“So, Captain Babache,” he said, “we hear that Count Saxe is on his way from Courland, and he is probably in Paris now.”
This put me in a cruel predicament, for Count Saxe did not wish his arrival known until he had seen the king; but Monsieur Voltaire was the man for putting people in cruel predicaments.
I mumbled something and looked about me for an avenue of escape. I never was ashamed to run away from an enemy too strong for me. But Voltaire blocked the way for me, his eyes blazing with merriment—those eyes that burned a hole in one—and a number of persons collected about us. The foyer was crowded, and wherever Monsieur Voltaire was he became a beacon light; no one could help watching him or listening to him, unless, of course, Count Saxe was present.
“I am considering,” said Monsieur Voltaire, with a wicked grin, “of making a new comedy—something on the order of a roaring farce. Count Saxe’s expedition to Courland will make excellent material. First act: Count Saxe going forth with Captain Babache and three hundred Uhlans, to conquer the universe. Second act: Count Saxe conquering the universe and getting clapped into a closet in the Grand Duchess Anna Iwanowna’s palace at Mitau, where, I hear, she and her waiting maids and a little dog kept him prisoner 182 for a month, from whence Peggy Kirkpatrick at last released him. Third act: Count Saxe arrives in Paris. Is sent for to relate his adventures to his Majesty. Majesty weeps—that is to say, laughs until he cries. Count Saxe begs to be sent to the Bastille until the town is done laughing at him. Majesty cruelly refuses. Count Saxe threatens to kill himself, and goes and eats a couple of cold fowls. Epilogue: spoken by Babache in the character of Bombastes Furioso. Messieurs, you will see that I am a prophet.”
“Monsieur, if you are a prophet,” I replied, near choking with chagrin, “you may recall your own definition of a prophet. When the first knave met the first fool, then there was the first prophet!”
There was laughter at that, but greater laughter still when Monsieur Voltaire proceeded to inform the crowd that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur had taught Count Saxe all he knew, except war, of which no one could teach him anything, and spelling, which he never could learn. He also chose to quote my master as saying that in his youth he was exactly like the devil, as he always learned what he was not told to learn; and the people present continued to laugh uproariously. They were of that class of persons who would have laughed just as readily at Monsieur Voltaire had my master been there to hang the notary’s son on the peg where he belonged.
In the midst of it the door to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s room opened, and she herself softly called me to her. I went, still smarting at the laughter and the heartless banter of those Paris people who thought it fine to laugh at Monsieur Voltaire’s gibes at Count Saxe. Oh, what I have not suffered for my master 183 through that upstart son of a notary! And yet, I can not deny that the fellow had great parts and shining wit!
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur bade me to tell Count Saxe to come to her house after the theater. With her usual goodness she asked concerning my health and welfare. No gentler, kinder heart ever beat than Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s.
I slipped back to the inn and gave Count Saxe the message sent him by Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. He had an interview with her that night at her house. When he returned he looked more serious than he had done at the prospect of losing Courland, for he saw that the world would soon have to part with that true heart and noble artist, Adrienne Lecouvreur. He said only a few words about her, but they came from his heart of hearts. I am aware that some people say he had no heart, but I, Babache, know better; else would I have died like a felon the day I first spoke with him face to face.
Presently, as we sat together in his dingy room at the inn, after the midnight bells had spoken, he said: