We returned arm in arm to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s house. It had not occurred to me to present myself uninvited, but without a word I followed this man, who had something compelling about him. We went straight to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s door, and the maid, who was watching, let us in.

Adrienne lay in her great purple silk bed, pale, but looking more weary and sad than ill. I had often seen her look worse. She greeted us kindly, and the shadow of a smile came into her face when she saw Monsieur Voltaire bringing me in. He seated himself by her, and tried by gentle raillery to interest her, but it was in vain. For the first and last time, she let fall some words of lamentation about the fate which was coming upon her with giant strides. But she made a brave effort to rally her soul, and even forced a smile to her pale lips. The curtains were withdrawn from the window, and the soft beauty of the spring night shone in the half-darkened room. Monsieur Voltaire began to describe this soft beauty to her as only he could describe it; but she seemed careless of it and said:

“I saw it but a little while ago—and thought how unlovely it was—the moon looked brazen and haughty, 201 like some of those fine ladies who come to see me act when they have nothing better to do. The stars seemed more unfeeling and farther off than ever, and they are always unfeeling and far off—and the first object that met my eyes was an enemy in health and beauty and splendor—while I lie here dying.”

Then I knew she had seen Count Saxe beguiled into Madame de Bouillon’s coach.

“But,” she cried, her voice ringing sweet and clear, as if in perfect health, and raising herself with surprising strength, “they will see that I am not yet gone. I will act once more. Yes, Voltaire, the good God will let me act once again. I know, I feel it. Do you hear me, good Babache?”

Monsieur Voltaire replied to her that he hoped the good God in which she trusted would let her act many times more. I suppose I appeared like a lump of clay, because I was so overcome with remorse at Count Saxe’s action in going off with Madame de Bouillon, that I could not say a word.

“It will be in PhÈdre—a part worthy of the greatest artist in the world. It has sometimes been said I knew how to play that part. If ever I could play it, I shall show this when I play it—the next and the last time. Monsieur Voltaire, I charge you to go this night to the director of the ThÉÂtre FranÇais and say to him that I shall be ready to play PhÈdre four days from now, as announced.”

“I promise with all my heart,” cried Monsieur Voltaire, “and talk not of its being the last time—oh, Adrienne!” He stopped, choked by his emotion, and not a word was spoken for a time.

“Mademoiselle,” said I, seeing my betters keep silence, “those who have once seen you in that part can never forget you. Often, in those dreary days in Courland, in anxious nights upon the island in Lake Uzmaiz, my master, Count Saxe, would recall the noble beauty of those lines as you spoke them—and many other of those plays in which you had bewitched the world.”

Poor soul! I knew what would give her a moment’s ease.

“Did he then, remember me?” she said in a soft voice, like music. Monsieur Voltaire spoke not a word; he loved her too well to grudge her these few crumbs of comfort.

Seeing she was interested, I began to tell her some of the incidents of our flight from Uzmaiz. I told her of our sojourn at the chÂteau of Capello. She remembered Francezka well; and the mention of these things turned the sad current of her thoughts.

“What a charming, gifted creature she was,” said Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, “and how amusing it was, Voltaire, for you, the author, and me, the artist, to see our greatness as we thought it, so burlesqued that night in the little out-of-doors theater! However, that quick transposition showed the child had vast power and originality. And Jacques Haret—what has become of the creature?”

I replied, with truth, that I neither knew nor cared, not wishing to wring Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s tender heart with the story of Jacques Haret’s latest villainy.

We remained an hour. Several times I would have left, but Monsieur Voltaire detained me by a glance. At last, when Mademoiselle Lecouvreur was inclined 203 to sleep, we departed. Once outside the door, and under the shadow of the tall old houses, Monsieur Voltaire grasped my arm, and said in a voice full of tears:

“Captain Babache, we are watching the setting of a star—we are seeing the PlÉiade as she is gradually lost in the universal abysm. Soon, Eternity, with its unbroken, derisive silence, will lie between Adrienne and all whom she loves and who love her—” He suddenly broke off, and went his way in the night.

Before I slept, I repeated every word of what had happened at our interview, to my master, and Madame de Bouillon did not get him in her coach again. After that he spent every hour that he could at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s house. He and Monsieur Voltaire no longer avoided each other. There was the truce of God between them for the few days that Adrienne Lecouvreur remained on earth.

Few persons believed that she would be able to play again, but the mere hint of it crammed the ThÉÂtre FranÇais to the doors on that last, unforgettable night. Gaston Cheverny and I had secured seats in the pit of the theater. Gaston had been admitted to the honor of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s acquaintance and admired her at a distance, like a star.

There was a breathless excitement in the crowd, something in the air of the theater seemed to communicate excitement. It was like that tremulous stillness which seems to overtake the world when the earth is about to be riven asunder, and volcanoes are making ready to explode in oceans of fire and flame and molten death.

Not one more person, I believe, could have been 204 packed into the theater five minutes before the curtain rose, except in one box that remained empty—the box of the Duchesse de Bouillon. I looked around for Count Saxe, and caught a glimpse of him afar off in the crowd—then he disappeared. Again I saw him passing quite close to me. By some accident, he wore a full suit of black that night—black velvet coat, and black silk small-clothes—perhaps to render himself less conspicuous; but he was a man to be noted in a crowd because of his beauty, even if he had been the veriest oaf alive—or marked out for a great man, if he had been as ugly as I am. That night he was like a perturbed spirit seeking for rest and finding none; unable to drag himself away from that last touching and splendid vision of Adrienne Lecouvreur, and yet, almost unable to bear it.

Everybody in the theater knew to whom that empty box belonged—it was to the worst enemy of Adrienne Lecouvreur. The story had gone forth that Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s illness had come from poison administered by the Duchesse de Bouillon, out of jealousy of Count Saxe. It is true that Madame de Bouillon would no doubt have poisoned anybody whom she thought stood between her and Count Saxe; and it is also true that the young AbbÉ de Bouret confided something concerning Madame de Bouillon’s schemes to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur, one night, in the gardens of the Luxembourg. The AbbÉ de Bouret was quickly silenced by a lettre de cachet and the Bastille by the powerful De Bouillon family—but beyond that, I think no one knows. The public however, was ready to believe anything against Madame de Bouillon in its passion 205 of regret over losing Adrienne Lecouvreur; and Madame de Bouillon’s brazen defiance of this sentiment in coming to the theater to witness this last farewell of Adrienne’s to the public which had loved her so well, was bitterly resented.

In the midst of an oppressive silence, one minute before the curtain rose, Madame de Bouillon appeared in her box. She was quite alone. As she seated herself, she displayed upon her beautiful white arm, a miniature of Count Saxe, set in diamonds. I dare say she stole it. She sat there, smiling and unconcerned, with every eye in the theater turned on her with hatred. But then sounded the three knocks which herald the rising of the curtain, and the play began.

When the time came for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur to appear and the first glimpse of her as PhÈdre in her classic garb was seen, a frantic roar of applause went up—men shouting, women weeping their welcome. It was plain that she was very ill, but likewise every human soul in that house knew that she would go through her part. I will not speak of her acting that night: how she brought us to tears, and plunged us into despair and pity and horror at her will. But there was a climax, the essence of all feeling when she advanced to the front of the stage, and, fixing her beautiful, despairing eyes on Madame de Bouillon, repeated those immortal lines in a voice that might have been that of an accusing angel.

How shall I describe what followed? The pity, fury, and despair that filled all hearts; the cries, the maledictions directed toward Madame de Bouillon; the tears for Mademoiselle Lecouvreur; the passion of regret, the tears, the words of endearment lavished upon her. When I came to myself after a period of frenzy, Gaston Cheverny had thrown his arm about my neck and was weeping like a woman. The Duchesse de Bouillon had vanished. HÉreault, a lieutenant of police, had told her he could not answer for her life if she remained in the theater. Adrienne was still on the stage, supporting her frail body by leaning against an urn, and tears were dropping upon her cheeks; she looked like some fair effigy of patient grief. She wished to live—and she was so soon to die! I know not how the play ended, or if it was ended at all when the curtain went down.

An agitated crowd blocked all the streets leading to the theater. Adrienne’s coach was waiting to receive her. Presently, there was a sudden rush. Adrienne was being supported to the coach, and in the arms of Count Saxe—for she was more carried than led. A murmur of approval, of relief, of sorrowful satisfaction ran through the multitude. Adrienne, the paint washed from her face, was of a deathly pallor, but her eyes were full of light and joy. She was to die, but yet to die as she would have wished, with Count Saxe once more her own, won in triumph from her enemy, and the affectionate plaudits of the public which ever loved her, ringing in her ears.

Count Saxe caught sight of me in the crowd, and made a signal to me. I forced my way to the coach, 207 and got on the box with the driver. Then, glancing back, I saw Monsieur Voltaire and the Earl of Peterborough spring upon the footman’s running board behind. The people gave one single loud cry of approval, and then amid the tears and farewells of thousands, Adrienne Lecouvreur was borne away for the last time from the ThÉÂtre FranÇais, of which she had been the chiefest ornament.

When we reached her house, Monsieur Voltaire and Lord Peterborough sprang down, opened the coach door and let down the steps. Mademoiselle Lecouvreur laughed a little when she saw what manner of footmen she had; she was then in perfect peace, and could smile and even laugh. Monsieur Voltaire took her in his arms and carried her up the long stairs to her apartment, Count Saxe following. Their jealousy was dead and about to be buried in Adrienne’s grave.

I went up the stairs and sat in the anteroom. Within Adrienne’s chamber there were my master, Monsieur Voltaire, Lord Peterborough, Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s sister, her two faithful servants and the doctor. There was a strange quiet for so many persons. The windows were opened, letting in the mild air of the spring night. Beneath the windows, a vast, silent and sorrowing crowd stood through the night, while the moon and stars watched and waned. The eastern sky grew rosy, and the long lances of the sun’s advance-guard tipped the roofs and spires with glory. While I was watching this miracle of a new day, I heard the door to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s room open behind me. I caught one glimpse of Monsieur Voltaire as he leaned weeping over the pillow whereon Mademoiselle 208 Lecouvreur’s head lay, naturally as if she had fallen asleep. Her face was turned a little toward the window, and one hand, half open, lay outside the coverlet—as Count Saxe had dropped it last. He came out of the room. I saw that he was almost as pale as the dead Adrienne; for she was dead, the beautiful, the loving, the generous, and gifted. He walked steadily enough toward me; then suddenly tottered. I helped him out of the room, and below and into a coach. He spoke not one word as we drove toward the Luxembourg, but wept—oh, how he wept!

I left him in his room, alone with his grief and his remorse. I went to my own. At my writing table sat Gaston Cheverny, writing, his tears dropping upon the paper. I believe everybody in Paris wept when Adrienne Lecouvreur died.

“I am writing an account for Mademoiselle Capello,” he said; then laid down his pen, when he saw by my face what had happened.

Four days later Adrienne Lecouvreur was buried at midnight. I was among the few at her interment. Monsieur Voltaire managed it all, with a delicacy, a tenderness inexpressible. Those who say that man could not love, knew not the nobility of his love for Adrienne Lecouvreur. When her will was opened it was found that nearly all of her property was left to the poor.

The death of Adrienne Lecouvreur made an epoch with my master. Except her, he had not been fortunate in the women he had known best; and there were no more, for him, like Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. He 209 never again spoke to the Duchesse de Bouillon. In that, he was unfailingly true to the memory of the woman who had loved him so well.

This was in March of 1730. It seemed to me as if the days were growing heavier, and Paris drearier, every week that passed. Not that Paris is reckoned a dreary town; particularly in the spring and summer, when everything is in full leaf and flower, and the whole population is out of doors all day in the yellow sunshine and half the night under the laughing moon and merry-twinkling stars—for the people of Paris think that the moon was made for their chief torch-bearer, and that the stars were set in the sky that Paris might be supplied with a handsome set of girandoles. But I was not of that mind. For a long time after Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s death, Count Saxe never spoke her name. He longed to be away from Paris. In June, the King of Saxony, his father, was to form a great camp at Radewitz, and Count Saxe, to his satisfaction, was invited to attend. So, preparing for that event, in which he was to take a considerable part, gave him some distraction during that sad springtime of 1730. I wished him to leave Paris, too. I never thought the air of that town agreed with his constitution.

Gaston Cheverny, as became a young man whose blood runs quick and red, liked the springtime. He had not enough money to go to court often, which he would have liked, so he put up with humbler pleasures. I do not believe he could, to save his life, pass one of those impromptu balls on the corner of the street, where the people, young and old, dance to a 210 pipe or a fiddle. He always joined in, and as he danced with grace and skill, the little milliners’ girls and the merry old women always liked to have a fling with him.

We made many excursions on foot as well as on horseback, in those hours when Count Saxe had no need of me. We often loitered past the deserted garden of the HÔtel Kirkpatrick, where the lilacs and syringas drenched the air with perfume as on that spring afternoon, four years before. Gaston would say to me:

“See yonder balcony—it was from that balcony Francezka bade me good by. And look—the very guelder rose-bush by which I once spoke with her, on coming to pay my respects to Madame Riano! I can conjure up that charming Francezka as if she were before me now!”

So could I.

By the artful subterfuge of sending Madame Riano the news of Paris, for which she thirsted, Gaston had been lucky enough to keep in constant communication with the chÂteau of Capello. Madame Riano often used Francezka as her amanuensis, and I grew to know her clear, firm handwriting well. Her letters were written at Madame Riano’s dictation, but it was plain that Francezka managed to express in them her own thoughts as well as Madame Riano’s. She often spoke of Regnard Cheverny.

“Monsieur Regnard was with us yesterday, at our fÊte champÊtre.” And “Monsieur Cheverny is reading a Spanish story to us, which I understand quite well, although I have scarce spoken ten words of that language since I was a child.” And once—oh, blessed letter!—she said, “My aunt and I desire our regards to Captain Babache. Tell him, as I know he is a poet 211 in his heart, if not with his pen, that there is a beautiful poem being made now by a lady in Brabant. The lady is Mother Nature—period, this present springtime. It is a play in several acts. I watch it daily from the Italian garden. It is a comedy, with some tragic aspects—for Nature has her tragic moods. The comedy is in the birds and the laughing river, and the leaves and blossoms. These last are defying their cruel old father, Winter, as they come out in spite of him, at first shyly, and then boldly, to be kissed by their lover, the sun. The lake remains always tragic; it never laughs nor even smiles, but is always sadly beautiful, like Niobe, poor, childless one. This is all for Captain Babache. And so Mademoiselle Lecouvreur is no more—and how are we all impoverished by her loss!” And much more of the same sort.

In June we started for Radewitz, near the Elbe. Thirty thousand soldiers were assembled there, many royalties, including the King of Prussia and the Crown Prince Frederick, afterward known as the Great, and every pretty woman in Europe. It was a huge, royal fÊte champÊtre, in which the river Elbe seemed to run with champagne. I had expected it to be a practice camp, and so made preparations with pleasure for Count Saxe to go.

Gaston Cheverny was overjoyed to go, for several reasons; one was, that our road would lie directly toward Brussels, and he would have a chance to stop at his own house, and so, to see the lady of his love. As soon as it was known that we were going, we received kind invitations from Madame Riano and Mademoiselle Capello to become guests at the chÂteau. It was not 212 possible for Count Saxe to accept, however, and Gaston got only a week’s leave, departing from Paris in advance of us and joining us at Brussels. My master seeing I was disappointed in not stopping at the chÂteau on our way, promised that I might stop on our return in July; and with this I was satisfied.

Gaston Cheverny left Paris the middle of May—he was in the highest spirits, as well he might be. The morning he set forth, I rode with him to the barriers. He had a good horse under him, he was to see the lady of his heart, he was then to take part in a great military pageant, beautiful to the eye of a soldier—he was, in short, a very happy young fellow, and forgot that his purse was light. He rode away along the highroad, waving me farewell, and I returned to work like a Trojan to get my master’s escort in trim for the journey. I was glad for Count Saxe to be away from Paris then. Those who think that he was not grieved at Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s death, or did not silently lament her, know not the man. But a soldier must take arms against his sorrows, as against his enemies.

Another week found us on the road to Brussels. The very night of our arrival there, Gaston Cheverny turned up; and with him was his brother, Regnard.

Regnard, as usual, was handsome, smooth, well dressed and well equipped with horses and servants to make a good appearance at Radewitz. He was far better off externally than was Gaston; but the same brotherly feelings which made him perfectly at home in Gaston’s house, made Gaston free of Regnard’s servants and horses. The two brothers lived upon the same terms of amity and cordial intimacy as always, in spite 213 of the fact that as they were now men, and not youths; and as Mademoiselle Capello was her own mistress, their rivalry had become far more serious.

After supper at the inn, I left Regnard with Count Saxe, while Gaston and I walked together upon the city ramparts, under the soft dark skies of the summer night. It was plain, without the telling, that his visit to Brabant had been highly satisfactory. He gave me a kind message from Mademoiselle Capello, and also one from Madame Riano. He told me that Francezka had developed the same capacity for affairs which marked Madame Riano; and to the surprise and chagrin of the wiseacres who expected to see everything at Capello at sixes and sevens under a woman’s rule, hers was the best managed estate in the province. She had stewards, but looked after them herself, not being free from a fondness for ruling. Old Peter was still her right hand man, but aged and inexpressibly sorrowful at the humble tragedy of the lost Lisa. Jacques Haret had not since been seen in those parts; and Gaston Cheverny had given his word to Mademoiselle Capello that the next time he saw Jacques Haret, the scoundrel should have a double dose of punishment on old Peter’s account, as well as on Gaston’s own, and Francezka seemed mightily contented with the idea. Revenge, as well as all the other elemental passions, was a part of Francezka Capello’s nature.

Madame Riano, Gaston said, was the same Madame Riano, but a late fantasy of hers was giving Mademoiselle Capello some anxiety. Madame Riano had been seized with a raging desire to go to Scotland. She had a notion that the time was ripe for another 214 uprising against the Hanoverians; and I believe that woman was capable of raising the clans and marching at their head to recover for Charles Edward Stuart the throne of his ancestors. This sudden passion of Madame Riano for Scotland was very embarrassing for Mademoiselle Capello, because it would almost force her to seek the protection of a husband, as she had no intention of forsaking her home in Brabant. I do not think this decision of Madame Riano’s seemed to trouble Gaston Cheverny very deeply, although he candidly admitted what the consequences would be. It was plain, however, that his prospects in that quarter were such as to warrant his taking a certain risk; and I believed he played fast and loose with the ladies slyly encouraging Madame Riano to go to Scotland, while ostensibly urging her to remain in Brabant. I asked him if his brother had yielded the field to him.

“By no means,” he replied, “but the only way to make him yield is to carry the lady off. There is no waiting game to be played in love—one must be ready to take the hazard of the die at any moment. My brother is not my only rival—there are scores of others; but I do not count up my chances of failure—I only count my chances of success. Oh, Babache, if Francezka Capello should exchange her dower for the smallpox, it would make no difference to me—” and he quoted to me that sonnet of Master William Shakespeare’s, in which the poet makes it clear that true love is not Time’s fool.

We started next morning, in beautiful summer weather, which lasted us until we reached Radewitz.

What shall I say concerning the splendors of that 215 place? The temporary palaces, built of painted and gilded canvas, adorned with pictures and statues, and surrounded with gardens and shrubberies, where kings and princes were served from gold and silver plate; where after the most magnificent military pageants all day long, at evening came soft and dulcet music, concerts and serenades and even operas; where all the splendor and beauty in Europe seemed gathered together. It was like the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and it lasted for a whole month. I sometimes wondered why, among the great number of ladies present, there should not be Mademoiselle Capello and Madame Riano; and one summer afternoon, my question was answered, for rolling along the highway, toward a fine country mansion, where many guests were entertained, I saw a splendid traveling coach, well horsed and with outriders. The liveries were not the purple and canary of Madame Riano, but a superb crimson and gold. In this coach sat Madame Riano, and by her side, Francezka Capello—Francezka, in the very flush and flower of her exquisite beauty.