“Yes. He should reach there about this time. And 343 a tragedy may have preceded him—Madame Cheverny may have driven a nail into the eye of Count Bellegarde, as Jael did to Sisera, or cut off his head and put it in a bag, as Judith did that of Holofernes. For Bellegarde—the greatest fool alive—told me that on this date he meant to go to Capello and make a formal offer of his hand to the supposed widow, and by the blessing of God he hoped to own Capello. I have just come from Brabant, you see. I advised Bellegarde to make his will and to repent of his sins before going on such an errand, for Madame Cheverny has the spirit of all the Kirkpatricks in her beautiful body, and is dangerous when roused.”
While Jacques Haret was speaking, I recovered my composure, although my soul was in storm and tumult, but I could not ask one of the thousand questions burning upon my lips. Then I saw a figure approaching, hatless and unpowdered, and wrapped in a bed coverlet. It was Count Saxe. He had not gone to sleep, and hearing through his open window Jacques Haret’s tale, had sprung from his bed and rushed into the garden. Next to Francezka, Count Saxe, of all the world, wished Gaston Cheverny to be found for reasons easily understood. He called out as he stalked forward in his bed coverlet:
“Do you know anything else about it?”
“Nothing,” replied Jacques, thrusting his hands in his pockets; “but it has ruined Bellegarde’s chances of living at Capello, the palace of delights.”
“And some one else has come back to Capello,” I added. “Lisa, Peter Embden’s niece.”
Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Jacques Haret 344 show any shame at the mention of the unfortunate girl’s name, or of poor old Peter’s. Count Saxe, however, standing a little way off, and gesticulating in his coverlet, cried loudly:
“Jacques Haret, you are the blackest villain, cheat, scoundrel, rogue and rapscallion yet unhung. The jail yawns for you, the gallows yearns for you. May they both get you!”
“Thanks, Monsieur,” replied Jacques Haret; “I am as God made me—and He makes men different. As Monsieur Voltaire said of your Excellency, ‘God has not seen fit to give wings to the donkey.’ God has not seen fit to make me like the founder of La Trappe. That is all.”
Count Saxe turned to me:
“Get post-horses, Babache. We must go to Paris this night; no doubt there are letters for us. This news, if it be true, is worth a hundred thousand crowns to me.”