replied Gaston, smiling.

I listened in wonderment. Was it possible that Francezka had not told Gaston the story of Lisa? For he acted as if he knew nothing of it.

However, I had my views about Jacques Haret's presence there, so I rose, too, and bade Gaston a ceremonious adieu, and said nothing at all to Jacques Haret. It did not discompose him in the least, and again taking out his snuff-box, Gaston Cheverny's snuff-box, he began to hum _Sur le pont d'Avignon_. That air seemed to be a favorite of his. I had gone about half way across the garden, and it being large, I was out of sight and sound of Gaston and Jacques Haret, when I heard Gaston at my heels, calling "Hold!" I stopped and he joined me, with an expression both of amus.e.m.e.nt and annoyance on his face.

"I am in a d.a.m.nably awkward place, Babache," he said. "Of course, we all know about Jacques Haret, but the fellow has been permitted in all the houses where the Harets have been received for generations. You remember well, after that expedition to Courland, he stayed some time at the Manoir Cheverny and went to the chateau of Capello whenever he liked. So, meeting him to-day, as I say, in the gardens of the Palais Royal, and bringing him home with me--in fact, asking him to come and sup with us, for his entertainment always pays for his supper, you perceived the reception he got from my lady Francezka and Madame Riano. Now, what am I to do?"

"You forget," I replied, "that in those days when Jacques Haret stayed with you at the Manoir Cheverny, and with your brother Regnard at Castle Haret, it was before that scoundrelly business with poor Lisa, old Peter's niece."

"That is true," he answered reflectively. "It was a very atrocious thing, as you say, but it is a common enough story. The girl was a village girl; little more than a peasant."

I own I was full of disgust when Gaston Cheverny spoke thus. How different was this from the high-souled, chivalric Gaston Cheverny whom I had known, and who treated all women with the consideration of a Bayard! I said, however, coldly enough:

"Perhaps you have forgotten that old Peter shared his wages with that villain of a Jacques Haret--his wages, think of that! And in his own poor house sheltered the fellow. I must say that seldom if ever in my life have I known such treachery as Jacques Haret's."

I walked on, but Gaston kept step with me along the graveled paths, through the bright flower beds and under the green arbors of the garden. His face had changed completely. All amus.e.m.e.nt had vanished, and in its place was an expression of perplexity, and even fear. At last he stopped me under an arbor already covered with the young green leaves of a climbing rose.

"Babache," he said, "I am pledged to have Jacques Haret sup with me; that is the truth. You have great influence over Francezka. Will you not endeavor to reconcile Francezka to me for receiving him?"

"No," I replied; "I have not lived so long without learning to keep from meddling with affairs between husband and wife. But who cares for offending Jacques Haret? I gave him a sound beating myself not a fortnight ago in the gardens of the Luxembourg."

We were standing still in the arbor, and the mellow afternoon light showed me every line in Gaston Cheverny's comely face. Nothing that he had yet said or done had made me feel so like a stranger to him--to Gaston Cheverny, with whom I had lived in the closest intimacy for seven years--as his att.i.tude on the subject of this rascally Jacques Haret. I could but study his countenance, which was always vivid and full of expression. The thought flashed into my mind that Jacques Haret possessed some hold over Gaston Cheverny; perhaps some secret of those lost years. Jacques Haret at Paris had known in advance of the very day and hour of Gaston's return to Brabant. This thought troubled me.

Gaston remained, looking down reflectively, and considering Jacques Haret with far more seriousness than I had ever seen any one consider him before.

"One thing is certain," I said; "Jacques Haret would forego supping with the king's majesty himself for a supper as good and a couple of crowns. I will say this of that rogue and thief of other men's honor--I never saw that human being who was so little awed by names and t.i.tles as Jacques Haret." Which was true, showing what virtues may yet subsist in a rascal.

Gaston Cheverny's face changed as if by magic.

"Why did I not think of that before!" he cried. "My dear Babache, it is not for nothing that Count Maurice of Saxe has you at his elbow day and night. That ugly head of yours contains useful ideas. A thousand thanks to you; I will this minute put your advice to proof."

He turned and walked back to where Jacques Haret was. I went away, leaving my respects for the ladies. I thought Francezka would rather not see me after the painful episode in the garden. And I made not the slightest doubt that the money for the supper and a couple of crowns thrown in would buy Jacques Haret off, as I had said, from supping with all the kings in Christendom.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

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 pa.s.sed, as I made my way enc.u.mbered 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 pa.s.s 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 a.s.sociation 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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.