I can never forget Mademoiselle Capello on that night: her beauty, in which archness and pensiveness 177 alternated, her cheerful hope of meeting, together with her sincere regret at parting, the shining of her dark eyes, the rope of pearls round her milk-white throat, the shimmer of her yellow satin gown—all—all were in my mind waking and sleeping, for long afterwards. She gave me her hand to kiss in farewell, and then, holding my rough palm in her two velvety ones, she said to Count Saxe:
“Will you promise me, Count Saxe, if ever I need Babache, you will let me have him?”
“I promise you, Mademoiselle,” gallantly replied Count Saxe. “I could not refuse you even the most valuable thing I have; and if that day comes, I only ask that Babache may serve you as faithfully as he has served me.”
All of which was sweet music to my ears.
At daylight next morning we were in the saddle. As we rode out of the courtyard in the pale December dawn I saw a light in Francezka’s chamber.
We took the familiar road past the Italian garden, the statues showing ghostlike in the cold gray light, the lake a sheet of ice. Soon the château of Capello was behind us. The two Chevernys joined us a mile from the château and rode with us a stage. Count Saxe was cheerful, as always, and spoke with enthusiasm of again seeing Mademoiselle Adrienne Lecouvreur. She was one whose money a man might lose, and if honorably lost, might safely face. Is not that high praise?
At the end of the first stage the Chevernys bade us adieu. It was but for a brief time with Gaston, for however he might cherish a lady in his heart, his duty as a man came first; and with a small estate, it behooved 178 him to be very active in his profession of arms, that he might not be known as a laggard and sluggard. Count Saxe contemplated the buying of a regiment as soon as a fit opportunity came—he shortly after bought the regiment of Spar—and Gaston Cheverny must needs be on the spot, if he wished, as he needed, promotion. Regnard’s ampler fortune made him freer than Gaston, but he was not a man likely to forget his own advancement. We saw them depart with regret, and then increased our own pace. We traveled rapidly, and on the third evening after leaving the château of Capello, our horses’ hoofs clattered against the stones of Paris. Oh, that fateful town! I have always had a fear of it—a dread of its fierce people, women as well as men; and though I was born there, I think I never spent a comfortable day there after I cut my milk-teeth.
Instead of going to the Luxembourg, where it was understood quarters were reserved for Count Saxe, he went to a small inn and preserved his incognito for the present. As soon as we had supped, Count Saxe sent me to see Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, to ask for an interview. I went to the Théâtre Français, and being recognized—for it is not easy to forget so ugly a man as I am—I was permitted behind the scenes.
The play was that very Herod and Mariamne of Monsieur Voltaire’s that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur had played two years before, which Jacques Haret had so cleverly burlesqued, and in which Mademoiselle Capello had been so rashly brilliant. From the wings I watched the house—well lighted, for the king’s Majesty was there, looking frightfully bored in the royal box—and a mob of fine people. I presumed, from seeing 179 Voltaire’s piece played, that he was at last home from England, and sure enough, there he was, sitting in a box. He had but lately arrived, as I afterward learned. He looked well dressed, well fed and very impudent. The people seemed to relish his presence, for after the second act there were cries for him, to which he responded. He was sitting with some ladies of rank—catch that notary’s son appearing in public except with the great! But I admit he wrote some good things.
I was distressed to see the changes that two years had made in Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She was paler and slighter than ever, and although she acted her part with sublime fire and energy, it was plain that the soul within her was driving her frail body as the spur drives a tired horse.