang with praises of Madame Cheverny's
constancy and devotion. Especially did this come from the people who
had declared Francezka to be wildly visionary and had severely
condemned her course from the beginning.