“Monsieur Regnard was with us yesterday, at our fête champêtre.” And “Monsieur Cheverny is reading a Spanish story to us, which I understand quite well, although I have scarce spoken ten words of that language since I was a child.” And once—oh, blessed letter!—she said, “My aunt and I desire our regards to Captain Babache. Tell him, as I know he is a poet 211 in his heart, if not with his pen, that there is a beautiful poem being made now by a lady in Brabant. The lady is Mother Nature—period, this present springtime. It is a play in several acts. I watch it daily from the Italian garden. It is a comedy, with some tragic aspects—for Nature has her tragic moods. The comedy is in the birds and the laughing river, and the leaves and blossoms. These last are defying their cruel old father, Winter, as they come out in spite of him, at first shyly, and then boldly, to be kissed by their lover, the sun. The lake remains always tragic; it never laughs nor even smiles, but is always sadly beautiful, like Niobe, poor, childless one. This is all for Captain Babache. And so Mademoiselle Lecouvreur is no more—and how are we all impoverished by her loss!” And much more of the same sort.
In June we started for Radewitz, near the Elbe. Thirty thousand soldiers were assembled there, many royalties, including the King of Prussia and the Crown Prince Frederick, afterward known as the Great, and every pretty woman in Europe. It was a huge, royal fête champêtre, in which the river Elbe seemed to run with champagne. I had expected it to be a practice camp, and so made preparations with pleasure for Count Saxe to go.
Gaston Cheverny was overjoyed to go, for several reasons; one was, that our road would lie directly toward Brussels, and he would have a chance to stop at his own house, and so, to see the lady of his love. As soon as it was known that we were going, we received kind invitations from Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello to become guests at the château. It was not 212 possible for Count Saxe to accept, however, and Gaston got only a week’s leave, departing from Paris in advance of us and joining us at Brussels. My master seeing I was disappointed in not stopping at the château on our way, promised that I might stop on our return in July; and with this I was satisfied.
Gaston Cheverny left Paris the middle of May—he was in the highest spirits, as well he might be. The morning he set forth, I rode with him to the barriers. He had a good horse under him, he was to see the lady of his heart, he was then to take part in a great military pageant, beautiful to the eye of a soldier—he was, in short, a very happy young fellow, and forgot that his purse was light. He rode away along the highroad, waving me farewell, and I returned to work like a Trojan to get my master’s escort in trim for the journey. I was glad for Count Saxe to be away from Paris then. Those who think that he was not grieved at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s death, or did not silently lament her, know not the man. But a soldier must take arms against his sorrows, as against his enemies.
Another week found us on the road to Brussels. The very night of our arrival there, Gaston Cheverny turned up; and with him was his brother, Regnard.
Regnard, as usual, was handsome, smooth, well dressed and well equipped with horses and servants to make a good appearance at Radewitz. He was far better off externally than was Gaston; but the same brotherly feelings which made him perfectly at home in Gaston’s house, made Gaston free of Regnard’s servants and horses. The two brothers lived upon the same terms of amity and cordial intimacy as always, in spite 213 of the fact that as they were now men, and not youths; and as Mademoiselle Capello was her own mistress, their rivalry had become far more serious.
After supper at the inn, I left Regnard with Count Saxe, while Gaston and I walked together upon the city ramparts, under the soft dark skies of the summer night. It was plain, without the telling, that his visit to Brabant had been highly satisfactory. He gave me a kind message from Mademoiselle Capello, and also one from Madame Riano. He told me that Francezka had developed the same capacity for affairs which marked Madame Riano; and to the surprise and chagrin of the wiseacres who expected to see everything at Capello at sixes and sevens under a woman’s rule, hers was the best managed estate in the province. She had stewards, but looked after them herself, not being free from a fondness for ruling. Old Peter was still her right hand man, but aged and inexpressibly sorrowful at the humble tragedy of the lost Lisa. Jacques Haret had not since been seen in those parts; and Gaston Cheverny had given his word to Mademoiselle Capello that the next time he saw Jacques Haret, the scoundrel should have a double dose of punishment on old Peter’s account, as well as on Gaston’s own, and Francezka seemed mightily contented with the idea. Revenge, as well as all the other elemental passions, was a part of Francezka Capello’s nature.
Madame Riano, Gaston said, was the same Madame Riano, but a late fantasy of hers was giving Mademoiselle Capello some anxiety. Madame Riano had been seized with a raging desire to go to Scotland. She had a notion that the time was ripe for another 214 uprising against the Hanoverians; and I believe that woman was capable of raising the clans and marching at their head to recover for Charles Edward Stuart the throne of his ancestors. This sudden passion of Madame Riano for Scotland was very embarrassing for Mademoiselle Capello, because it would almost force her to seek the protection of a husband, as she had no intention of forsaking her home in Brabant. I do not think this decision of Madame Riano’s seemed to trouble Gaston Cheverny very deeply, although he candidly admitted what the consequences would be. It was plain, however, that his prospects in that quarter were such as to warrant his taking a certain risk; and I believed he played fast and loose with the ladies slyly encouraging Madame Riano to go to Scotland, while ostensibly urging her to remain in Brabant. I asked him if his brother had yielded the field to him.
“By no means,” he replied, “but the only way to make him yield is to carry the lady off. There is no waiting game to be played in love—one must be ready to take the hazard of the die at any moment. My brother is not my only rival—there are scores of others; but I do not count up my chances of failure—I only count my chances of success. Oh, Babache, if Francezka Capello should exchange her dower for the smallpox, it would make no difference to me—” and he quoted to me that sonnet of Master William Shakespeare’s, in which the poet makes it clear that true love is not Time’s fool.
We started next morning, in beautiful summer weather, which lasted us until we reached Radewitz.