"We must have one of our old friendly interviews soon, Babache. That must you arrange for, if you have to neglect not only the king, but Count Saxe himself."

Two hours later the king, followed by a large suite, arrived. I was in command of the body-guard, and as such was presented to the king in the grand saloon, where all the great people were ranged to receive him. Louis XV was as handsome as ever and, I thought, less wearied, for he loved to be with Count Saxe.

I reckoned Francezka to be easily the star of the ladies present, and there were some of the most beautiful women in France in that saloon of Chambord, their jewels blazing under the waxlights. Nor was Gaston Cheverny inconspicuous among the gentlemen. He had the grand air as much as Francezka, and his adventures made him an object of respectful curiosity. The king conversed with him some time during the evening, and afterward sent for Francezka. She acquitted herself so well that she made all the women hate her. Monsieur Voltaire, who was not much noticed by the king, said if virtue could be made the fashion Madame Cheverny would have accomplished it.

On that evening began a veritable tempest of pleasure at Chambord, for I can call it by no other name. I can not say I enjoyed it. First, we had extra pages of honor, thirty of them, and I had as soon have had thirty extra devils on my hands. They gave me twice the trouble that my whole battalion of Uhlans did. Then I had to arrange the entire business of the hunting--everything, in short, outside of the castle, and Beauvais had charge of everything inside of it. I seldom got to my camp bed, next Count Saxe's room, before two o'clock in the morning, and I was at the stables every morning by daylight.

The first day's diversion was a grand _battue_. The _battue_ was a magnificent spectacle in the forest, and was not over until late in the afternoon. Then, on the return to the castle, was organized one of those wild romps which were the amus.e.m.e.nt of the court. The gentlemen, in hunting dress, and winding their silver horns, chased the ladies through the vast s.p.a.ces, the winding corridors, the crooked stairs of the castle, and when caught, the ladies forfeited a kiss, or a dozen kisses. The little devils of pages were the hounds. These, being acquainted with the mult.i.tude of turns and windings in the castle, ably a.s.sisted the cavaliers, and generally got a box on the ear for catching a lady, to which the pages responded by kisses on their own account. It was a very amusing sport, and would have been harmless if the ladies and gentlemen concerned in it had been angels.

Francezka, to my surprise, took part in it, as in everything else, but being full of art and finesse, was never caught except by one person, the aged Marshal Duc de Noailles, who was brave and gallant at the age of eighty. Gaston Cheverny excelled at this wild and gallant sport, and the ladies vowed there was no escaping him.

On the first evening of the king's arrival Francezka had a splendid triumph. Monsieur Voltaire gave _Nanine_ in the theater of the castle, and Francezka was Nanine, somewhat to Madame du Chatelet's disgust, I fancy. And for the after piece was _The Tattler_, with the greatest cast the world ever saw: Francezka as Hortensia, Monsieur Voltaire as Pasquin, and Count Saxe himself as c.l.i.tander.

There were oceans of trouble about this play, and poor Beauvais was near wild, for Monsieur Voltaire was a troublesome manager, a troublesome actor, a troublesome guest, a troublesome person altogether. The play was given in that great yellow saloon, opening off from the grand staircase, where Moliere first gave _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_, and where Lulli jumped from the stage into the orchestra to amuse Louis le Grand when he was bored with _Pourceaugnac_. Monsieur Voltaire was, I am sure, much harder to please than Louis le Grand, and Madame du Chatelet was harder to please than Monsieur Voltaire. The performance began at seven o'clock. The king paid the strictest attention to it, and even Madame du Chatelet, who was furiously jealous of every woman on whom Monsieur Voltaire cast his eye, was obliged to behave reasonably.

Monsieur Voltaire was stage manager only in this play. The entire cast was good, but not one of the ladies and gentlemen could stand any comparison with Francezka. She was born to be in the very front rank of actresses; she could have stepped from the theater of the castle of Chambord on to the stage of the House of Moliere and have won renown. She swayed the audience, an audience composed wholly of fine people, whose hearts are hard to reach, and whose souls are infinitesimal; she swayed them, I say, as if they had all been shopkeepers, and lackeys, and ladies' maids. As for the pages of honor, the little rogues did nothing but scream with laughter at the comedy parts and blubber vociferously at the moving parts.

The applause at the end of each act was deafening, the king leading off. When the play was over there was frantic hand-clapping, and shouts of "Brava!" succeeded by a general quiet, for the piece was yet to come in which Francezka, Count Maurice of Saxe, and Francois Marie Voltaire were to be the sole actors and Monsieur Voltaire sole author.

The whole world knows _The Tattler_, but only those who saw it done at the castle of Chambord on that December night can have any idea of the wit of the lines, the glow of the sentiment, the pure beauty of the acting. Monsieur Voltaire was great as an actor in his own immortal creations. n.o.body except that impudent dog of a Jacques Haret ever dreamed of cla.s.sing Monsieur Voltaire with any but the great of the earth, and Jacques Haret did it out of sheer impudence. I had no love for Monsieur Voltaire, but I can not deny his greatness.

The acting of Count Saxe was like everything else he did, superb. As for Francezka, I ever thought, as was said of the English poet Shakespeare, that she showed her art in her tragedy, but her nature in her comedy. The soft exquisite humor of her Hortensia can not be adequately described. She kept her audience, including the king, in a roar of laughter, and when, fastening her glowing eyes on Count Saxe, as c.l.i.tander, she said, in the most innocent sweet voice imaginable, that she had chosen him because he was "sober, sensible, constant and discreet," even I had to join the shrieks of amus.e.m.e.nt; and I never thought to laugh at Count Saxe.

I could see that the applause had got into Francezka's blood. She dearly loved a triumph, and she had one now. She was ever the most graceful creature alive and knew how to make what beauty she had shine, for I have ever said her taste, her grace, her charm and her wit were three-fourths of her beauty. At that moment, therefore, all these things, beauties in themselves, were most in evidence. Her eyes were luminous and had a kind of veiled brilliance. She was smiling--her mouth was not perfectly straight, and when she smiled there was a charming little curve and dimple in the left corner of it, which gave a piquancy to her eloquent face.

She had a tiny foot, and always wore the most beautiful shoes imaginable--and in some way, although she seemed careful not to show her feet, they were always seen. I glanced toward Gaston Cheverny. I was far back, leaning against the wall, that being my usual station, and he was one of a number of gentlemen for whom seats were provided, but who preferred to stand back of the ladies. I saw in his face his pride and love of Francezka. He seemed to me then more like the Gaston of former days than I had yet seen him. My heart warmed a little to him.

When the plays were over Monsieur Voltaire made a short speech. At that stage of his career he was very anxious to curry favor with the great, especially as he knew the king did not like him, but no matter how hard he struggled to be universally flattering, some tinge of his native sardonic humor would crop out in spite of him. For example, he complimented Francezka so highly that there was nothing left to be said of the other ladies, and of course the perfunctory praise he gave them did not make them love him any the better. Then he made a slight though obvious allusion to Francezka's long waiting for her husband's return, comparing it to Penelope, which would have been mightily effective if he had not said something further about her bringing conjugal faith into fashion, which was an allusion some of the ladies could not stand at all, and caused Count Saxe to laugh in spite of himself. But on the whole, the affair pa.s.sed off with the greatest brilliance.

The next thing was the great supper in the hall. Although this was Beauvais's affair, I was not without responsibility. I had devised a new and splendid form of candlestick for these royal suppers. These candlesticks consisted of a hundred Uhlans, the handsomest men in the battalion, in uniforms of silk and velvet, holding their lances upright, and from the lance-head blazed a flame of perfumed wax. Then there were those d.a.m.nable little pages. It was their duty to hand the wine at supper and to attend the more distinguished guests; but they were certain to play some pranks if I were not on hand to stop them.

So I always remained through the supper.

The king's table was set as always, on a dais raised a couple of inches from the floor, under a royal canopy of crimson velvet with golden _fleur-de-lis_. To this table he invited Francezka, besides Madame Villars, Count Saxe, the Duc de Richelieu and one or two others, but he did not ask Monsieur Voltaire. I heard a subdued murmur of speculation as to whether he would be asked or not, and I never yet saw Monsieur Voltaire discomfited that it did not give the a.s.semblage a wicked delight. Madame du Chatelet was already beginning to fume and scowl. It was said that sometimes she and Monsieur Voltaire quarreled to the point of throwing dishes at each other across the table, but they were always ready enough to quarrel with the world on each other's account.

Francezka, escorted by the Duc de Richelieu, walked the length of the great hall, herself a picture of grace and dignity. On her way she pa.s.sed Monsieur Voltaire. He stood on one leg, like a stork, his eyes blazing with rage, chagrin, hope and expectancy. He had not yet been invited to the king's table, although Francezka had, and this man, who was capable of writing _Nanine_, and _The Tattler_, was in acute misery because he had not been asked to take a seat at a certain table! I saw compa.s.sion for him in Francezka's face, and thought she might contrive to help Monsieur Voltaire. She curtsied low to the king, ascended the dais at his invitation, and then I heard her say, as if to herself:

"I must leave room for Monsieur Voltaire," and at the same time flashed from under her long lashes a look so full of meaning, so droll, and saying at the same time, "I pray your Majesty will excuse my awkward country ways."

The king burst out laughing and told Count Saxe to fetch Monsieur Voltaire, which he did. I never saw a creature so pleased as Monsieur Voltaire was at this. I am sure Moliere did not show the same childish delight when Louis le Grand divided with him the celebrated wing of chicken.

Supper over, the king led the way to the ballroom, where, from a great orchestra of twenty-four violins, an ocean of music rose and fell like the waves of the sea. Count Saxe walked the _minuet de la cour_ with Francezka. It seemed as if this night was to be her apotheosis, for everything seemed designed to show her off and to give her the first place. Monsieur Voltaire did not dance, but overwhelmingly grateful for the ruse by which Francezka had got him to the king's table, could not be too a.s.siduous to her or praise her wit too highly. From that hour she was queen at Chambord. It was after midnight that the ball began. I remained only an hour or two, and then went to my rest, but not in my chamber next Count Saxe's for once. I had not had much sleep for several nights, so I betook myself to the stables, where, upon a pile of oats designed for the morning's feed, I wrapped myself in my cloak and fell into a deep slumber.

CHAPTER XXIX

AS HAVING NO PAST

I awakened, as always, at five o'clock, and on inquiring of the grooms and stablemen, found that the music at the castle had just ceased. The ball was barely over in time for the stag hunt, which was to take place at sunrise. It was as yet pitchy dark, but the scene of commotion almost equaled the ball, for there were one thousand horses to be fed. However, I rather liked that sort of commotion; the cheerful stamping and champing, as the horses, a hundred at the time, were led out of their stalls into the sharp December air, with the stars still shining in the blue-black vault of heaven; the tussle at the great watering troughs, into which fifty men and boys pumped continually; the fresh smell of the hay, at which the horses sniffed joyfully; the steady combing and dressing of the creatures--all going on with a kind of orderly confusion.

The hunters were attended to first--something over a hundred of them--and when the chief huntsman winded his silver horn, at the first paling of the stars and flushing of the sky, and the fierce, sharp yelping of the dogs in leash was heard, troops of ladies and gentlemen in hunting dress came down the great staircase into the courtyard.

Among them was Francezka. I myself swung her into her saddle. She looked as radiant as if she had not been traveling, rehearsing, acting and dancing for many hours before. As she gathered up the reins, she cried:

"Ah, Babache, this is to live! I have just changed my ball costume for my hunting dress. It is almost as good as those days before and after Uzmaiz!"

Action and adventure were in her blood, and she was a strong woman, capable of much exertion, but I had never seen in her before this thirst for pleasure.

And to the music of silver hunting horns and the bell-like baying of the dogs, I saw the hunt, with the king, Count Saxe and Francezka, sweep across the Bridge of the Lions and along the broad, bare, leafless avenue, into the forest, in the cold, bright December sunrise.

I had not time to join the hunt, and, busy with many duties, scarcely noted how the day slipped away. Toward three o'clock I saw a solitary figure--a woman--ride across the bridge. No one else had returned, nor was the hunting party expected until sunset. I recognized Francezka's form and surmised that, fatigued with all she had undergone, she had slipped away from the hunting party and had returned to the castle to rest.

About five o'clock, when the short winter afternoon was closing and the sun was red, I received a message from Francezka. She desired to see me in her apartment. I climbed the stairs to her rooms at once.

Her door was opened for me by old Elizabeth, Peter Embden's sister, who, I remembered, had been Francezka's waiting maid long ago on that journey from Konigsberg. Elizabeth was harder featured than ever, and rheumatic, so she told me; but Francezka had a way of keeping those about her, who had once loved her, even if they became a little infirm.

Elizabeth went to tell her mistress. I looked about the room, which had a sweet aroma of Francezka about it, something which made the place appear as if meant for her and her only. The harpsichord was by the fireplace--Francezka was always devoted to the harpsichord and played more skilfully upon it every year. There was her book of music, copied with her own hands, her embroidery frame, and the book she had been reading lay on the table, by which sat a chair with her scarf thrown over it, and a delicate perfumed handkerchief was where she had dropped it.

A fire burned upon the great hearth, and already, the room was shadowy with the coming dusk. There were two windows, one looking out upon the marvelous spiral staircase, the other facing the sunset. In a moment or two, Francezka came out of the inner room. She wore a white robe and her hair was neither dressed nor powdered, but braided down her back, as the Brabant peasant women wear theirs. Perhaps it was weariness on her part, but never was there a creature more changed than she, from the radiant being of the night before. She looked sad and dispirited, and the welcome in her eyes when she greeted me reminded me painfully of how she had met me in the sorrowful years of the past. But I chose not to see too much of this.

"It is the greatest good in the world to me, Madame," I said, "seeing you so happy and so admired. Any woman on earth might have envied you last night."

Francezka smiled a little--she was then seated and looking into the fire.

"Yes, I ever loved to act, and I felt no more tremor last night, although I was to play opposite the great Monsieur Voltaire himself, than in those days, so long ago, when I played opposite the baker's boy in the garden of the Hotel Kirkpatrick. It would have been better for me, perhaps, if I had been born to earn my living as Mademoiselle Lecouvreur did, on the stage, than to have been the heiress of the Capellos."

I was thunderstruck when she said this. I had never known her to express a wish for any other station in life than the one to which she had been born; and, indeed, she had no reason to do so. And while I was wondering at this speech, she astounded me still more, by saying calmly:

"It is, however, G.o.d's mercy that I can act; for I am acting a part every hour and moment of my life--the part of a happy woman--when I am of all of G.o.d's creatures, the most miserable."

She spoke quite softly and composedly, but I guessed readily that she had sent for me that she might have a friend to whom to pour out her overcharged heart.

"Gaston Cheverny," was all I could say, meaning that he must be the source of her misery.

"There is no fault at all to be found with my husband. He is kindness and devotion itself. He likes the world--so do I. He is gallant, is complimentary to the ladies; I would not have him otherwise. I have only to express a wish, and, if possible, it is fulfilled. Yet, I am the wretchedest of women. For, Babache, I believe--now, do not laugh at me, Babache, and say it is my Scotch blood that makes me superst.i.tious--but--but--" she paused a moment, and then said in a whisper, "I believe Regnard Cheverny's soul has got into Gaston Cheverny's body."

Francezka was always more superst.i.tious than she was willing to allow, but this wildness of delusion staggered me, especially in a woman of her otherwise strong sense.

I hesitated a little before answering her. I saw in her bright and restless eyes, and in the varying color upon her cheek, that she was speaking under the influence of powerful emotion.

"Madame," said I, "I must speak plainly. It amazes me that a woman of your excellent understanding should stoop to the folly of what you have just said."

Francezka showed no anger. She only replied:

"It is not so idle as it sounds. I mean, that although Gaston himself has returned to me, he seems to have Regnard's nature. Remember, I knew them both well. Do you recollect how the old dog, Bold, saw the change in Gaston? Well, one day about a month after you left Capello, the dog, which had shown a steady dislike to Gaston, flew at him--flew at his master whom he had loved so well. Some hours after, I went to my husband--he was standing on the terrace--and said:

"'You must have worried the dog, I never knew him to attack any one before.' 'He will not attack any one again,' replied Gaston. 'I thought it best that he should be put out of the way, and to spare you the knowledge I had the dog drowned an hour ago.' I can not express to you, Babache, my feelings at this. I do not know what I did, or what I said, but that, without hat or mantle, I rushed to the lake, below the Italian garden--I seemed to know by instinct that it was there they would drown him. Some stablemen were then dragging the poor drowned creature--my dog--my Bold--out of the water. They were frightened at what they had done, when they saw me. I retained my senses enough to say nothing before those men,--I, Francezka Capello, unable to reprove mere stablemen for the destruction of a creature dear to me for years!

"I fled to the Italian garden; I was in an agony of terror, as well as grief. I repeated to myself, over and over again, 'It was but a worn-out old dog--Gaston did it in mercy to me--' I tried, amid all my distress, to reason with myself--to present Gaston's cause. 'It is a trifle,' I said, but some inward voice told me it was no trifle, but a matter of the greatest moment to me. Suppose he should turn against me in the same way? I know not how long I sat there; it seemed to me not a quarter of an hour, but it was a long, long time.