"'And it shall go hard if he be not punished,' she said.

"When Madame Riano heard of it she was for mounting a-horseback and going in search of Jacques Haret. One thing, however, we may reasonably count on--that Jacques Haret shall one day pay for this."

"Undoubtedly," I replied.

We spoke more on this melancholy business, and talked on other things, and then Gaston Cheverny went to pay his respects to Count Saxe in his room; but Count Saxe was out--gone in pursuit of knowledge and virtue, I fancy.

In that month of January began a life of tedium for us which had few mitigations. A young man, like Gaston Cheverny, full of spirit but with little money, was under many disabilities at Paris. His wit and fine person made him to be sought after by those who knew him already, but he was not by nature a carpet knight. No soldier of Hannibal enjoyed Mantua more than Gaston Cheverny would have enjoyed Paris in winter after a summer's campaigning; but to sit, kicking his heels day after day, was irksome to him. Being a proud man, it did not please him to expose the smallness of his fortune when it could be helped, so he, with me, lived a life which we often compared to that of the monks of La Trappe. We read much--Gaston, in especial I believe, mastered by heart every poem on love printed in the French language and many in the Italian, Spanish and English languages. He likewise achieved a great number of songs, and actually composed some himself; but of these last, I have heard better, I must acknowledge.

The Hotel Kirkpatrick was unoccupied and closed, the entrances and windows boarded up. There was no talk during all that year of Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello returning to Paris. I heard often of them through persons pa.s.sing from Brussels to Paris. Mademoiselle Capello, out of her abundant kindness, often sent me messages of good-will--nay, even a pair of gloves wrought with her own hand--a favor I never heard of her doing to any gentleman; for she was chary of her favors to the great. She told me, years afterward, that standing so much alone in the world as she was, and the hunted of fortune seekers, from the first she ever relied upon me as one of her truest friends. And she was justified.

Gaston Cheverny kept up a constant correspondence with his brother, for never at any time did their rivalry for Francezka seem to interrupt the brotherly intercourse between the two Chevernys. They were very far from being Mademoiselle Capello's only suitors, that I knew. Gentlemen went in search of her and her fortune, from Paris, from Brussels, even from London and Vienna; but all came back chopfallen.

So crept away the winter, the spring, the summer, the autumn. And so went another year, and 1730 dawned, a year memorable for the loss of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She, too, showed me a condescension beautiful and worthy of her. She did not lack for friends among the greatest during her fading away. Besides my master and Monsieur Voltaire, was my Lord Peterborough, a great, tall devil of an Englishman, with a head on his shoulders and a heart in his bosom, who made some fine campaigns in Spain. Count Saxe and Monsieur Voltaire had a tacit agreement to visit Mademoiselle Lecouvreur on different days, although I believe the sense that she would soon be lost to both of them softened their feelings one to the other. All this time Mademoiselle Lecouvreur could still act, three times a week; but when she was not at the theater she was usually in her bed--and always patient, gentle and smiling. She had not always been so patient. I have been told that, her sister once impudently demanding money of her, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur threw both shoes at her. But as some one has said, "Death lights up a terrible flambeau in which the aspect of all things is changed."

Great crowds attended all of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's performances at the Theatre Francais; and in spite of her weakness, the fire of genius carried her through her parts with a supernatural strength. When it was over, though, she was no more the great artist, but poor, ailing, dying Adrienne Lecouvreur. On the days when she lay on her couch in her chamber, she was sometimes kind enough to ask for me. When I would go in I would be asked to take a chair within the _ruelle_ and she would talk to me with her old kindness. Often her mind went back to her childhood days; for this woman was far above the paltriness of being ashamed of her origin, as Monsieur Voltaire was. She once said to me, Count Saxe sitting by:

"Babache, how merry we were as children--though we were often ragged, and I, for one, had not always as much as I would have liked to eat.

But we were not troubled with governesses or masters, were we, Babache?" She laughed as she said this, her beautiful tired eyes lighting up.

"Indeed we were not, Mademoiselle, and I believe the children of the poor are, in general, happier than the children of the rich," I answered.

Count Saxe, a king's son, who had been brought up at court, listened to the recitals of us, the children of the poor, and I believe, learned some things he had not known before.

Not even Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's sad situation could disarm the jealousy of the women who envied her Count Saxe's devotion. There was one of them, the d.u.c.h.esse de Bouillon, who, like Jacques Haret, was one of the devil's darlings, and kept shop for him. Every night that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur acted, during that last winter, Madame de Bouillon was present blazing with jewels, and with the air of gloating over the great artist who was already serenely looking into the quiet land. This d.u.c.h.ess was a handsome creature, and a Circe; she turned men into beasts.

Whenever Mademoiselle Lecouvreur played, there was always a great attendance of her friends--although for that matter, all Paris was her friend. It was amazing how this woman's spirit mastered her body. When she would be carried to and from her coach, tottering as she stepped upon the stage, the very first sight of the sea of sympathizing faces, the roar of many approving voices, seemed to pour life into her veins.

She would become erect and smiling--at once Art and Genius appeared like sustaining angels to her--and she would resume her power as a queen a.s.sumes her scepter.

Toward the end of February it was plain she was going fast. Monsieur Voltaire and Count Saxe were with her every day, now only choosing separate hours for their visits. One mild March evening, at the door of her house in the Marais, I met Count Saxe coming out. He had a strange look on his face. I asked if Mademoiselle Lecouvreur would be able to act that night.

"No," he said. "She will act no more."

He pa.s.sed on, without another word. I noticed how pale he was. He walked to the corner of the street, where a splendid coach was waiting--Madame de Bouillon's coach. That woman watched for him and waylaid him on his way from Adrienne's house.

I turned and walked away. The night was bright and mild, and the stars were out. A short distance off, I came face to face with Monsieur Voltaire. I had never liked this man, but in one aspect, and that was his earnest devotion to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. Something like sympathy made me stop him and say to him that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur would not act that night--nor any more I feared.

He gazed at me with those black, burning eyes of his, and then as if speaking to himself, repeated those lines of Ronsard's about Mary Stuart:

Elle etait de ce monde ou les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin; Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses, L'es.p.a.ce d'un matin.

His voice was music when he spoke these words, for he felt them. I remained silent, and, after a while, he turned to me and taking me by the arm, said:

"Babache, you are an honest man. Come with me."

CHAPTER XVI

THE SETTING OF A STAR

We returned arm in arm to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's house. It had not occurred to me to present myself uninvited, but without a word I followed this man, who had something compelling about him. We went straight to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's door, and the maid, who was watching, let us in.

Adrienne lay in her great purple silk bed, pale, but looking more weary and sad than ill. I had often seen her look worse. She greeted us kindly, and the shadow of a smile came into her face when she saw Monsieur Voltaire bringing me in. He seated himself by her, and tried by gentle raillery to interest her, but it was in vain. For the first and last time, she let fall some words of lamentation about the fate which was coming upon her with giant strides. But she made a brave effort to rally her soul, and even forced a smile to her pale lips.

The curtains were withdrawn from the window, and the soft beauty of the spring night shone in the half-darkened room. Monsieur Voltaire began to describe this soft beauty to her as only he could describe it; but she seemed careless of it and said:

"I saw it but a little while ago--and thought how unlovely it was--the moon looked brazen and haughty, like some of those fine ladies who come to see me act when they have nothing better to do. The stars seemed more unfeeling and farther off than ever, and they are always unfeeling and far off--and the first object that met my eyes was an enemy in health and beauty and splendor--while I lie here dying."

Then I knew she had seen Count Saxe beguiled into Madame de Bouillon's coach.

"But," she cried, her voice ringing sweet and clear, as if in perfect health, and raising herself with surprising strength, "they will see that I am not yet gone. I will act once more. Yes, Voltaire, the good G.o.d will let me act once again. I know, I feel it. Do you hear me, good Babache?"

Monsieur Voltaire replied to her that he hoped the good G.o.d in which she trusted would let her act many times more. I suppose I appeared like a lump of clay, because I was so overcome with remorse at Count Saxe's action in going off with Madame de Bouillon, that I could not say a word.

"It will be in Phedre--a part worthy of the greatest artist in the world. It has sometimes been said I knew how to play that part. If ever I could play it, I shall show this when I play it--the next and the last time. Monsieur Voltaire, I charge you to go this night to the director of the Theatre Francais and say to him that I shall be ready to play Phedre four days from now, as announced."

"I promise with all my heart," cried Monsieur Voltaire, "and talk not of its being the last time--oh, Adrienne!" He stopped, choked by his emotion, and not a word was spoken for a time.

"Mademoiselle," said I, seeing my betters keep silence, "those who have once seen you in that part can never forget you. Often, in those dreary days in Courland, in anxious nights upon the island in Lake Uzmaiz, my master, Count Saxe, would recall the n.o.ble beauty of those lines as you spoke them--and many other of those plays in which you had bewitched the world."

Poor soul! I knew what would give her a moment's ease.

"Did he then, remember me?" she said in a soft voice, like music.

Monsieur Voltaire spoke not a word; he loved her too well to grudge her these few crumbs of comfort.

Seeing she was interested, I began to tell her some of the incidents of our flight from Uzmaiz. I told her of our sojourn at the chateau of Capello. She remembered Francezka well; and the mention of these things turned the sad current of her thoughts.

"What a charming, gifted creature she was," said Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, "and how amusing it was, Voltaire, for you, the author, and me, the artist, to see our greatness as we thought it, so burlesqued that night in the little out-of-doors theater! However, that quick transposition showed the child had vast power and originality. And Jacques Haret--what has become of the creature?"

I replied, with truth, that I neither knew nor cared, not wishing to wring Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's tender heart with the story of Jacques Haret's latest villainy.

We remained an hour. Several times I would have left, but Monsieur Voltaire detained me by a glance. At last, when Mademoiselle Lecouvreur was inclined to sleep, we departed. Once outside the door, and under the shadow of the tall old houses, Monsieur Voltaire grasped my arm, and said in a voice full of tears:

"Captain Babache, we are watching the setting of a star--we are seeing the Pleiade as she is gradually lost in the universal abysm. Soon, Eternity, with its unbroken, derisive silence, will lie between Adrienne and all whom she loves and who love her--" He suddenly broke off, and went his way in the night.

Before I slept, I repeated every word of what had happened at our interview, to my master, and Madame de Bouillon did not get him in her coach again. After that he spent every hour that he could at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's house. He and Monsieur Voltaire no longer avoided each other. There was the truce of G.o.d between them for the few days that Adrienne Lecouvreur remained on earth.

Few persons believed that she would be able to play again, but the mere hint of it crammed the Theatre Francais to the doors on that last, unforgettable night. Gaston Cheverny and I had secured seats in the pit of the theater. Gaston had been admitted to the honor of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's acquaintance and admired her at a distance, like a star.

There was a breathless excitement in the crowd, something in the air of the theater seemed to communicate excitement. It was like that tremulous stillness which seems to overtake the world when the earth is about to be riven asunder, and volcanoes are making ready to explode in oceans of fire and flame and molten death.

Not one more person, I believe, could have been packed into the theater five minutes before the curtain rose, except in one box that remained empty--the box of the d.u.c.h.esse de Bouillon. I looked around for Count Saxe, and caught a glimpse of him afar off in the crowd--then he disappeared. Again I saw him pa.s.sing quite close to me.

By some accident, he wore a full suit of black that night--black velvet coat, and black silk small-clothes--perhaps to render himself less conspicuous; but he was a man to be noted in a crowd because of his beauty, even if he had been the veriest oaf alive--or marked out for a great man, if he had been as ugly as I am. That night he was like a perturbed spirit seeking for rest and finding none; unable to drag himself away from that last touching and splendid vision of Adrienne Lecouvreur, and yet, almost unable to bear it.

Everybody in the theater knew to whom that empty box belonged--it was to the worst enemy of Adrienne Lecouvreur. The story had gone forth that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's illness had come from poison administered by the d.u.c.h.esse de Bouillon, out of jealousy of Count Saxe. It is true that Madame de Bouillon would no doubt have poisoned anybody whom she thought stood between her and Count Saxe; and it is also true that the young Abbe de Bouret confided something concerning Madame de Bouillon's schemes to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, one night, in the gardens of the Luxembourg. The Abbe de Bouret was quickly silenced by a _lettre de cachet_ and the Bastille by the powerful De Bouillon family--but beyond that, I think no one knows. The public however, was ready to believe anything against Madame de Bouillon in its pa.s.sion of regret over losing Adrienne Lecouvreur; and Madame de Bouillon's brazen defiance of this sentiment in coming to the theater to witness this last farewell of Adrienne's to the public which had loved her so well, was bitterly resented.