Just at that moment, a coach came lumbering through the narrow streets and stopped before the gate, where two persons alighted—Mademoiselle Lecouvreur herself and Monsieur Voltaire. I was surprised to see Monsieur Voltaire, because I supposed he was locked up in the Bastille, and would not be let out except to go to England. This man has friends, but I am not one of them. He had a way of sharpening his wit on Count Saxe, behind Count Saxe’s back—and besides, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur liked him too well. But that was because he wrote the part of Mariamne for her. Nevertheless, I did not make the mistake of belittling him.

Jacques Haret, who knew everybody in Paris, recognized the pair as they entered the garden. He ran forward, refused to let them pay, and escorted mademoiselle to a bench under the purple blooming lilac hedge where she could both see and hear well.

“It is a very great honor, Mademoiselle,” said Jacques Haret, “to entertain you in my theater.”

Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, with that smile which won all hearts, replied:

“I thank you very much, Monsieur. I can not be indifferent 18 to the actress who is to continue, and probably surpass, the Adrienne of to-day.”

She glanced my way, and I bowed to her, and she gave me one of those same sweet smiles. Twenty years before, my father, the notary, and her father, the hatter, lived next each other—and the notary’s son and the hatter’s daughter often played in the streets together. Now, she was a great actress, and I was a Tatar prince in command of Count Saxe’s body-guard. She had graciously remembered our early acquaintance when Count Saxe took me to her house—for he took me everywhere he went—and she treated me with the greatest kindness always; for which I love and thank her forever.

I was sorry to see she looked pale and weary in the strong afternoon light—she was ever frail, and adorned the world only too short a time. She wore neither rouge nor patches, nor was she ever remarkable for beauty; but she was charming as only Adrienne Lecouvreur was charming. As for Monsieur Voltaire, he looked both prosperous and impudent—and when Jacques Haret paid him a compliment he replied with a wink:

“Dear sir, I am not Monsieur Voltaire. That fellow is in the Bastille. I, as you see, am tall and thin and not ill-looking, while Voltaire, it is well known, is short and stout and red of hair—and is the worst poet in France besides.”

Jacques Haret winked back.

“Truly,” said he, “I was mistaken. As you say, Monsieur Voltaire is a short, red-haired man—but he is not the worst poet in France. The creature has written some things that are not so bad—the Henriade, for 19 example—it could not be better if I had done it myself. And I have made a little play after his Mariamne, which is not so bad either—my actors will now have pleasure in giving it. What a pity you are not Monsieur Voltaire!”

At this, Monsieur Voltaire laughed—he had a huge laugh and a loud and rich voice, and eyes that glowed like coals of fire. Nobody having once seen this man could forget him, or mistake him for another.

Then, amid a stormy clapping of hands, Jacques Haret gave three great thumps with a stick on the floor of the stage, in imitation of the House of MoliÈre, the curtain was pulled apart and the little play began.

In a few minutes, the child actress advertised as Mademoiselle Adrienne came upon the stage, and was greeted with uproarious applause.

She was no child, but a young girl of thirteen or possibly fourteen, and taller than the cobbler’s boy, who played opposite to her. She was not strictly beautiful, but she had a spark of Heaven’s own light in her deep, dark eyes—and she had the most eloquent red mouth I ever saw, with a little, bewitching curve in it, that made a faint dimple in her cheek. The blond wig she wore evidently disguised hair of satin blackness. She was slight and unformed, but graceful beyond words. Jacques Haret’s version of Mariamne was a very good one—what a multiplicity of gifts the fellow had, and his dishonesty made each and all of no avail! But in this young girl whom he called Mademoiselle Adrienne, he had an actress worthy of better work than even he could do.

The part of Mariamne—Jacques Haret’s Mariamne—was 20 a very comic one, especially at the last, which was a burlesque on Mariamne’s parting from Herod. Up to that point, the young actress played with the true spirit of comedy. Her audience shouted with laughter. Even Mademoiselle Lecouvreur laughed as I have never known her to before or since. Monsieur Voltaire, however, sat grave and thoughtful, his chin in his hand. I, too, was serious, and felt little inclination to laugh in spite of the drollness of the young girl’s acting. I saw at the first glance she was of a grade entirely different from the cobbler’s boy and the other children, and I was troubled at seeing her in that company. Such was the effect produced on me by the first sight I had of Francezka Capello—for it was she and no other.

When she came to the last of all—the burlesque parting—she suddenly transposed it into the key of tragedy. She changed the words into those of Monsieur Voltaire’s Mariamne, which she spoke with vast force and pathos and passion. She laid her hand on the shoulder of the cobbler’s boy, with a gesture so full of love and longing and delicacy and despair, that the boy, seeing a mystery, but not understanding it, was dazed, and forgot his part, which was to seize her around the waist and whirl her off her feet. The laughter had suddenly subsided—the audience, like the boy, was stunned and confused and touched. Francezka, then, with a cry of despair that rang through the still, soft May evening, thrust the cobbler’s boy away and leaned sobbing against the cloth wall of the theater; and the people, after a full minute of delighted amazement, broke into thunders of applause.

Mademoiselle Lecouvreur and Monsieur Voltaire led 21 the hand clapping. The little actress, perfect mistress of herself, turned toward the bench where Mademoiselle Lecouvreur and Monsieur Voltaire sat. Her countenance had changed as if by magic—she showed a mouthful of beautiful teeth in a joyous smile. Then, the exigency of the play requiring her to turn again, instantly she resumed her touching and tragic air, and picking up her part, carried it through triumphantly. Her fellow actor, the cobbler’s boy, was disconcerted by the miraculous transformation she had made, and could only stand awkwardly about the stage, and act as a dummy for her to hang her emotions on. Nevertheless, she managed it perfectly, and when the end of the little play came, instead of the two galloping off the stage hand in hand, the young girl bade farewell to the cobbler’s boy in an improvised speech which made the cobbler himself, who was in the audience, and several other persons, to weep profusely.

The applause was sharp and loud; the young girl, as if disdaining it, had walked into the little booth used for a dressing room. Then Monsieur Voltaire said in Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s ear:

“I am certain now who it is. She is the young niece of Peggy Kirkpatrick. I have often seen her in Peggy’s coach.”

“And in such company!” cried Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. “Surely Madame Riano can not know it.”

“Certainly she does not know it,” replied Monsieur Voltaire, “but this scoundrel of a Jacques Haret knows it. Come here, Jacques Haret.”

Jacques advanced, all smiles and holding his fine hat and feathers in front of him to hide his broken linen.

“It is a great pity,” said Monsieur Voltaire to him sternly, “that you are such an unmitigated rogue. You have great talents for this sort of thing, and if you had a rag of respectability, you would be capable of managing the ThÉÂtre FranÇais itself.”

Jacques Haret grinned, and went cut and thrust at Monsieur Voltaire.

“I beg to differ with you, Monsieur,” replied Jacques. “I did not inherit any talent for affairs, my family not having been in trade, nor have I any gift for running after the great, of which the only reward is sometimes a good caning, the dukes and princes pretending to be very sympathetic and meanwhile laughing in their sleeves. Do you suppose, Monsieur, that the oxen did not laugh when the poor toad swelled and burst?”

Now, as all this was a perfectly open reference to Monsieur Voltaire’s history and adventures, it bit deep. Monsieur Voltaire turned pale and glared with those wonderful eyes of his at Jacques Haret—but Jacques was no whit abashed. As I said before, those gentlemen-rascals are hard to abash.

There were several persons standing about, listening and understanding, and a smile went around at Monsieur Voltaire’s expense. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur looked distressed. Jacques Haret, seeing his advantage, assumed a patronizing tone to Monsieur Voltaire and said:

“I have always admired your plays and verses very much, Monsieur Voltaire, and your rise in the world has been as remarkable as my fall; but you were born luckier than I—you had no estate to lose. I hope your triumphant career will continue, and that you will be 23 pointed out as a man who was not kept down by want of birth, of fortune, of breeding, of looks—for I always thought you were devilish ugly, Voltaire—but who, by being in love with himself, and admitting no rival, rose to a first place among third rate poets!”

I swear it is humiliating to humanity to know that the Jacques Harets of this world always get the better of the FranÇois Marie Voltaires. Jacques Haret had no blushes for his fall, and Voltaire blushed for his rise! But such is the curious way of the world.

And what is quite as curious, the crowd was on the side of the pseudo-gentleman, and was rather pleased that he got the better of the notary’s son, who supped with dukes.

“Tell me this,” cried Monsieur Voltaire in his loud voice and very angrily, “how comes it that this young girl, whom I know to be the niece of Madame the Countess Riano, should be acting in your trumpery plays?”

He had taken out his snuff-box and opened it to appear calm, and Jacques Haret, before answering, coolly helped himself to the snuff—at which the crowd was lost in admiration.

“Monsieur,” answered Jacques Haret, “do you think if Mademoiselle Lecouvreur came sneaking to the manager of the ThÉÂtre FranÇais and asked to act without pay, for the love of the thing, she would be turned away? Well, Monsieur, this young lady is the Adrienne Lecouvreur of her age and class. She is the best child actress I ever saw, and she came to me—not begging, if you please, but haughtily demanding that she be allowed to take, when it pleased her ladyship, the leading parts in the plays I give. I allowed her to try once. 24 Since then, whenever I can get her, she is welcome on the stage of my theater. She asks no pay, but I would give her more than all the child actors in my company get, if I could always command her services.”

“And when Madame Riano finds it out?” asked Monsieur Voltaire.

“Then, God be my help!”

“But, Monsieur Haret,” said Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, “truly, it is not right that a young girl of her condition should be allowed to mix with the class of children you have here.”

“Mademoiselle, she does not mix with them. She is the haughtiest little lady you ever saw. Besides, old Peter, the servant who comes with her, watches her with the eye of a hawk.”

“It is but this, Haret,” continued Monsieur Voltaire, with impatience; “you have got an admirable little actress for nothing. Whether she comes to ruin, you care not; whether it lands you in prison, you are willing to take the chances; you are, in short, a scoundrel. Come, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur.”

“Sir,” replied Jacques Haret, following them to the gate, “I am in this business for my living, not for my health, which is admirable, thank you. There are risks in all trades—a wit is always liable to get in prison in these days, especially if he cracks his wit on his betters. I believe you have had two sojourns in the Bastille yourself, Monsieur Voltaire. Well, you survive and smile, and I may be as fortunate. Good evening, Monsieur; good evening, Mademoiselle.”

Neither Mademoiselle Lecouvreur nor Monsieur Voltaire replied to him, but getting into the coach in which 25 they came, were driven away under a narrow archway and were out of sight in a minute.

Jacques Haret’s mention of a serving-man directed my attention to an elderly man in the well-known purple and canary livery of Madame Riano, who stood close to the stage, never budging from his place. He was a respectable looking creature, with faithfulness writ large all over him. Homely, as well as elderly, he had the most speaking and pathetic eyes I have ever seen in any head. Just now, his expression of anxiety would have melted a heart of stone. And if he were in any way responsible for his young mistress’s being in that place, he did well to be anxious.

There was still another piece to be given, and the audience was awaiting it impatiently. The rays of the declining sun were level then, and the sweet, green, retired place looked sweeter and greener and more retired than ever. In the midst of the hush the stage was thwacked and the curtain parted. I happened to glance toward Lafarge, the actor. He stealthily raised his hands and brought them noiselessly together. All at once, the garden seemed full of soldiers. Lafarge pointed out Jacques Haret to an officer, who laid a heavy hand on him, saying:

“I arrest you for giving a theatrical performance without a license.”

Jacques Haret began to bluster. It was no use. He grew sarcastic.

“This, I presume, is at the instigation of that rascal Lafarge,” he cried. “The people passing by here stop and pay a few pence, and see a better performance than can be seen at the ComÉdie FranÇaise, around the corner. 26 So the audiences have been falling off. I hear there is scarcely any one in the house the nights Mademoiselle Lecouvreur does not play.”

Nothing availed. The thunder of carts resounded in the narrow streets.

“Come,” said the officer. “No matter where the information came from—get you and all your company into the carts outside—and you can sleep on a plank to-night in the prison of the Temple, and to-morrow morning you can give an account of yourself to the Grand Prieur de VendÔme.”

There was, of course, a frightful uproar. The soldiers seized the children and carried them toward the carts, the youngsters screaming with terror, especially the cobbler’s boy, who was the biggest boy, and yelled the loudest—the parents shouting, crying and protesting. There was a terrible scene.

As soon as the commotion began, I walked toward the old serving-man. The confusion was great, but in the midst of it I heard a calm, imperious little voice saying:

“Peter, come and take me home at once.”

It was the young Mademoiselle Capello, standing on the edge of the stage platform. She was very white, but perfectly composed.

Old Peter took her arm respectfully, when up stepped a brawny soldier—one of those stout fellows from Normandy—and catching Mademoiselle Capello by the other arm, said rudely:

“She must go, too!”

I thought old Peter would have dropped dead. As for the young girl, she fixed her eyes intrepidly upon the soldier, but she was trembling in every limb.

I could have felled the man with a single blow, but I saw that to make a brawl with a common soldier about Mademoiselle Capello would be fatal. Old Peter then managed to gasp out:

“This young lady is Mademoiselle Francezka Capello del Medina y Kirkpatrick, niece of the Countess Margarita Riano del Valdozo y Kirkpatrick, and she must be instantly released.”

“Well, then,” replied the soldier, laughing, “why doesn’t the Countess Margarita Riano del Valdozo y Kirkpatrick keep an eye on her niece, Mademoiselle Francezka Capello del Medina y Kirkpatrick, instead of letting her play with these little vagabonds of actors? But, my old cock, I think you are lying—so here goes!”

And he dragged Francezka off toward the carts, in which the rest of the children were being tumbled. Peter turned to me.

“For the love of God—” he began, and could say no more for terror and grief.

“I will follow her,” said I, “and no harm shall come to her unless my right hand loses its cunning. No doubt as soon as her identity is known she will be released. But, it must be kept quiet, you understand? Her absence must be concealed if possible.”

“O God! O God!”

The misery of old Peter was piteous. First, he would run toward the carts, swearing he would follow them on foot; then he would totter back, crying:

“I must tell Madame Riano!”

Meanwhile I had gone out, had engaged the first coach for hire and followed the odd procession as it started toward the Temple. In the first cart sat, besides 28 the soldier driving, the officer, Jacques Haret, and Lafarge, who was to lodge the information. Jacques Haret and Lafarge got to fighting in the cart, but that was speedily stopped. Then Jacques took to sharpening his wit on Lafarge and his bad acting, and the first thing I saw, the officer and the soldier were near tumbling out of the cart with laughter at their prisoner. I thought this boded ill for Lafarge, as the case would be heard before the Grand Prieur de VendÔme, and this Grand Prieur was not the great grandson of Henri Quatre for nothing—he, too, loved wit as well as wine and women. In the next cart were several children including the cobbler’s boy, who continued to yell vociferously and to beg that he should not be hanged. On the plank with the soldier driving sat Francezka Capello.

She wore no hat, and still had on her blond wig, and her fresh cheeks were raddled with paint—she had been unpainted in the first piece. But I could see her pallor under her rouge. She had on a large crimson mantle, which she wrapped around her, and sat perfectly still and silent. After all, she was the only creature in the party who had anything to fear, and yet she was the calmest of them all. The soldier driving, who was a good-natured fellow, began to cheer up the weeping children, and soon had them all smiling except the cobbler’s boy and Francezka.

“Come now,” he said. “This is nothing but a pleasant ride to a nice place, called the Temple, where there will be plenty of bread and cheese for you, and some nice clean straw for you to sleep on—and early to-morrow morning you will be sent home to your fathers and mothers, and you will each have a penny—or 29 perhaps a whole livre, so don’t be crying, but hold on now—”

Then he whipped up the horse so as to give the children a merry jolt, and the youngsters all began to laugh—still excepting the two co-stars of the troupe.

Mademoiselle Capello confessed to me, years afterward, that she fully expected to be executed, although she did not look for the ignominy of hanging, but rather decapitation—and she firmly resolved to die with the courage of the Capellos and the Kirkpatricks. To heighten this, she kept repeating to herself all the names, titles and dignities in her family, and thanked God that she was not as the other children were, or even the cobbler’s boy. And to render her exit more dignified, she wiped the paint from her lips and cheeks and managed to throw away her blond wig as the cart rolled under the dark and forbidding archway of the Temple, between the two peaked towers that had frowned there for five centuries.