THE BITTERNESS OF DOUBT
My master went to Paris for Christmas, to our old lodging at the
Luxembourg. The king was very anxious for Count Saxe to be permanently
lodged at Versailles, but my master, by a variety of clever
subterfuges, declined to exchange his splendid and spacious apartments
at the Luxembourg, for the dog-hole which was all they had to offer
him at Versailles. Two thousand persons were lodged in the palace. It
may be imagined what sort of lodging much of it was; mere closets for
ladies of quality, a landing at a stair's head curtained off for
gentlemen. My master was offered a couple of rooms under the roof for
himself, myself and Beauvais. Count Saxe responded that he was not a
snail, and required a lodging somewhat larger than himself. He was
told that a bishop was satisfied with one room and an alcove for his
valet. My master replied that a bishop was a holier man than he. The
fact is, my master did not like the everlasting restraints of
Versailles. Some malicious people said he preferred Paris on account
of Mademoiselle Verieres, the actress. God knows. There are always
people who can ascribe the worst motives to the simplest actions.
Francezka and Gaston Cheverny spent the winter at the Hotel
Kirkpatrick. Madame Riano had gone to England then, but only made a
brief stay. From thence she went to Rome, and Monsieur Voltaire
declared it was for the purpose of getting the pope to put himself at
the head of the Kirkpatricks to march to London and wrest the throne
of England from the Hanoverians for Prince Charles Edward Stuart. At
all events, news reached Paris that Madame Riano had fallen out
violently with the Holy Father, as she had done with the Kings of
France, of Spain and of England, and was breathing out fire and
slaughter against the Holy See.
It was to be expected that Francezka and Gaston should live with
splendor and gaiety at the Hotel Kirkpatrick, and they did; this, too,
upon a scale that probably made Francezka's father, the prudent old
Scotchman, writhe in his grave. Balls, masques, concerts and ballets
followed each other with dazzling swiftness. A temporary theater was
built in the garden on the site of the one where Francezka had made
her first dramatic adventure with the baker's boy, under the
management of Jacques Haret. Here were given the best comedies of the
day, with Francezka as the star. Monsieur Voltaire was often in the
cast, and some of his own masterpieces were given at this theater for
the first time.
Nor was he the only wit who frequented the Hotel Kirkpatrick. Not only
wits, but scholars like Maupertius, the two Bernouillis, many poets
and literary men, Cardinal de Polignac and Marquis de Beauvau,
soldiers like Marshal Count de Belle-Isle, his brother the Chevalier,
the Prince de Soubise, the Prince de Clermont, and others, made
Francezka's saloon shine. She was the extreme of the mode and her
saloon became the rage. Monsieur Voltaire went about threatening the
ladies, that if they did not look out, Madame Cheverny would bring
virtue into fashion. But there was no panic among them, although it
can not be denied that Francezka was admired for her virtue as for her
wit, and, with such a fortune as hers, neither would be likely to
remain under an eclipse.
She was in the greatest demand at Versailles, too, and danced in all
of the finest ballets given for the king. She had her English
curricle, and with her English _joki_ standing up behind her, was
often seen driving in the Bois de Boulogne. She dressed superbly, and
was altogether glorious. The same felicity seemed to attend Gaston.
The Duc de Richelieu took a violent fancy to him, which, of course,
recommended him to the king. He was of all the royal hunting parties.
The king loved to hear him tell of his adventures in the East, which
were extremely interesting, and Gaston was ever eloquent of tongue. He
was gallant to the ladies, and much run after by them, but I do not
think he ever gave Francezka cause for a moment's jealousy. In short,
if two human beings might be supposed to walk the sunny heights of
joy, it was Francezka and Gaston Cheverny.
Paris was seething during the winter of 1740-41, which preceded the
outbreak of the first Silesian war on the part of the great Frederick
of Prussia against the greater Maria Theresa of Austria-Hungary.
France and Paris were dragged hither and thither, Cardinal Fleury, a
peaceful old man, urging that France remain neutral; Marshal
Belle-Isle, a genius in war, insisting that France must side with
Prussia. Naturally, the military element wanted war, and when it
seemed likely that Cardinal Fleury would keep France at peace, Marshal
Belle-Isle went about storming that this old parson would ruin
everything. It was understood that no active military operations would
take place until the late summer, so the gay dogs of officers and the
merry ladies who danced in the court ballets, and flitted about like
butterflies in the sun, had to make the most of Paris then. The pace
at which they went was killing--and Francezka and Gaston Cheverny were
not the last in this race.
One day, shortly before the carnival, there was a great fete at the
Louvre, and the courtyard was filling up with magnificent coaches. The
finest of all was a gilt coach superbly horsed with six horses, with
four outriders in the crimson and gold of Francezka's liveries. She
sat alone in the coach, waiting her turn to drive up to the great
entrance. She was, as always, dressed with splendor, and as she sat
back in the coach, fanning herself with a beautiful fan that slightly
moved the white plumes of her head-dress, I made my way through the
crush and spoke to her. She had one of her lackeys let down the coach
steps, and I stood on them while speaking to her. I congratulated her
on her splendid equipage.
"It is very superb, I know," she replied, but a shade came over her
face. "Is it not trying, Babache, to have one's lightest word taken
seriously? Here is the story of this coach. I had a handsome
one--fine enough for any one--but happening to say one day, in pure
carelessness, that I should like to have a gilt coach, Gaston orders
this one for me, secretly, and it arrives this morning, to my
astonishment. Moreover, in order to do it, Gaston, himself, went
without some horses he needs. He is by no means so well mounted as he
should be."
"At least, Madame," I replied, "few wives have your cause of
complaint."
I noticed then some dissatisfaction in Francezka's face; the pursuit
of pleasure, night and day, is bound to leave its marks on the
strongest frame, and the best balanced nerves. I suspected Francezka
was in the mood to find fault.
"Yes," she replied to my last words, "few wives can complain of too
great complaisance on the part of their husbands. But it is, surely,
not a comfortable way to live, for a woman, to watch and weigh her
words with her husband, lest he act upon the most lightly expressed
wish. Depend upon it, Babache, a great passion is a great burden."
Francezka said this to me--Francezka, less than a year after Gaston's
return. Oh, how strange a thing is a great passion after all!
In a minute or two more, I heard Gaston's voice over my shoulder. He
was standing on the coach step below me, and looked smiling and
triumphant.
"I see you approve of this equipage," said he to me. "It is not
unworthy even of Francezka."
I agreed with him; admired the horses--six superb roans--and then the
time came to move on, and I sprang to the ground, while Gaston stepped
into the coach.
As I walked away, I reflected that the money to pay for the gilt
coach and six came out of Francezka's estate. But Gaston, I knew, had
the management of it; and it is not the husband of every heiress who
is satisfied to keep indifferent horses for himself, and provide his
wife with six for her coach, and four for her outriders, to say
nothing of the finest coach in Paris.
But was Francezka happy? Her air that day did not indicate it, but
rather weariness, and disgust of the pleasures she followed so
assiduously. It is never a sign of happiness to follow pleasure
madly.
In walking and riding about the streets of Paris I kept a lookout for
Jacques Haret. I had not forgotten my promise to give him a good
beating the next time I saw him, and felt conscientious scruples that
I had not done it when I had met him the spring before. But the news
he gave me on that occasion was so startling it put my duty out of my
head. I had not the slightest doubt that some time or other he would
drift back to Paris. Fellows of Jacques Haret's kidney can no more
keep away from Paris than cats can keep away from cream.
So I watched for him, and one evening, soon after the carnival, as I
was walking along the Rue St. Jacques, I came face to face with
Jacques Haret. It was dusk, but the lamps which hung across the street
had not yet been lighted. Jacques Haret was stepping debonairly along,
whistling cheerfully _Sur le pont d'Avignon_. I noticed, even in the
dim February evening, that he was shabbily dressed, but bore the marks
of good eating and drinking on his face. When we came face to face he
involuntarily halted. I stepped up to him and said:
"Where will you take it?"
The fellow knew I meant the beating I had promised. I continued:
"Here in the public street, where we shall be recognized, arrested,
and Count Saxe will see that I come to no harm, while you will cool
your heels in the Chatelet prison where you belong; or in the
Luxembourg gardens which are deserted now, and where I can beat you
more at my leisure, but not the less hard?"
"In the Luxembourg gardens," said the scoundrel, coolly, after a
pause.
I have ever admired Jacques Haret's courage and I admired it now. He
knew I meant to thrash him, that I had the strength to do it, and that
if he killed me Count Saxe would tear him limb from limb. He had lost
that nice honor of a gentleman, which would make a man accept death
rather than a blow, but reasoning philosophically, as a rogue often
does, concluded to take his punishment as best he might. Kings often
reason thus, but few private men do.
We marched along the dark street, Jacques Haret in front, I behind. He
resumed his whistling of _Sur le pont d'Avignon_.
There were no lanterns inside the Luxembourg gardens. When we reached
the spot light streamed from many of the windows of the palace, but it
did not penetrate the far recesses of the gardens, behind the tall
hedges and the summer houses. I motioned Jacques Haret to the farthest
corner, behind a grove of dwarf cedars. Once there I began stripping
off my coat, and told him to strip off his coat also.
"Now, Babache," said this fellow, remonstrating, "don't be unreasonable;
it is unworthy of you. Here I have come with you quietly, and I could
have made a devil of a row, except I grew tired of dodging you through
the streets of Paris; but really I don't think it good for my health
to take your blows with nothing but my shirt between your fist and my
skin."
It was difficult to be serious with Jacques Haret, although his crimes
were serious enough, of which his behavior to poor old Peter and the
unfortunate Lisa were crimes in every sense. Nevertheless, I made him
take off his coat, which he did, grumbling excessively. And in the
shadow of the cedars I gave him as sound a beating as any man ever got
on this planet. All the while I was thinking of the satisfaction it
would give Francezka to know of it.
He had made no active resistance, although he skilfully avoided some
of my hardest blows. He uttered no oath, nor prayer, nor remonstrance;
he had long known that some time or other I should give him a beating,
that I was physically twice the man he was, and in the way he took his
punishment he exemplified that singular form of courage in which a
rogue often surpasses an honest man.
When I was through with him he presented a very battered appearance.
"I am now in the class with Monsieur Voltaire," he said, as he wiped
the blood from his nose. "He has had two beatings so far and so have
I. But faith! the world is so unjust! It will not sympathize with me
as it did with Voltaire. However, he was beaten by the Duc de Rohan's
lackeys, while I was pummeled by a prince, a Tatar prince born in the
Marais."
"I ought to have run you through," I said, "except that I am
squeamish about taking human life. Now, go your ways, Jacques Haret,
but if you do not want this dose repeated keep out of my way."
He bowed to the ground.
"My dear sir," he said, "I never sought your society in my life, nor
even that of your master. The inducement which you offer me to keep
out of your way is sufficient. I hope I shall never see you or your
cross eye again."
As I turned and went into my lodgings I felt how futile a thing I had
done; the dog should have been killed, but as I said, I am squeamish
about taking human life. However, I knew that such punishment as I had
given him would mightily please Francezka, and I determined to take
the first occasion of telling her.
It came the next night, when there was to be a great mi-careme rout
and ball at the Hotel Kirkpatrick. I did not usually go to these balls
unless commanded by my master, and he was a merciful man; but on this
night I went with him of my own free will. It was a very splendid
company, and few there were not above my quality. Madame Riano, who
had just returned from Rome, sparkled with diamonds like a walking
Golconda; but Francezka wore only a few gems, but those exquisite. She
looked very weary; the months of gaiety and dissipation she had led
were telling on her. Gaston was a noble host, attentive to all, and
not forgetting the kind and quality of respect due to each.
When the rout was at its height, and the floor of the dancing saloon
crowded, I had occasion to pass through the great suite of rooms,
which were nearly deserted for the ball room. There was a little
curtained alcove, in which either the lights had been forgotten or had
been put out, and from that place, dark and still, although the wild
racket of the ball was going on in the same building, I heard
Francezka's voice calling me. I went in and found her sitting on a
sofa.
"I am so very tired," she said. "I came here for a moment's rest, not
thinking I should be fortunate enough to have a word with my
Babache."
I sat down by her and told her the story of my beating Jacques Haret.
I could not see her face in the darkness, but she clapped her hands
joyously.
"I am afraid I want vengeance to be mine instead of the Lord's," she
cried with her old spirit. "I am like my Aunt Peggy in that. Thank you
for every blow you gave Jacques Haret. I shall tell Peter, but not
poor Lisa. That girl has the nature of a spaniel. I believe she
reproaches herself for having thrown in his face the silver snuff-box
Jacques Haret gave her."
I knew that Francezka and Gaston had been invited to visit Chambord in
the spring, and I expressed a wish that they might come.
"No," replied Francezka, relapsing into the weary tone she had first
used. "We have declined the invitation. I am so tired of balls and
hunting parties and ballets, and everything in the world, that I feel
sometimes as if I wished to be a hermit."
I listened in sorrow, but hardly in surprise. It is as true as the
forty-seventh proposition of Euclid that to give a human being all he
or she wants of anything is to cure all liking for it. Francezka's
natural taste, however, was so strongly in favor of gaiety and
splendor, and she had tasted so little of it, that I thought satiety
would spare her longer than most. There was a pause, after which I
said:
"You will be missed at Chambord, but Capello is so sweet in the spring
and summer."
"Yes," answered Francezka, "but even there I shall not be able to
escape people. Do you remember how they flocked there when Gaston came
home? And I verily believe half Paris means to follow us to Capello.
Gaston has invited many persons to visit us."
"Against your wish Madame?" I asked in surprise.
"Oh, no, he never does anything against my wish, but he never knows
what my wish is--since his return. Before he went away he always knew
my wishes in advance. Sometimes he combatted them. We had our little
wrangles from the time we first met and loved, and often showed
temper, one to the other, until his return. Now we never have any
wrangles. As soon as I express my will Gaston immediately makes it his
will. That, you will grant, is an unnatural way for two merely human
creatures to live."
"At least not many are afflicted with that form of unhappiness,
Madame."
"It is a form of unhappiness, though. I dare not express the smallest
disapproval of a thing or a person that Gaston does not seem to take
it as law. The most casual wish is fulfilled, but, as I say, he has
not the clairvoyance of love with all this devotion. He might have
seen that I longed for rest and quiet at Capello, but he did not. Now,
if I express the slightest distaste for company there he will withdraw
every invitation. To have one's lightest word taken seriously, and
one's smallest inclination influence the conduct of another person,
is highly uncomfortable."
I knew not what to say. Francezka's grievance appeared to me to be a
strange one though not wholly unreasoning. But I saw what gave me the
sharpest pain. It flashed upon me that she no longer loved Gaston
Cheverny. As if she had the clairvoyance that she complained of
Gaston's lacking, she continued:
"Yes; outwardly, all is the same; inwardly, all is changed. I have a
growing sense of strangeness with my husband. At first I felt the same
intimate friendship I had felt during our short married life, but by
insensible degrees I have come to feel that I do not know Gaston, nor
does Gaston know me. It is an appalling feeling."
"I should think so," I replied, and fell silent.
It was all strange and painful to me. I knew Francezka's faults well,
but I had never seen in her any deficiency in good sense. Even her
obstinate hanging on to the belief that Gaston was alive when the
world believed him dead had been justified, and her course had been
most practical during it all. But this new disgust at life, this
fault-finding with her husband, seemed to me lacking in reason. Yet
there was undoubtedly something changed in Gaston's personality. As
this thought passed through my mind she answered it, again as if by
intuition:
"You remember, Babache, you always told me you loved Gaston from the
moment you beheld him. But you don't love him now. You have not loved
him since his return."
Oh, what a misfortune it is to be too quick of wit!
Francezka then rose and said to me:
"I return now to my guests. Think not that I have uttered to any other
human being what I have said to you. But I have looked my last on
happiness. I do not love you any the less, Babache. As you were my
chief consolation in that dreadful time of waiting, so now that
Destiny has played me this shabby trick in giving me back the shadow
of happiness and withholding the substance, I still look to you for
comfort. Remember, whoever wearies me at Capello, you never will. Not
since that first hour we met in this old garden, when you saw me in
the beginning of my career of headstrong folly, have I ever beheld
your honest face without pleasure."
I returned to the ballroom, and the first thing I saw was Francezka
dancing the wildest _branle_ I ever saw with the most graceful abandon
imaginable. I concluded that all women were singular beings, in which
my master agreed, when I made the observation to him; and some persons
said that Count Saxe had great experience with the sex.