Will it be believed that after the king had in February sent for Count Saxe and other officers to Versailles to announce to them the war, we were not actually on the march until August? There was a song the soldiers sang on the sly during these months, when the king, having said he would make war, seemed loath to begin:

At last though, under those two tough old warriors, Marshal Villars and Marshal, the Duke of Berwick, the French were on the march. Marshal Villars went to Italy and the Duke of Berwick to the Rhine. With the Duke of Berwick went Count Saxe’s old friend, the Duc de Noailles and Count Saxe himself, then camp marshal. The Duke of Berwick was very great as a man and a soldier, and everybody knows the high esteem in which he held Count Saxe—of which I will speak in its true place.

I am ashamed to say what a figure the army made on its march to Strasburg. One result of the camp at 243 Radewitz, like that at CompiÈgne some years before, was to make young officers believe that the great game of war was a summer fÊte. Every captain must travel in his chaise, and there were almost as many cooks and valets and gill-flirts as soldiers on the road to Strasburg. To those who knew that stern old soldier, the Duke of Berwick, it was a certainty, fixed in advance, as to what would become of the chaises, the valets, the cooks and the gill-flirts. Count Saxe knew “ce diable anglais” as Berwick was called. About ten miles before reaching Strasburg he dismounted from his chaise—for he, seduced by the bad example of others, rode in a chaise—and marched the ten last miles with his regiment, that he might get well soiled and dusty when presenting himself before the general commanding.

Gaston Cheverny, who was Count Saxe’s aide-de-camp, had ridden all the way from Paris, with the dog Bold at his heels. We reached Strasburg at an opportune time. It was in the afternoon, and all day long the chaises had been rolling through the gates; some said there were as many as eighteen hundred in the town at the time. Within them were the officers, as dainty and debonair as if just out of my lady’s bandbox. The Duke of Berwick, exasperated beyond words, had stationed himself at the principal gate and caught these gentlemen when they least expected it. We were told that the countenances of these chaise soldiers were a sight to behold when they caught sight of the grim old marshal and noted the terrible look of him. He was a man of few words, but very fierce when roused. He got those young popinjays out of their chaises by 244 a single glance, which acted like a grenade when the fuse is touched off.

The regiment of Saxe came marching in, however, every officer in his place, and Count Saxe riding at the head of it. When the Duke of Berwick’s eagle eye saw this his countenance cleared as if by magic; he had looked like a thunder cloud before. Count Saxe had sent all the chaises of the regiment around to another gate. It was a pleasant summer afternoon, and the old city by the Rhine shone in the August sun, which likewise showed the dust, so carefully acquired on his accoutrements by Count Saxe. The Duke of Berwick’s greeting to Count Saxe was afterward known throughout the world.

“Welcome,” said he; “I had asked for a reinforcement of three thousand men, but now that you are come, I do not need them.”

My master responded fittingly, and then, very artfully, made an apology for his appearance, alleging the heat, the dust and the condition of the streams—everything was overflowed that year of 1733.

“No apologies are needed, Monsieur,” replied the marshal. “I am pleased to see that you have brought me soldiers instead of the popinjays and dandies which I have heretofore seen.”

Now this was true of Count Saxe’s regiment in spite of the inroads of luxury upon the youngsters, for my old Uhlans were among them, and the whole regiment enjoyed the names of “Clear-the-way-boys,” and “Storm-alongs,” which our Uhlans had earned long since. By way of a reward the regiment was quartered in the town of Strasburg, but near the river bank. 245 Count Saxe established himself in a small, but comfortable old mansion, surrounded with gardens sloping to the river. I, of course, was quartered with him, and Gaston Cheverny, being aide-de-camp, was also lodged there.

Prince Eugene, of Savoy, was on the other side of the river, and there was courteous communication by flag of truce between the French and the Austrians.

A day or two after we arrived a letter came for Gaston Cheverny from Regnard Cheverny saying that his grenadiers were with Prince Eugene, and Regnard very much desired to see Gaston. It was easily arranged that Gaston Cheverny should meet his brother at Kehl after nightfall, and should bring him to Strasburg to spend the night. It was only stipulated that Regnard should come and go in darkness.

It was a soft September night when Gaston came into my chamber, joyfully bringing Regnard with him. My room was small, but had a large and pleasant balcony overlooking the straggling gardens and the river. Regnard greeted me pleasantly—he looked gallant in his white Austrian uniform. We went out upon the balcony, had wine brought and spent an hour or two together. Regnard had lately paid a flying visit to Castle Haret, and, of course, had been to the chÂteau of Capello.

“Mademoiselle Capello was most kind and charming,” he said, “and, by the way, Captain Babache, she desired her remembrance to you.”

“And nothing to me?” cried Gaston.

Regnard smiled—I never liked his smile, in which his eyes took no part.

“Do you think, boy,” he replied, “that I employed the gracious minutes that Francezka—I mean Mademoiselle Capello—allowed me, in talking to her of another man?”

“Then,” cried Gaston, rising half in mirth and half in anger, “I will myself see Mademoiselle Capello and hear from her own lips whether she has forgotten me.”

“We do not propose to give you time to make excursions,” replied Regnard, laughing good-naturedly. “Your Berwick has to dance a branle first with Prince Eugene, and he who would dance with such a partner must be very active and keep his wits and his legs ready.”

Gaston sat down again, and did not lose his good temper. But Regnard told us further that Madame Riano was really going to Scotland. She had got it in her blood, and was likely to leave any day. Mademoiselle Capello had been forced to engage a dame de compagnie in the person of Madame Chambellan, some relation of Count Bellegarde’s, and as near milk and water as he. I surmised that Francezka was not likely to choose for her dame de compagnie one able or desirous to cross her.

After an hour or two I was called to attend Count Saxe, and the brothers were left alone. They seemed as affectionate as ever I saw brothers. I heard their voices as they spent the hours in converse in Gaston’s room. Toward morning, in the ghostly half light which precedes the dawn, they left the house together, taking a boat at the foot of the garden. I watched them as they passed down the old garden path to the river. Their arms were around each other’s shoulders, schoolboy 247 fashion, and both of them wore long dark cloaks, for the hour before the dawn was chill. Never were two figures more alike than Gaston and Regnard Cheverny, and there was not the smallest difference in their gait and bearing. I think the mother who bore them would scarcely have known them apart, as I saw them walking away in the pale hours of the morning. A boat awaited them at the foot of the garden. The river rolled dark in the gray half light, half darkness, and a ghostly mist lay upon its bosom. As the boat containing the two brothers was pulled into midstream the creeping mist enveloped it for a moment, then a wandering breeze driving the mist away, the boat became again visible. Some singular interest fixed my eyes upon those two figures in the boat, trying to distinguish one from the other. But, to my chagrin, I could not do this. Presently the mist enveloped them wholly.

Gaston returned within an hour. I told him of the effort I had made to tell him and his brother apart at a distance. He said that Regnard and himself had much sport with the boatman, and also with the sentry, by merely changing cloaks, so that their uniforms could not be seen.

The next evening, as I was reposing myself on the balcony after a hard day’s work, Gaston Cheverny burst upon me. He looked like a bridegroom, he was so radiant.

“I start for the Low Countries to-morrow,” he cried, giving me a whack on the back that nearly knocked me off my chair. “I have just met Count Saxe coming from the Duke of Berwick. The marshal wishes to know if the Austrians are observing the neutrality they 248 engaged for in the Low Countries. There have been some disturbances, especially the burning of houses, like mine, for example, which excite the duke’s suspicions. He wants a trusty person, well acquainted with the country, to find out the truth, and Count Saxe offered me. I ride to-morrow. I may remain as long as I think necessary, but my duty compelled me to say that I could find out all there was to know and return within a fortnight. I shall see Francezka, and, Babache, only fancy Regnard’s chagrin when he finds out, after my return, that I have lain perdu in Brabant for two weeks!”

I had no time to fancy anything then, for Count Saxe was calling me. We worked until late that night on the instructions for Gaston Cheverny. Early in the morning he set out alone, not even having a servant with him. He promised me to give my everlasting remembrance to Mademoiselle Capello. It was, of course, impossible for him to take with him his dog, heretofore his inseparable companion. I was to have charge of Bold in his master’s absence. I locked the creature up in my chamber, and attended Count Saxe during his morning duties. When I went to my chamber at noon I was vexed to find the dog had disappeared. The fastening to the door leading to the balcony was indifferent, and marks showed that the dog, by scratching and pawing, had got the door open. A reward was offered for him at once, but as he did not appear, I felt sure he had managed to join his master.

The fortnight was a busy one; the Duke of Berwick and Prince Eugene were not men to let the grass grow under their feet. It was too late to attempt operations 249 on a large scale that season, but with an active general no day is lost. Two weeks to the day on which Gaston Cheverny had left Strasburg he rode up to Count Saxe’s quarters and dismounted.

I happened to be waiting at the door for Count Saxe, and so saw Gaston Cheverny when he flung himself off his horse. Although it was in the dusk of an autumn evening, I saw, as well as felt, that Gaston Cheverny radiated happiness. There was something in the grasp of his hand, the ring of his voice, which proclaimed the man with joy in his heart. At the same moment he arrived Count Saxe also rode up. At once he took Gaston Cheverny within, when, with my pen to record, Gaston gave an account of what he had discovered. Although there was no actual proof of treachery on the part of the Austrians, the mysterious burnings continued. Some attributed these dreadful events to private malice, but it was remarkable that every chÂteau, house or barn burned belonged to a French sympathizer. It was thought likely to be the work of a band of fanatics, which made it still more alarming. Gaston Cheverny gave his opinion that in the case of the burning of his own house and outbuildings, it was a case of revenge on the part of Jacques Haret.

Gaston Cheverny having told all he had found out, and some impudent duchess or countess coming to claim Count Saxe—no doubt, against his will—Gaston and I were left alone. He sprang up, caught me by the arm, and cried in a ringing voice:

“Babache, I am the happiest man alive. But come out of doors. This room stifles me. I want to look at the stars—like Francezka’s eyes. I wish to breathe the 250 perfumed air of the garden, because all beauty—all perfume is like her.” He dragged me out into the beautiful old garden, with its tangled shrubbery, its grass-grown walks, its myrtle trees, showing black against a pale night sky, and the great river rolling past. I thought he would at once make me some great confidence, for I had no doubt that he had won Francezka’s love. But instead of that he began to recite to me that poem, adored of lovers, by Houdart de La Motte to CÉlimÈne, in which the poet yearns to be the flower that reposes on the bosom of his beloved, the passing breeze that kisses her cheek, the nightingale whose sad notes detain her in the myrtle groves, the fair moon by which the shepherds bring home their flocks. There is in every language I have known a great poem with this thought, common to all hearts that love, running through it, but I like this one of Houdart de La Motte’s the best. When he had finished repeating the lines, with great beauty of voice and meaning, I asked him:

“Did not Mademoiselle Capello send me a message?”

“A thousand. Babache, Francezka loves you with all her heart. She told me, at our last conversation, that she could never think of you without remembering that night in her girlhood when she was taken to the Temple, and from that moment she has reckoned you the most faithful of friends.”

“And how do you stand with her?” I ventured to ask.

“I can not utter a word concerning that. Only to you, Babache, will I say that I am happier than I ever dared to hope.”

“At least you can tell me how Francezka is situated.”

“Oh, yes. Madame Riano has really started for Scotland. She left two days after I got to Brabant. I saw her five times before she went. She promises to return within a year. Francezka now has with her Madame Chambellan, but she is old and feeble, and I know not how long the arrangement will last.”

Here was news indeed.

“Francezka has another friend at hand—good Bold. The rogue got away evidently, and when I was full five miles from the city gates I heard him panting behind me. His tongue was out, and he would hardly have lasted much longer at the pace he was going, had I not found him and picked him up.”

I then explained how the dog had escaped.

“As I was secretly in Brabant,” continued Gaston, “of course, it was impossible to keep the dog with me. It was out of the question that I should give him away to any chance person willing to take him, so I made straight for the chÂteau of Capello, where I knew he had a friend in Francezka. I left him with her, as a guardian and protector, and a reminder, too, of his master. He remained willingly in Francezka’s sweet company, being ever a dog of the soundest discernment. I feel no jealousy; Francezka is welcome to my dog, as she is to me.”

I could not make out what Gaston’s footing was with Francezka, but that he was assured of her love I no longer doubted. Well, this was as it should be. The difference in their fortunes was but accidental; in all 252 else they were equals. It must be an agreeable feeling to know one’s self equal to any and all the world, except in this matter of fortune. I never had that feeling. I know myself to be a man, with all a man’s faculties, but this world of ours seldom lets a man forget from whence he sprang.

Gaston Cheverny further confided to me that he expected to be permitted to return to Brabant for a while as soon as we went into winter quarters, but before the leaves fell from the trees this beautiful dream of hope vanished. This time it was the Duke of Berwick who used Gaston’s services. During our fourteen months in Courland Gaston had picked up some knowledge of the various Polish dialects, for he was a man of quick perception and given to learning. The Duke of Berwick needed such a man in Poland and East Prussia, and within a month from the time of Gaston Cheverny’s return from Brabant he was sent to Poland and East Prussia on an errand that might last a month and might last a year.

He went gallantly enough. It was not pleasant duty, and he showed to me alone the deep chagrin it caused him not to revisit Brabant, but he was not a man to refuse any duty assigned to him. He only asked to be allowed to remain long enough at Strasburg to take part with his regiment in the capture of Kehl. This was accorded him. Marshal, the Duke of Berwick, took Kehl in October, thus administering a beautiful slap to the Austrians, and as soon as that was done Gaston Cheverny set out upon his errand.