I joined Count Saxe at Brussels. I had only been away from him thirty-six hours, but when I presented myself before him he clasped me in his arms and cried:

“Babache, I am nine times as glad to see you as the Duke of Berwick was to see me, the time he told me he would rather see me than the reinforcement of three thousand men he had asked for!”

Was it strange I loved this man?

On reaching Strasburg, my first inquiry was for Gaston Cheverny; and to my great joy, I found he had returned. It had been determined by the Duke of Berwick to send Count Saxe’s regiment, with certain others, to HÜningen, a good day and a half’s march from Strasburg, and Gaston Cheverny, with other officers, was at HÜningen already.

When we rode into town, the night had fallen. We found without trouble the house where our officers were quartered, and riding up to the door, dismounted—and there stood Gaston Cheverny.

It had been more than six months since I had seen him, and he had not had a Mantuan winter of it; but he looked singularly well, and was overjoyed to be with 271 the clear-the-way boys once more. He led us into the house, where supper was already on the table, and the other officers were assembled. At the first chance I had, which was when we were about to sit down to table, I handed Gaston the packet given me by Francezka. At once he said to Count Saxe:

“Sir, I beg that you will excuse me while I read my letters brought me by Captain Babache.”

“Since when have you eaten, Gaston Cheverny?” asked my master.

“At noon, Monsieur.”

“And you are not hungry?”

“I am as hungry as a wolf.”

“Then sit you down and eat, and not until you have supped shall you read a single line of love.”

Gaston, very sulky, sat down. Count Saxe and the rest of us laughed at him. Gaston still sulked, but managed to eat a good supper, and drink his share of wine. He did not smile until near the end. Count Saxe, raising his glass, drank to a pair of bright eyes in Brabant, at which the young man chose to smile; and after drinking the toast was suffered to depart with his treasure.

Count Saxe not needing my services, I presently went to Gaston’s room. He was seated at a rude table, with a single candle on it, devouring Francezka’s letter. He put it in his breast when I entered.

“Now,” he cried, joyfully, “tell me all about her—every word, every look of hers while you were with her. And she writes me that she has confided all to you.”

“She did—and whenever I called her Madame Cheverny, a smile like the morning shone upon her face.”

His face, too, was glowing, and he said:

“You see, there was nothing to be done but that we should be married. We had, so to speak, no choice.”

To this I answered:

“Madame Cheverny gave another reason to me; she said it was because she loved you so much she could not let you go away unpledged to her.”

Gaston laughed a joyous laugh, and then I told him faithfully all Francezka had said and done while I was at the chÂteau.

“And did she say anything of my brother? For I know that he has seen her many times since I have,” Gaston asked, after we had talked together for a long time.

Count Saxe always said there was something between my eyes which told just what was passing in my mind. I was not prepared for this question of Gaston Cheverny’s; it confused me, and I showed it.

“I see,” he said, after a moment. “Regnard has been pursuing Francezka. But, no doubt, she has told him, as she was quite at liberty to do, of our marriage. It is only the public knowledge of it that would place her in jeopardy. Well, the secret is safe enough with Regnard. He is deeply chagrined. I feel for him, because he is my brother; but in love and war, one must learn to face defeat.”

Then he asked after his dog, and all I had to tell him contented him very much.

By that time it was ten o’clock. It was Gaston Cheverny’s custom, as well as mine, to walk a little out of doors every night before we slept, so we walked together on the bank of the river. The night was sultry 273 and starless; it looked as if there would be rain on the morrow. All was still and sleeping in the little town. In our own quarters, a low stone house, there was no light. Count Saxe was weary with his long day’s ride, and had gone to bed immediately after supper. The other officers had followed his example. It seemed as if the whole world slept, except Gaston Cheverny and me. We walked up and down the river bank under a lowering night sky speaking but little, and that mostly of Francezka.

Gaston had the same golden hopes that Francezka had. Beautiful visions of their future life arose before him. He was full of a noble enthusiasm for his profession and looked to achieving distinction as a counterbalance to Francezka’s fortune. Like Francezka, he seemed to have fallen into that dazzling error that Fate was under bond to favor them.

When, at last, we turned our steps toward the house, Gaston stopped for a moment on the threshold, and said:

“But what if misfortune befall? Francezka will no more forget me than I shall forget her—and when I forget her, may God forget me.” These were his final words.

I went to my chamber, and was soon asleep upon my camp bed. I awakened about two o’clock in the morning with a strange feeling that something disastrous had happened. The rain was falling heavily—a summer rain that fell in great drops musically upon the thirsty ground and the trees in full leaf. So strong was the feeling of apprehension upon me that I rose quietly, slipped on my clothes, and opened the door to Count 274 Saxe’s room. He was lying in his bed, sound asleep. The window was wide open—for the night had been uncomfortably warm. It occurred to me how easy it would be to kidnap Count Saxe; there were but three sentries about the place, the rest of the small body of twenty soldiers being quartered some distance away, to guard the hay stores.

I determined to speak to Count Saxe next morning, upon the rashness of remaining at HÜningen under those risky circumstances. I had often laughed behind Madame Riano’s back at what she called presentiments, but this sudden waking, this seeing, all at once, a very present danger which had escaped everybody’s notice, seemed to me uncomfortably like those supernatural warnings which Madame Riano was always talking about. However, I concluded to take perfectly natural means to satisfy myself there was no danger brewing, and so went to Gaston Cheverny’s room. It was quite dark, and I lighted a candle with my flint and steel. He was not in his bed, and it had not been slept in. A chair, in which he had evidently been sitting, was pushed back from the table, on which were papers and a letter sealed and addressed to Francezka. The one window of the room, which looked upon the river, was wide open, and as I went to it, above the steady downpour of the rain I heard some faint noises on the river bank.

I went out, and called to the sentry, giving the countersign. There was no answer—for there was no sentry. I gave the alarm instantly, and at the same moment I heard distinctly the grating oars in their rowlocks, and the sound of a boat pulling off from the shore. 275 Lights shone in the house. Count Saxe, half dressed, was the first person out of it. The other officers came running with lanterns. We found the three sentries lying on the grass at some distance from each other, bound and gagged. By that time, the guards at the hay ricks, a quarter of a mile off, had seen the commotion, and were on hand. At once, the river bank was searched. Every man was accounted for, except Gaston Cheverny; but in a few minutes, a squad of soldiers returned from the river bank hauling a young Austrian officer with them. His uniform was all mud, and his face and hands were liberally besmeared. He was at once taken within the house, to be interrogated by Count Saxe, and he was, without exception, the most cheerful looking prisoner I ever saw. As a soldier flashed a lantern into his eyes, we saw that his countenance was wreathed in smiles.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said to us all, standing around him, Count Saxe in the middle, “I have pleasure in introducing myself—” this, with the jauntiest air in the world—“I am sub-Lieutenant Brohl, of his Imperial Majesty’s Hussar Regiment of Baronay, at your service. I see no general officer here—” Count Saxe, being only half dressed, might have been anything—“but we have made a fine haul, and got our prize away, too. The boat is on the other side of the river by this time.”

“Kindly explain yourself further, Lieutenant Brohl,” said Count Saxe, coolly.

“With pleasure,” remarked Lieutenant Brohl. His debonairness reminded me of Gaston Cheverny’s, at the same age, for the young Austrian was little past 276 twenty. “You have got me, a sub-lieutenant—caught, because I would not delay our boat in getting off with the finest quarry yet secured in this war.”

Count Saxe and the rest of us waited to hear this laughing prisoner explain matters still further.

“We, of the regiment of Baronay, determined to immortalize ourselves by carrying off Count Saxe—and we succeeded. He is, by this, landed on the other side of the river, and in the hands of Prince Eugene, and for ourselves who took him, our fortunes are made—mine, a prisoner, as well as those who escaped—for when my comrades would have delayed the boat for me, I cried to them to pull out into the river, beyond pistol shot, and never wait for me—if they had Count Saxe—and him they have.”

“How did you get him?” asked Count Saxe.

“Very cleverly, Monsieur. We landed from the boat, unseen and unheard in the rain and darkness. There were but eighteen of us, all told. We managed to secure all three of the sentries—you should have had at least six—and Count Saxe should never have slept a night in this unguarded place. We then slipped into the house, of which we had a plan, with Count Saxe’s room marked there—” he pointed to Gaston Cheverny’s empty room. “The window of the room was wide open, and it was quite dark, but we could see that Count Saxe had fallen asleep before his writing table—”

“His writing table,” murmured Count Saxe. “He is not much of a writer.”

“The candles had been blown out. We surrounded him, and put a pistol to his head, and he wakened with a start. We said to him, ‘We want you, Count Saxe, 277 only. We have force enough to carry you all off—the house is surrounded, and we can bag every one of you—go with us quietly and we will let the small fry off. But we are prepared for a fight, if necessary, knowing you are but a handful.’ Then Count Saxe said, quite coolly: ‘I see there is no use in resisting. Let me but secure some private letters—’ which he proceeded to do, as well as he could in the darkness, and with the pistol still at his ear. My captain said to him—’I wonder, Count Saxe, that so experienced a general as your Excellency should have been so imprudent as to come here with scarce a corporal’s guard behind you.’ ‘True,’ answered Count Saxe, ‘but I am paying for my folly, as you see. I am ready, gentlemen.’ I never saw a man take his fate more pleasantly than Count Saxe—he delayed not a moment. He is now our prisoner, while I am yours—but I fancy we have rather the best of the bargain.”

We looked at each other, and Count Saxe said:

“That fellow, Gaston Cheverny, has infinite readiness. He saved the whole of us, and he shall have his promotion as soon as he is released. Meanwhile, my dear Lieutenant Brohl, make yourself entirely at home. You are a gallant young man, and I shall have pleasure in exchanging you for Captain Cheverny, waiving the difference of rank. So, both of you will get credit out of this night’s performance, although you did not get Count Saxe, for I am Count Saxe!”

I never saw such a change of countenance as came over that poor little sub-lieutenant. He caught the idea in a moment, that the Austrians had been badly fooled. I felt really sorry for the poor little fellow. His 278 eyes filled with tears, his lip trembled. He was a gallant boy and we all felt sorry for him. Count Saxe had him conducted to Gaston Cheverny’s vacant room, sent him some champagne, and assured him that his conduct should be brought to the attention of Prince Eugene.

The rain had not ceased, but day was sullenly breaking. I thought, before nightfall, Gaston Cheverny would be with us again. I did not dream of what Destiny was preparing for him, of which this was but the overture. Count Saxe, with that noble candor which was a part of his character, frankly admitted his imprudence in remaining at HÜningen, and declared that Gaston Cheverny should be amply rewarded for saving him; for there is no doubt the Austrians would have carried Count Saxe off, if they had only got into the right room.

As soon as the little Austrian lieutenant was up and dressed, I went into the room he had occupied to secure Gaston Cheverny’s papers until he should return. I felt sure that his pretense of securing them was only an ineffectual ruse to gain time. I found nothing on his table of the least consequence, except a letter to Francezka, sealed and addressed. Of this I took possession.

By nine o’clock in the morning, Count Saxe sent me across the river with a flag of truce, to Prince Eugene’s headquarters, to arrange for the exchange of Lieutenant Brohl for Gaston Cheverny. I was instructed to waive the required number of common men to make up the difference in rank, if that point were raised.

On reaching the Austrian lines, I was politely escorted to headquarters, where Prince Eugene, that little 279 great man, that mighty hunchback, received me courteously. I handed him Count Saxe’s letter and he took off his hat while reading it. He then said to me:

“Nothing has been heard of the expedition since it left last night. We feared the whole party had been captured.”

This was surprising, but Prince Eugene suggested, as the most probable event, that, in the rain and darkness, the boat had been carried down the river, and it might yet be some hours before it was heard of. It was arranged that at the first information on either side, we should communicate with each other.

I returned to our own side of the river, a little puzzled, but in no way alarmed at the disappearance of the party, for so fate blinds us when she is about to deliver her heaviest strokes. But search was made in good earnest. Within twenty-four hours every man of the party was accounted for, except Gaston Cheverny. As Prince Eugene had surmised, the boat had drifted a long distance down the river in the darkness, with the wind and tide both urging it on. At daylight an attempt was made to land on the Austrian side where there was an outpost, and before the character of the expedition was found out, several shots were fired on the boat and a bullet made a slight wound in Gaston Cheverny’s head. Their greatest danger came after they were recognized, for in attempting to land, the boat had been upset, and every man in it narrowly escaped drowning. All had been saved, however, and three of the Austrians declared that they had seen Gaston Cheverny after they reached the shore. But beyond that, no one could tell anything. They had 280 found out he was not Count Saxe, and in the confusion of the boat’s upsetting, and the struggle for their own lives, they had lost sight of their prisoner. This was perfectly satisfactory to us for a time. We supposed that Gaston, seeing his chance, had quietly walked away from his captors. We expected him every day for a week, and to facilitate his return, Count Saxe released Brohl, the lieutenant, with the understanding that Gaston Cheverny was to be set at liberty as soon as found. But he was not found, nor was there any sign of him.

A man can not vanish like a ghost, said Count Saxe; so he set to work with a good heart, to have Gaston Cheverny sought for. His wound in the head might partly account for his disappearance. He had perhaps wandered beyond the Austrian lines, and being wounded, might have sought refuge in some farmhouse or peasant’s hut, where he would be found. Nothing seemed more likely. Every farmhouse and peasant’s hut, every village, every schloss even, was searched for the wounded French officer, the Austrians assisting; but if Gaston Cheverny had vanished from the earth, he could not have disappeared more completely. I acknowledged that for the first week—nay for two weeks—I was not seriously alarmed. A wounded man on foot can not get out of a certain zone, and that zone was searched as one searches for a gold piece dropped on the floor. But we found not Gaston Cheverny. At the end of two weeks we were fairly puzzled, but by no means in despair. Marvelous things happen in war, and a story of the strange disappearances and stranger 281 returns of men lost in siege, battle, or reconnaissance, would read like the fables of the ancient mythology.

At the end of a fortnight, I began to see signs of anxiety for Gaston Cheverny in Count Saxe. Perhaps this was because Gaston’s disappearance came from his prompt ruse to save Count Saxe, and there was little doubt that the bigger game would have been bagged but for this ruse. Count Saxe thought constantly of Gaston Cheverny. He not only instituted the most thorough search, but he offered a large reward in money, out of his own purse. Trust Count Saxe to remember the services of a friend! The one thought in my mind was Francezka.