I think Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s death had a lasting effect on Count Saxe. I ever believed that he grieved more for her than did Voltaire, who wrote verses on her. Voltaire, at that time, was hanging to the petticoats of that lean, brown Madame du Châtelet, who spent her time working out Newton’s Principia and henpecking Voltaire. No woman ever henpecked my 310 master. But I must admit Voltaire was a sorcerer, and could spur a dead horse into life. He confused me very much about that time by asking me if the writing I was engaged upon was a life of Count Saxe, and when I said not, the rogue remarked that he supposed I was like Amyot, who said that he did not write the life of his various masters because he was too much attached to them. Now, what answer is a man to make to such things?
In spite of all the distractions of Paris, Count Saxe by no means lost interest in Francezka, and kept in constant communication with her. Madame Riano had urged Francezka to join her in Paris, but Francezka declined to leave Brabant for two reasons why she must not stir from home; that Gaston, if living, might find her there; and if he were dead, she preferred the seclusion of her own home to the gaiety of Paris.
In the spring of 1737 Madame Riano was seized with the notion of going to England again. I judge she had had enough of Scotland, that land of milk and honey, as she represented it to be. This time she went straight to London, where she took a great house, proclaimed herself a Jacobite, put white cockades on every one of her servants, down to the very scullions in the kitchen, and defied Sir Robert Walpole’s government to arrest her. To her cruel disappointment, the ministry took not the least notice of her. In vain she gave balls on Prince Charles Stuart’s birthday, whom she called James III, made everybody curtsy to his portrait, which was placed in the main lobby of her house, 311 and never failed to revile and ridicule the Elector of Hanover, as she called King George, and all his family. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when her coach locked wheels with that of the Duke of Newcastle, then secretary of state under Sir Robert Walpole, and known as the greatest fool in England. It was on the way to a levee at St. James’s Palace. Madame Riano upbraided the duke for his treachery to his lawful sovereign, King James the Third, called King George a Hanoverian rat, and then triumphantly demanded in the face of a great crowd which collected around the combatants:
“And now, will your Grace have me arrested?”
The poor foolish duke, who stuttered and stammered fearfully, replied to this:
“M-m-m-madame, the king’s orders are n-n-not to arrest anybody except p-persons of the f-f-first consequence, M-madame!”
Fancy Madame Riano’s rage! And the crowd actually cheered the duke, so we heard in Paris. This, however, drove Scotch Peg out of London. She returned to Paris, reopened the Hôtel Kirkpatrick, and announced that she only lived for the purpose of hurling the Hanoverian rats from the throne of England and Scotland. My master went to call on her and took me with him. Madame Riano received us in her usual state, which was lofty, for one of the merits which Madame Riano possessed in common with Francezka was a perfect capacity for affairs. Madame Riano might furnish food for laughter in Paris and London and Brabant, but her debts were always promptly paid; she 312 lived splendidly, but without waste, and she always had more money in her pocket than those who laughed at her.
She was kind, if patronizing, to Count Saxe, and acted as if I were rather the more important of the two. She delivered a long account of the outrages heaped upon her by the Elector of Hanover, as she called George of England, which outrages, as nearly as I could make out, consisted wholly in not having her sent to the Tower of London and tried for high treason as she ardently desired. After the recital of Madame Riano’s wrongs at the hands of the Kings of England, Spain and France—for she had something against the last two as well as the first, and complained that they had all treated her as if she were of no more account than the drummer’s cat—the conversation turned on Francezka. Madame Riano heard from her regularly. She was well, endeavored to be cheerful, and held an undying hope.
Madame Riano freely declared she believed Gaston Cheverny to be still alive, but could give no better reason for it than the belief that Omnipotence would not trifle with the life of one connected with the Kirkpatrick family by marriage. She told us that she was going to Brabant for the summer and later to pay a round of visits in Luxembourg. Shortly after our visit she took her proposed departure.
That year of 1737 was an active one for Count Saxe. I could make a very pretty history of our travels and adventures in Paris, Dresden, Leipsic, Brussels and other gay towns, but I will not. For myself all places were alike to me, provided I was with Count Saxe 313 or with Francezka. I hoped eagerly that Francezka would send for me, knowing that would mean some clue to Gaston Cheverny, but she did not. I had from her three letters, however, in which her soul shone forth. In the spring of 1738 we were at Paris again. The women were very troublesome that year after Count Saxe, and a gay set of rival duchesses came near driving him to drink. One night in May he came into my chamber at midnight, and throwing himself on a chair, said: