A DEVIL'S IMP
I could but suspect that a coldness had arisen between Francezka and
Gaston over Jacques Haret. When I saw Francezka driving in the Bois de
Boulogne, or sitting, surrounded by admirers, in her box at the opera
or the theater, Gaston was no more with her, but whether it was mere
accident or not, I did not know. One thing I did know, however--that
Jacques Haret had a blossoming of prosperity. This I heard at the
Green Basket, the celebrated cafe near the Pont Neuf, which was
frequented by all the brightest spirits in Paris, and where I had the
audacity to appear sometimes, not in the character of actor, but of
audience. Here it was told among the news of the day that Jacques
Haret actually had a lodging of his own, after having slept for many
years anywhere he could get a bed free, or if not a bed, a chair. I
heard, moreover, that he dressed well and kept a servant. At the same
time it came to my knowledge that Gaston Cheverny was selling two of
his five horses, and did not play any more. This put the suspicion in
my mind that Gaston Cheverny was supplying Jacques Haret with money.
Whether this were true or not, I soon had a confirmation of my
surmise, that Jacques Haret possessed some species of power over
Gaston Cheverny.
Monsieur Voltaire was in Paris then for a few weeks and in a lodging
of his own, instead of being at Madame du Chatelet's house in the Isle
of St. Louis. Madame du Chatelet was at Cirey. It was understood that
one of the periodic storms had taken place at Cirey, which meant that
Monsieur Voltaire would sojourn a while _en garcon_ at Paris, until
the divine Emilie grew penitent or bored, and should send an express
for her divine Francois. The immediate cause of the present quarrel
was that Madame Riano had in Monsieur Voltaire's presence called
Madame du Chatelet a hussy, and Monsieur Voltaire had not resented it.
His excuse was that Madame Riano, having vanquished the Kings of
France, Spain and England, and the Holy Father at Rome, he, Voltaire,
had very little chance with her, and so declined to take up the gage
of battle. Madame du Chatelet had flown at him like an angry hen.
There had been words between them, and even a few dishes and a plate
or two. Hence, madame was at Cirey, monsieur at Paris.
It was much the fashion when Monsieur Voltaire was at Paris in his own
lodgings for venturesome ladies of quality, who were acknowledged, or
aspired, to be wits, to descend upon him by twos or threes, with masks
and dominos, and thereby divert both themselves and him extremely. He
was the only man in Paris to whom the ladies accorded this honor
openly. They did it not to my master, because everybody knew that
Count Saxe was too, too charming. But Monsieur Voltaire was already
losing his teeth, and looked sixty, though not yet fifty, and had
begun to give himself grandfatherly airs, whether in obedience to
Madame du Chatelet, or because he was no longer young enough to play
the gallant, I know not.
One day, about three weeks after the scene in the garden of the Hotel
Kirkpatrick, I got a note from Francezka saying that she and Madame
Villars, the one who had kissed Monsieur Voltaire publicly the year
before, wished me to escort them to his lodgings that evening for a
visit, and asking me to be at the Hotel Kirkpatrick at nine o'clock.
It was a bright moonlit May evening when I arrived. Two sedan chairs
were in waiting for the ladies and a red domino and mask for me, in
which I looked exactly like the devil. Madame Villars came tripping
down into the courtyard, wearing a white domino and mask, followed by
Francezka in a black and silver domino and mask.
I could not see Francezka's face, and so did not know whether she
looked well or ill, happy or unhappy. And she was naturally so
accomplished an actress that she might defy any one to find out her
real feelings, if she wished to disguise them. On this evening she
chose to appear very gay and merry, laughed with Madame Villars, joked
with me, and sprang into the sedan chair with the airiest grace
imaginable.
We set off, the ladies in their chairs, I walking by their side, and
the object of many jeers and gibes from the irreverent, whom we
passed, as I made my way encumbered with the skirt of the infernal red
domino, which I held knee-high.
We reached Monsieur Voltaire's lodging, a fine one in the Rue St.
Jacques, with a garden at the back. The porter, who was used to such
descents, grinned enormously, and let us pass into Monsieur
Voltaire's apartment. The saloon was on the ground floor at the back
and opened into the garden, now all sweetness and freshness. The
saloon was a fine, airy room, lighted with wax candles, and in the
middle, around a table on which were wine and books and verses
scribbled on scraps of paper, sat Monsieur Voltaire, Gaston Cheverny
and Jacques Haret!
The sight nearly knocked me down. Monsieur Voltaire had always
despised Jacques Haret, and I had never known him to amuse himself
with Jacques Haret's wit, or to countenance the fellow at all. But
here the two sat, as jovial as you please, and Gaston Cheverny between
them! I glanced toward Francezka. She was standing with her hand on
the back of a gilded chair, and she had pulled the sleeve of her
domino down so that her hand, a delicate and beautiful one, once seen,
not to be forgotten, was hid. But there was not a tremor about her. I
judged that she had summoned all her courage and all her matchless
powers of acting to carry her through this scene where she had so
unexpectedly found herself. I knew it was impossible that she should
not be in a tempest of rage with Gaston for his continued association
with Jacques Haret, which was so great an affront to her, and
Francezka was not the woman to take an affront coolly. She gave no
sign, however. Of us, it was easily seen that two of the masks were
ladies, and my large shoes, showing under my domino, revealed that I
was a man.
Monsieur Voltaire rose, his glorious eyes flashing with mirth and
pleasure, for he loved the great, he loved the flattery of women, and
he knew that only ladies of the highest quality would dare to visit
him in that manner. Gaston Cheverny and Jacques Haret rose, too, and
all bowed profoundly to the newcomers.
Madame Villars had not lived in Paris without having seen unexpected
and awkward meetings between husband and wife, but Francezka and
Gaston passed for such patterns of devotion that she thought it an
occasion for harmless merriment. She exchanged a glance and a whisper
with Francezka, which meant that both of them should maintain their
incognito by keeping silent. To all of Monsieur Voltaire's fine
speeches of welcome, therefore, they returned only demure curtsies and
seated themselves quietly on the sofa.
Gaston Cheverny was not a whit behind Monsieur Voltaire in his
compliments. Jacques Haret looked keenly at us, and it flashed through
me that he alone suspected who the ladies were. But he said no word.
"Well, Mesdames," cried Monsieur Voltaire, "since you will not favor
us with the sound of your voices, we will proceed with our affair,
which is not a private one, but concerns that most public of all
things--a lawsuit. Behold a poet trying to get a foothold of land for
himself on this earth! You remember the German poet, who describes the
first of his race, complaining to Jupiter that in the general scramble
among the sons of men the poets had got nothing at all. To this
Jupiter replied: 'While thou wert rhyming and star-gazing the strong
and the cunning seized upon the inheritance of the world. Not one
single acre remains wherewith to endow thee. But, in recompense, come
and visit me in my own heaven whenever thou wilt; it is always open to
thee.'"
The ladies applauded this sentiment by clapping their hands and
blowing airy kisses to Monsieur Voltaire, but still remained perfectly
silent.
"Come, gentlemen," continued Monsieur Voltaire mischievously, "the
ladies do not know that we are present. Let us proceed. Here is the
map of Brabant; show me, if you please, where the Honsbrouck line runs
through this forest."
I then knew that the lawsuit he alluded to was the celebrated one of
Honsbrouck, in which Madame du Chatelet had great concern, and which
Monsieur Voltaire ultimately won for her. And this, too, accounted for
Gaston Cheverny's and Jacques Haret's presence, as both of them were
born and reared within sight of Honsbrouck.
Gaston Cheverny and Jacques Haret both bent over the map. Jacques
Haret, taking a pen, began to draw a line upon the map.
"This," he said, "is the line of the brook; you see it skirts the
estate of Castle Haret, once mine, then the property of Monsieur
Gaston Cheverny's brother, Monsieur Regnard Cheverny, who sold it for
a large sum of money. By the way, Gaston, has it ever occurred to you
that your brother may be dead, and that his properties may be yours?"
"No," replied Gaston, "because my brother's agent in London still
administers the property."
"But the agent may be a rogue, and may administer it for himself,"
said Monsieur Voltaire.
"Perhaps," replied Gaston, nonchalantly, "but as my brother and I took
different sides in 1733, we became estranged, and whether one dies or
lives matters nothing to the other. But the brook, Jacques, runs this
way."
He took the pen from Jacques Haret's hand, and as clearly and steadily
as ever I wrote for Count Saxe, Gaston Cheverny drew a line across the
map with his right hand.
"I should not be surprised, Gaston, if you entirely recovered the use
of your right hand and arm," said Jacques Haret, fixing a penetrating
look upon Gaston Cheverny.
Gaston threw down the pen with a look of absolute terror upon his
face. His action had evidently been involuntary. I was stunned by it,
and I saw a tremor pass through Francezka's frame. Gaston, however,
soon recovered himself.
"Yes," he said, "perhaps the use of it may come back, but I shall
never be able to write with this hand. It is, however, no great
matter, because I have learned to write tolerably well with my left
hand."
"That's not my opinion; worse, or more awkward writing I never saw,"
was Jacques Haret's answer, "and I believe you can write perfectly
well with your right hand when you choose."
From the first hour I had met Gaston Cheverny in the old prison of the
Temple I had ever found him hot-headed to a fault. He was one of those
men to whom an impertinence is the greatest of injuries. This remark
of Jacques Haret, made in a taunting manner, was enough in the old
days to have got a blow for him from the fist of Gaston Cheverny. No
such thing now, however. Gaston only turned and flashed out for a
moment upon Jacques Haret, who looked at him with a singular smile,
and then Gaston by an evident effort, controlled himself and made no
reply. All this was quite without meaning except to those who knew
Gaston Cheverny as Francezka and I did, and as Jacques Haret did.
Neither Monsieur Voltaire nor Madame Villars saw anything in it,
except the most ordinary conversation. Monsieur Voltaire was smiling
and glancing toward the masks.
"Ah, ladies," he cried, "if you would but disclose your charming
selves we should have something more agreeable to talk about than the
winding of a muddy brook, or the right of the Honsbrouck to kill game
in the forest near-by."
Madame Villars waved her hand for Monsieur Voltaire to proceed, which
he did.
"Gentlemen," he said, "since these ladies are not yet pleased to tell
us who they are, let us, at least, try to entertain them by any means
in our power. Shall I read to you my last letter from the King of
Prussia, and my reply?"
Gaston and Jacques Haret at once agreed enthusiastically, and we, the
masked, rose and bowed our approval. Monsieur Voltaire went to his
_escritoire_, unlocked it, and took out two letters, which he read to
us in that noble great voice of his. The one from the King of Prussia
was a very good letter for a king to write. That man knew enough of
mankind always to advance fine sentiments, and was a man, although a
robber. Such was my master's opinion of Frederick, known as the
Great.
In reply to this letter was that celebrated one of Monsieur
Voltaire's, in which he says: "I respect metaphysical ideas; rays of
lightning they are in the midst of deep night. More, I think, is not
to be hoped from metaphysics. It does not seem likely that the first
principles of things will ever be known. The mice that nestle in some
little holes in an immense building know not whether it is eternal,
nor who the architect, nor why he built it. Such mice are we, and the
Divine Architect who built the universe has never, that I know of,
told His secret to one of us."
Voltaire paused at this and rested his head upon his hand.
"How sad it all is!" he cried, his great gloomy eloquent eyes fixed
upon the stars visible through the open doors.
There was a silence. Every person there, not excluding Monsieur
Voltaire and Jacques Haret, hoped differently from this melancholy
creed, but no one spoke until Jacques Haret said, with the gravity
under which he disguised most of his flippancies:
"Monsieur, you can not say that the Architect of the Universe has told
His secret to no one. You forget the Kirkpatricks, and especially
Scotch Peg. She knows all the designs of the Supreme Being. He never
dares to call a Kirkpatrick out of this world without sending a
gentleman usher in the shape of a black knight or a white lady, or
something of the kind, to find out whether it is agreeable to that
particular Kirkpatrick to leave this world just then, I presume. There
never was one of that family who did not consider himself entitled to
much consideration from the Supreme Being. They are not all, however,
so candid about it as Peggy is."
Considering this direct reflection upon Francezka, I looked to see
Gaston Cheverny forget the presence of his host, forget the presence
of the ladies, and knock Jacques Haret's impudent head off. Not at
all. His face flushed suddenly, and he turned again in his chair, but
said no word, although Jacques Haret's laughing face was thrust toward
him.
Monsieur Voltaire evidently forgot, in the interest of his letters,
the close connection between the Kirkpatricks and one of his guests,
so he went on reading.
For my part, the impression I had got the afternoon in the gardens of
the Hotel Kirkpatrick, that Gaston Cheverny in some way was afraid of
Jacques Haret, became a conviction. Francezka sat motionless. What
thoughts must have passed through that quick, clear brain of hers!
Monsieur Voltaire finished his reading, and the ladies, to show their
appreciation, rose and bowed again to him. I think he was amused by
their silence, and it became a kind of duel between him and them to
find out who they were, and it was not without interest to Gaston
Cheverny. Jacques Haret, I was convinced, already knew them. By way of
making them betray themselves, Monsieur Voltaire asked, with a
mischievous gleam in his lustrous eyes:
"What ladies of the great world, think you, gentlemen, are remarkable
for _esprit_?"
At that Madame Villars ran forward and tapped him smartly with her fan
by way of rebuke.
Gaston Cheverny mentioned several, as did Monsieur Voltaire. Both of
them included both Madame Villars and her mother-in-law, Madame la
Marechale Villars, and Monsieur Voltaire made the handsomest possible
allusion to Madame Gaston Cheverny's wit and charm, which Gaston
suitably acknowledged. Jacques Haret declared that it had been so long
since he had talked with a woman of quality he had almost forgotten
there were such creatures in the world.
"But," he added, laughing, "I shall renew my acquaintance with fine
ladies and gentlemen when I go to Capello this summer to visit
Monsieur and Madame Cheverny."
I could scarcely believe my ears, and I feared to look toward
Francezka.
"You are not the only one who will enjoy that privilege," cried
Monsieur Voltaire, "for Madame Cheverny has invited me, and Monsieur
Cheverny has approved of me."
Francezka rose and made a signal to Madame Villars that it was time to
depart. All rose. Francezka, advancing to the table, took up the pen
and in her clear, bold handwriting, wrote on a slip of paper:
Jacques Haret: Do not you dare to come to Capello.
Francezka Cheverny de Capello del Medina y Kirkpatrick.
She slipped her hands into the sleeves of her domino and stood erect
before Jacques Haret, her eyes blazing at him through the eyeholes in
her mask. I was reminded of that Captain Agoust who, by the intensity
of his gaze, goaded the Prince de Conti into a duel. Francezka's look
at Jacques Haret was equivalent to running a sword through him.
Nothing, however, could change Jacques Haret's native and incurable
levity. He rose, and grinning, made Francezka a low bow.
"I am sorry, Madame, I can not oblige you," he said, "but my
arrangements are all made, even to my wardrobe, and it is now too late
to change, disagreeable as it is to me to disoblige a lady."
The blood of the Kirkpatricks was rising in Francezka's veins; the air
suddenly seemed full of electricity. I saw her involuntarily place her
hand upon the inkstand, a heavy, bronze one, lying on the table, and I
thought the chance was that she would throw it in Jacques Haret's
face. To save her from so wild an act was my only thought. I reached
over, and getting a good grip on Jacques Haret, which I could do
easily, as he was entirely off his guard, I flung him headlong through
the open door into the garden below. Then, not wishing Francezka's
identity to be revealed, I motioned to her and Madame Villars, and we
hurried out of the room.
I forgot until the ladies were in their sedans that the scrap of
writing in Francezka's hand lay on the table and would be seen by
Gaston Cheverny and probably by Monsieur Voltaire. My trouble was all
in vain, but I was glad I had thrown Jacques Haret through the door.
The chairmen went off at a rapid pace, I following. We turned a
corner, which gave me a clear look through the garden of the room we
had just left. Gaston was standing stock still, holding the scrap of
paper in his hand. He knew then who the masked visitors were. I walked
by the side of Francezka's chair, through the dark streets until we
came to the Hotel Kirkpatrick. Madame Villars lived close by, and we
parted with her first. She said good night, but made no comment on the
events of the evening. She was no fool, and saw that something had
happened, although she knew not what.
We passed through the small gate of the courtyard and around to the
private entrance, where Francezka dismissed the chairmen and I took
off my mask and domino. We were standing in a quiet little court at
one side of the great entrance. It was very still and dark, and the
stars, palpitating, and bright, and distant, seemed to be laughing at
the miseries of the poor mice, as Voltaire called them, hidden away in
the small holes of the immense building called the Universe.
Francezka, panting for breath, took off her mask. Her pale face and
her eyes, somber, but full of smoldering fire, were half shrouded in
the hood of her domino. In her black garb, and with a look of despair
upon her face, she was as far removed from that dazzling Francezka of
the former time as could well be imagined. I was not disposed to make
light of what she had seen and heard that night. Nothing is more
uncomfortable than to live with a mystery, and when that mystery is in
the person one should love best in the world, when it poisons all the
springs of joy and makes the things known best in life strange to one,
it is a very dreadful thing. Francezka spoke after a while.
"Do you wonder, Babache, that I am a miserable woman?"
And I said with perfect honesty in my heart:
"No, Madame. I do not wonder in the least."
She paused, and I supposed she was about to say something to me about
Gaston, when she uttered these words which remain forever in my heart,
which not one waking hour has failed to recall since she uttered
them:
"Babache, remember, when I am gone, that nobody in the world was ever
so good a friend to me as you. I speak not of lovers--Gaston was once
my lover."
She paused as if overcome, and then hurriedly vanished within the open
door.
Her words thrilled me with joy and pain. What did she mean by saying,
"When I am gone?" Who was more likely to live than Francezka? Why
should she be contemplating the end of all things? I was roused from
my anxious reverie by the sound of locking the great iron gates, the
bolts and bars making a huge noise in the stillness of the night. This
grating sound, however, did not drown those words of Francezka's.
Something led my footsteps again to the street, where I could get from
the back a clear view of Monsieur Voltaire's room. When I reached the
place all was dark, and the doors and windows were closed for the
night, but on the corner stood a plain coach, which I recognized in
the half darkness of the summer night as belonging to Gaston
Cheverny.
If I had been surprised at his patience with Jacques Haret's
impertinence an hour ago, I now saw that it was not so long suffering
as I had thought, for Gaston, sitting in the coach and holding the
door open, was swearing at Jacques Haret with a concentration of rage
I had never seen excelled in any human being before. Every word that
he said was true, but there was a defiance in it which further
sustained my notion that Jacques Haret held some power over Gaston
Cheverny.
Jacques was taking it with the same coolness he had taken the beating
I had given him in the Luxembourg gardens. Gaston was shouting out
insults to him, and when Gaston stopped at the point where any other
man would have drawn his sword, Jacques coolly remarked:
"You have called me a liar, a blackmailer, a leper, a dog and a
devil's imp. I take it that you are of a different opinion from me on
certain points. Your withdrawing your invitation to me to the chateau
of Capello is most unhandsome. However, it is not your chateau,
anyhow."
Gaston leaped out of the coach after him, but Jacques Haret
disappeared somewhere in the darkness, for he had no scruples about
avoiding a fight, yet I believe him to have been singularly insensible
to fear.
Within three days I heard that Monsieur and Madame Cheverny had left
Paris for their estates in Brabant. As they went together, it was
plain there had been no outward break between them.