Francezka Part 5

CHAPTER V

THE ELDER BROTHER

I found my master in a room which had been a favorite one of that dead and gone and wicked d.u.c.h.esse de Berry, who died of drink and debauchery at twenty-four years of age. Poor woman! I often used to fancy her gliding about that room, her pallid face rouged, her eyes on fire, and she, laughing and anxious, studying the faces of the men and women before her, and wis.h.i.+ng she could see those behind her. She showed good taste by preferring that apartment, for it was s.p.a.cious and airy, with three great windows looking upon the green Luxembourg gardens beneath, where the nightingales sang every night. The walls and ceiling of this room were frescoed with the story of the love of Ulysses and Calypso.

No one had occupied this particular room since the d.u.c.h.esse de Berry, and it contained the same magnificent hangings, chairs, tables, sofas, consoles, girandoles, and what not, that unfortunate woman had used.

Count Saxe's belongings always seemed to be swearing at those of the dead and gone d.u.c.h.ess. Count Saxe called the room his study; but rather, it should have been called his armory, for, instead of books, he had in it all manner of arms and everything pertaining to a soldier's life. He needed not books, being already instructed by his own mother-wit in all that was of any real value to know. This matter of reading is vastly overrated. There are persons who think it is the mill that makes the water run. It is men like Count Saxe who give occasion for books to be written.

This study, therefore, was a place of arms. On the walls hung all manner of musketoons, fusils, and the like, with drawings of mortars and field and siege artillery, with specimens of horses' bits and saddles and stirrups, and everything relating to the equipment of a soldier. There were a plenty of maps besides. On the great table in the middle of the room was spread a huge map and many dozens of tin manikins, about as high as my thumb; for anybody who thinks that Count Saxe did not study the science of war, knows not the man.

He was at that moment sitting at the table, on which a dozen candles gleamed. He was dressed in black and silver, a dress that showed off his vivid beauty--for he was the most beautiful man who ever lived.

Not Francezka Capello's eyes were more brilliant, more soft than those of Maurice of Saxe. Was it to be expected that with his beauty, his figure, his voice, his charm, and above all, his genius, he should be an anchorite? The women would not let him alone--that is the whole truth. If I had been a woman I should have died of love for him.

"I thought you had gone back to Tatary, Babache," he cried, throwing his leg over his chair, pus.h.i.+ng away his map, and motioning me to a seat. "Tell me your adventures."

I sat down and told him freely all that had happened from my strolling into Madame Riano's garden until that moment.

"Peggy Kirkpatrick's garden," he said, absently tweaking my ear--a way he had. "That woman is the devil's grandmother. When she is awake the devil sleeps, knowing all his business is well attended to by her. And Peggy Kirkpatrick's niece--I know the chit, and knew her father before her. Scotch and Spanish--it is a fiery mixture. And I know that scoundrel, Jacques Haret. So the young man you came near finis.h.i.+ng--Gaston Cheverny--laughed when he seemed a-dying. I wish we could have that young man--for Babache, my Tatar prince from the Marais, we ride for Courland within a fortnight."

I said nothing, it being all one to me where Count Saxe rode so I rode with him. He continued, after a pause:

"It is true, as that devilish old woman Peggy Kirkpatrick says, I go on a marauding expedition, but never must we admit that." He rose as he spoke, his black eyes flas.h.i.+ng. "I go in response to a call from the greatest n.o.bles in Courland, to lay my claims respectfully before the august Diet of Courland. But shoot me, if that Diet doesn't elect me, it will live to be sorry for it--that I promise. And if Russia and Prussia want war, they can have it. War is the game of the G.o.ds. There is none better." He rose and stood, the picture of a conqueror, smiling at the thought of the great adventures before him.

"It is a large enterprise," I said. "Our necks will be in jeopardy every hour--but that is a small matter."

"A very small matter, my Babache. Do you see yonder stars?" He pointed out of the window where the earnest stars were palpitating in the dark blue heavens. "Look at them but for a moment, and you will see how small a matter it is. But look not at the stars too often or too long--nor look upon graves too much and too deeply--for the contemplation of stars and graves will rob any man of all his ambitions; their silence will drown the shouting of the captains and the rustling of the laurels, through all the ages; the love of glory will die in his breast, and he will curse his doglike fate. Our largest enterprises are so small--so small!"

I perceived he was in one of those reflective moods when a man stops at a certain point in his existence, and, standing upon the lonely peak of the present, surveys the great unfathomed gulfs of the past and future that lie on either side. I have those moments often--but Count Saxe rarely.

He stood thoughtful for a while, then turning to me, said with a bright smile:

"But some things do not diminish even in the light of the stars; one of them is, the pure devotion of a woman. Mademoiselle Adrienne Lecouvreur sent me word this day that if I was resolved on my enterprise for Courland, all she had--her plate and jewels--should be pledged for me. Does not that s.h.i.+ne bright even in the light of the stars?"

I answered with something I had once heard old Pere Bourdaloue thunder forth from the pulpit in Notre Dame, about good deeds outs.h.i.+ning the sun; at which my master laughed, and accused me of wanting to join Monsieur de Rance in his dumb cloister of La Trappe. Then, as if shaking off the spell cast upon him by the stars, he began to talk of the most trifling things on earth--about Monsieur Voltaire, for example.

"My coach is ordered to take us to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's," he said. "I dare say that scoundrel of a Voltaire will be there--as you say you saw him with Mademoiselle Lecouvreur in the Hotel Kirkpatrick garden. But I know he is under orders for England, and I will tickle him with a bunch of brambles by telling him that I shall mention to Cardinal Fleury that I saw him. Babache, I swear I am a little afraid of that thing of madrigals, as I call Voltaire. Those fellows who can write can always make out a case for themselves. I would as soon have Voltaire in London as in Paris--sooner at Constantinople than either."

I went then to see if the coach was ready, and soon we were rolling along toward the Marais. My head was busy with our expedition to Courland, but it did not make me forget for one moment the soft splendor of Mademoiselle Capello's eyes, nor Gaston Cheverny's hurt. I privately resolved to take Gaston Cheverny with us to Courland if the wit of man could compa.s.s it.

Mademoiselle Lecouvreur lived then in one of those tall, old houses, not far from the garden in which we had played together as children.

When we reached the place and were mounting the stairs, what should we see but Monsieur Voltaire's long legs skipping up ahead of us! So he was still skulking in Paris! I knew the sort of persons I should meet with in that saloon--and they were there. First, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur herself, fresh from the theater; the Marshal, Duc de Noailles, who called my master "My Saxe," and loved him well; old Marshal Villars, the Duc de Richelieu, an actor or two, some fine ladies, a horde of small fry and Monsieur Voltaire.

As he was supposed to be safely locked up in the Bastille until he should leave for England, his presence was a good deal of a surprise, especially to the Duc de Richelieu; but Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's was neutral ground and n.o.body there would betray Monsieur Voltaire, as he well knew.

I entered the large saloon in the wake of Count Saxe, made my devoirs to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, and then retired against the wall, as the unimportant do. I was surveying the crowd of the great, and wondering what Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's father, the hatter, and my father, the notary, would say, if they saw the fine company their children kept, when my eyes fell upon my young friend, Gaston Cheverny, who, I supposed, lay in his lodging with a hole in his left side! The sight so staggered me that I felt my head swim. But there he was, as smiling, as debonair as man could be, wearing a handsome embroidered satin coat, white silk stockings and red-heeled shoes, his hair powdered and in a bag. I thought him handsomer than before. And that there was no mistake about it, I heard him addressed as Monsieur Cheverny.

I felt myself gaping with astonishment and became altogether lost to what was going on around me, except to this young man. I contrived to move nearer to him, and presently we were touching elbows. There was much laughter and conversation going on, the candles were blazing brightly, Monsieur Voltaire was telling a story in a loud voice, but I saw and heard nothing clearly but this young Cheverny.

Considering our adventures together, I felt justified in addressing him, so I said, as soon as I got close enough:

"Monsieur, I hope you find yourself well?"

"Perfectly," he replied courteously. "And you, Monsieur?"

"The same," I replied. "I am glad to hear of it. I could not have made so large a hole in you as I thought, the night before last."

He looked at me, puzzled for a moment; then his countenance cleared, and he said, laughing:

"It is the common mistake. You take me for my brother, Gaston Cheverny, who now lies at his lodging ill--his complaint probably small-pox or measles--" he winked as he said this. "I am Monsieur Regnard Cheverny, at your service--the elder brother, by three years, of Gaston Cheverny."

I saw, then, on closer examination, that he was indeed the elder, and his seniority was very plain. But in feature, in complexion, in gait, in voice, he was more like his brother than would seem possible. He then went on, affably, to tell of his brother's continued improvement.

We talked a while together. Regnard Cheverny, like his brother, was no man of milk and water, and once seen, was likely to be remembered. But I soon perceived that their souls were as unlike as their bodies were like. It is true, I had seen Gaston Cheverny only once, but the circ.u.mstances of that meeting were not to be forgotten. I am not given to sudden loves, but I had loved Gaston Cheverny at first sight. I loved him for his foolhardiness, his presumption, in fighting me; I loved him because he loved fighting; I loved him because he could laugh in the face of death--in short, it was one of those strange kins.h.i.+ps of the soul which make one man feel of another, the first time he sees him--"We are brothers." And in the same way, I misliked Regnard Cheverny. He was a man strong enough to inspire love or hate.

I have myself often heard that writing fellow, the Duc de St. Simon, say that love and hatred spring from the same root, and I believe it.

I also saw that Regnard Cheverny was a man of parts, and so regarded.

I found out by the accident of conversation, that he had a head for affairs--a thing rare in his cla.s.s. It was inherited from some of his Scotch ancestors, no doubt--for the Cheverny family had intermarried with the Scotch Jacobites, and had a large strain of Scotch blood in them. As Jacques Haret had told me, Regnard Cheverny had, during the preceding year, become possessed of the last remnant of Jacques Haret's fortune, in Castle Haret, in Brabant, which had been sold for a song under the acc.u.mulated debts of many generations of Harets. I looked with interest at a young man, who, at twenty-three years of age, had so well feathered his nest; for his original patrimony, I inferred at the time, and found afterward to be true, was small. He was handsomer than his brother, being more matured, and there were a thousand subtile differences between them; but it all came down to this--Gaston Cheverny was to be loved--Regnard Cheverny was not.

Presently, supper was announced. It was there, around the table, that wit sparkled. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur sat at the head, with Count Saxe on one hand and Monsieur Voltaire on the other. She loved my master the best of any person in the world--but she knew that Monsieur Voltaire loved her the best of any one in the world--and he was very capable of love.

Monsieur Voltaire, as everybody knew, was to be sent packing to England, but with his usual adroitness, he made out that England was the country of all others he wished to see; that my Lord Bolingbroke--Harry St. John, as Monsieur Voltaire called him--was his dearest friend; and as for Sir Isaac Newton, one would have thought that he and Voltaire had exchanged nightcaps often. The valor of the English nation Monsieur Voltaire could not extol enough. My master listened to this with a grin, and then remarked that the English were in truth a valiant nation, but that the only Englishman he had ever met in hand to hand encounter was a scavenger whom he had no trouble in pitching headforemost out of his own cart. At this, Monsieur Voltaire sighed and said impudently: "Perhaps Count Saxe would favor the company with his story of bending horseshoes with his hands and twisting a farrier's nail into a practicable corkscrew," as if Count Saxe were always telling those things! Then he took another turn--this mischievous Voltaire--and paid Count Saxe most elaborate compliments on his prospects of becoming Duke of Courland.

"It is a great, a splendid destiny," said he. "Fighting every day and hour--but that's to your taste. An unruly people--but you were born to reign. A climate, snow all the winter, rain all the other seasons--but you are robust and can stand it. And a d.u.c.h.ess, Anna Iwanowna, with all the graces of a Calmuck Venus, waiting to become your d.u.c.h.ess! But you ever adored the ladies, and are the very man to please a Calmuck princess!"

"Monsieur, you are most kind. Thank you for your congratulations,"

replied Count Saxe, gravely. "If the Calmuck princess fancies me it will only be because she has not seen you. Men of letters are highly esteemed in Courland--where they are not much known."

Monsieur Voltaire took snuff meditatively--and I trembled for my master.

"When you are Duke of Courland," said this tigerish monkey of a Voltaire, "Peggy Kirkpatrick says, you will be 'cousin' to the Kings of France and Spain." Madame Riano had bawled Count Saxe's affairs and Courland all over Paris. "You will be 'most Ill.u.s.trious' to the Emperor, and 'most Ill.u.s.trious and most Mighty' to the King of Poland."

The villain stopped and took snuff again. I felt my choler rising, and would have given my sword to have had my hand in his collar at that moment; he had already been caned twice, and ought to have been bastinadoed. Actually, persons were beginning to smile at Count Saxe, who turned red and white both, as Voltaire kept on:

"The Duke of Courland has the right of coining money, which the King of Poland has not. The revenue is three hundred thousand crowns, and the army eighteen thousand men."

How the devil the fellow knew this, I can not tell.

"He also has the right of raising taxes with the consent of the Diet--and if the Diet is handsomely treated, taxes can be raised as high as the moon. And more."

Here he paused, and looked about him solemnly. Everybody was on the broad grin, except Count Saxe, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur and myself. I had almost gnawed my under lip off.

"The Duke of Courland is also pope. He is _summus episcopus_--which is Pope of Courland."

At this--will it be believed?--there was, in spite of Count Saxe's presence there, a shout of laughter. When it subsided a little, I, who had not laughed at all, had something to say.

"Monsieur Voltaire," said I, "I have good news, great news for you.

This day, in the garden of the Tuileries, I saw two persons--nay, two personages--that, it is well known, you have often expressed a strong desire to see. Both of them were inquiring about you."