We returned from the chÂteau of Capello in the spring of 1740, and from then until the autumn there was hard work to be done at the Castle of Chambord. My master proposed to entertain a great and noble company of guests, including the king himself, during the time of the boar hunting, a very royal sport which prevails in Touraine. The king was to come the first week in December and to remain three days. Among those invited to be of this royal party were Gaston and Francezka Cheverny. They were to stay a fortnight at Chambord and to spend the rest of the winter in Paris.

There was, however, a visitor who arrived before we were prepared for any one. This was Madame Riano. One night, quite early in the autumn, when there was an army of six hundred workmen at Chambord, and Count Saxe himself was but indifferently lodged, a traveling chaise drove up, and out got Madame Riano, come to pay Count Saxe a visit before she departed for England on one of her expeditions to recover the crown for Prince Charles Edward Stuart.

My master swore up and down and crosswise when he recognized Madame Riano’s equipage crossing the 369 Bridge of the Lions, but went down to the courtyard to receive her. He expressed great joy at seeing her, and also regrets that he could not lodge her, having but two bedrooms in order, his own and a small one next him, where I, as always, was lodged. Madame Riano coolly informed him that she should stay the week, and would occupy his bedroom; he could take mine, and I could sleep in her traveling chaise.

“But, Madame,” said my master, “think of my reputation; a woman, still young, still handsome like yourself—”

“Great God!” cried Madame Riano, “you have no reputation to lose, and as for myself, mine is far too robust to be hurt by a little thing like this. Not that I ever wanted for lovers when I was young, from the time I was thirteen years old, when that foolish Bishop of Louvain wanted to marry me; I had a plenty as long as I wanted them.”

“It is singular,” said Count Saxe, “that a bishop should want to marry a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“He was not in orders then, but was a soft-headed great oaf of a young man of nineteen, and that you should have understood. Maurice of Saxe, I think you have never been so sensible a man since you made that ridiculous fiasco in Courland. It seems to have addled your brain somewhat!”

And Count Saxe had to entertain that woman a whole week! She took possession of his only bedchamber, and he, putting it on the score of propriety, slept on the hay in the stable lofts!

It may be imagined how we worked to be ready to receive the king and his suite and all the guests asked for 370 that memorable visit. Count Saxe utilized all of that stupendous genius he had heretofore shown in his campaigns in preparing a campaign of pleasure for those royal festivities at Chambord. Besides the king, there were two princes of the blood, the Duc d’Orleans and the Duc de Bourbon, seven dukes and peers of France, two marshals of France, and a horde of other great people.

Three days in the week there were to be stag hunts and boar hunts in the forest. Two nights in the week there were to be balls, three nights there were to be cards, and the two other nights plays in the theater of the castle, otherwise the great yellow saloon. The playwright was to be no less a person than Monsieur Voltaire, who did not require much coaxing to follow the king. The ostensible bait held out to him was that Francezka, with whose beauty, faith and tenderness all Paris was ringing, would be at Chambord and would take part in Monsieur Voltaire’s plays. He remembered her early triumphs in the garden of the HÔtel Kirkpatrick, and was not averse to a beautiful and brilliant woman assisting in the making of his fame.

My master was to be in one of these plays, and went to Paris several times to attend the rehearsals, which were under the direction of Monsieur Voltaire. Francezka and Gaston had then arrived in Paris. Count Saxe came back with famous accounts of these rehearsals. Monsieur Voltaire was very difficult, and everything about the performance had to be changed a dozen times, except one—Madame Gaston Cheverny was to play opposite the great Voltaire. He had never seen her act since that afternoon in the garden so long ago, but he declared the memory of it remained with him. Other 371 great ladies were chosen, tried and flung aside. Gentlemen of the best blood of France were put through their paces before the son of Arouet, the notary.

Count Saxe noted this impudence of Monsieur Voltaire’s, and had said in his hearing that if he, Count Saxe, were hauled and pulled about unseemly, he would, by the blessing of God, run Monsieur Voltaire through the body. This insured Count Saxe the most respectful treatment imaginable from Monsieur Voltaire. My master had told me, on his return from these Paris rehearsals, that Monsieur Voltaire maintained the most conciliatory attitude throughout toward Francezka, who, he declared, was the only actress among all the ladies to be at Chambord. Francezka’s spirit was well known; she was not the niece of Peggy Kirkpatrick for nothing, and once or twice, so Count Saxe said, a word on her part and a flash of her eyes showed Monsieur Voltaire that she would throw up her part at the least hint of impertinence from him, so he behaved himself perfectly to her, as to Count Saxe.

Madame du ChÂtelet regarded Monsieur Voltaire as much her own as her warming pan, or Newton’s Principia, so she, of course, had to be asked to the festivities at Chambord. Then, Madame Villars must be of the party. She was the daughter-in-law of Marshal Villars, and daughter of my master’s old friend, Marshal, the Duc de Noailles, of whom the latter would be among the guests. It was that very autumn that Madame Villars had kissed Voltaire publicly, in her box at the theater, at the first performance of MÉrope, and to the delight of the audience. Perhaps Monsieur Voltaire’s head was not a little turned by this; perhaps Madame 372 du ChÂtelet could have told a tale of the airs he gave himself with all the women after that, but no matter.

Of course, there were numbers of other young and beautiful women besides Francezka Cheverny and Madame Villars. Were any of Count Saxe’s loves among them? Perhaps. I, at least, knew not, except that all women who looked on him fell in love with him, but he can not be found fault with for that; the fault must be found with the God who made him so all-conquering, beautiful and bewitching. This is not a chronicle of Count Saxe’s love affairs. He chose his own loves, wrote his own love letters, and I knew no more about them than I did of the royal princes of Tatar, from which I was supposed to be descended. As far as I know he was a veritable St. Anthony. I have heard Chambord called the castle built for intrigues, and for the “flying squadrons,” as the gay ladies of the court were named. But whether this be true or not must be asked of some one better informed about Chambord than Captain Babache.

By the first day of December all was ready, and on the evening of that day the king was to arrive, and also Francezka and Gaston Cheverny. These, with other guests, were to precede the king’s arrival by two hours. It was a cold, bright December evening, the wintry sun just setting, when the procession of coaches began to roll across the Bridge of the Lions and into the great courtyard. My Uhlans formed a guard of honor at the bridge and in the courtyard itself. A subaltern commanded, but I was present as the ranking officer of Count Saxe’s household.

At least forty ladies and gentlemen had arrived before the coach drove up from which Francezka and Gaston Cheverny alighted. Count Saxe awaited them at the foot of the grand staircase, but I was on the ground to welcome Francezka. It was near dusk of a winter’s evening, but the torches’ glare, and the row of crystal lanterns hung above the entrance gate showed me her face plainly, even inside the coach. She was a little pale, probably from traveling, but smiled her own sweet smile at me as soon as she recognized me opening the coach door for her. Gaston, descending, embraced me cordially. He looked to be in the highest health and spirits. Francezka, her slender figure wrapped in a great furred mantle, and her fair face looking out from a black hat with feathers, stepped down with her usual airy grace.

“The finest thing in this great castle is the face of a friend like you, my Babache,” she said.

There was no time to say more, for she saw Count Saxe and advanced quickly toward him. If she had been Queen Marie Lecszynska he could not have greeted her with greater devotion.

I showed them at once to their rooms, which were agreeable but rather high up, overlooking that wonderful spiral staircase which is the glory of Chambord. I explained that I had placed them so high that they might not be disturbed by the noise and commotion which was pretty sure to be going on night and day in the lower part of the castle.

“Trouble not yourself about that, Babache,” cried Francezka, merrily; “Gaston and I are not in search 374 of quiet, but gaiety. Life was so dark for us for seven years that we want it to be as merry as we can make it now,” to which Gaston laughingly agreed.

I had caused a harpsichord to be placed in Francezka’s room. To this she ran, opening it and dashing into a rattling air upon it. Her eyes were sparkling, the color had come back into her cheeks—her whole air was one of feverish gaiety. She was then eight and twenty years of age, but I think I never saw a more girlish looking creature. The years that most young women spend in going to balls and routs and suppers, and spoiling their complexions with rouge, Francezka had spent in the solitude and pure air of the country. She had all the verve, the freshness, of one to whom the world is still new, and youth looked out of her shining eyes. It was as if the other Francezka were laid away with her black Spanish costumes, and this Francezka were the Francezka who had stormed all hearts on the lake of Uzmaiz and at the fÊtes of Radewitz.

I could only remain with them a few minutes, as the coming of King Louis was imminent. Francezka, too, had to rehearse for the play to be given that night, so both of us were hurried, but Francezka took time to say to me:

“We must have one of our old friendly interviews soon, Babache. That must you arrange for, if you have to neglect not only the king, but Count Saxe himself.”

Two hours later the king, followed by a large suite, arrived. I was in command of the body-guard, and as such was presented to the king in the grand saloon, where all the great people were ranged to receive him. 375 Louis XV was as handsome as ever and, I thought, less wearied, for he loved to be with Count Saxe.

I reckoned Francezka to be easily the star of the ladies present, and there were some of the most beautiful women in France in that saloon of Chambord, their jewels blazing under the waxlights. Nor was Gaston Cheverny inconspicuous among the gentlemen. He had the grand air as much as Francezka, and his adventures made him an object of respectful curiosity. The king conversed with him some time during the evening, and afterward sent for Francezka. She acquitted herself so well that she made all the women hate her. Monsieur Voltaire, who was not much noticed by the king, said if virtue could be made the fashion Madame Cheverny would have accomplished it.

On that evening began a veritable tempest of pleasure at Chambord, for I can call it by no other name. I can not say I enjoyed it. First, we had extra pages of honor, thirty of them, and I had as soon have had thirty extra devils on my hands. They gave me twice the trouble that my whole battalion of Uhlans did. Then I had to arrange the entire business of the hunting—everything, in short, outside of the castle, and Beauvais had charge of everything inside of it. I seldom got to my camp bed, next Count Saxe’s room, before two o’clock in the morning, and I was at the stables every morning by daylight.

The first day’s diversion was a grand battue. The battue was a magnificent spectacle in the forest, and was not over until late in the afternoon. Then, on the return to the castle, was organized one of those wild romps which were the amusement of the court. The 376 gentlemen, in hunting dress, and winding their silver horns, chased the ladies through the vast spaces, the winding corridors, the crooked stairs of the castle, and when caught, the ladies forfeited a kiss, or a dozen kisses. The little devils of pages were the hounds. These, being acquainted with the multitude of turns and windings in the castle, ably assisted the cavaliers, and generally got a box on the ear for catching a lady, to which the pages responded by kisses on their own account. It was a very amusing sport, and would have been harmless if the ladies and gentlemen concerned in it had been angels. Francezka, to my surprise, took part in it, as in everything else, but being full of art and finesse, was never caught except by one person, the aged Marshal Duc de Noailles, who was brave and gallant at the age of eighty. Gaston Cheverny excelled at this wild and gallant sport, and the ladies vowed there was no escaping him.

On the first evening of the king’s arrival Francezka had a splendid triumph. Monsieur Voltaire gave Nanine in the theater of the castle, and Francezka was Nanine, somewhat to Madame du ChÂtelet’s disgust, I fancy. And for the after piece was The Tattler, with the greatest cast the world ever saw: Francezka as Hortensia, Monsieur Voltaire as Pasquin, and Count Saxe himself as Clitander.

There were oceans of trouble about this play, and poor Beauvais was near wild, for Monsieur Voltaire was a troublesome manager, a troublesome actor, a troublesome guest, a troublesome person altogether. The play was given in that great yellow saloon, opening off from the grand staircase, where MoliÈre first gave Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, 377 and where Lulli jumped from the stage into the orchestra to amuse Louis le Grand when he was bored with Pourceaugnac. Monsieur Voltaire was, I am sure, much harder to please than Louis le Grand, and Madame du ChÂtelet was harder to please than Monsieur Voltaire. The performance began at seven o’clock. The king paid the strictest attention to it, and even Madame du ChÂtelet, who was furiously jealous of every woman on whom Monsieur Voltaire cast his eye, was obliged to behave reasonably. Monsieur Voltaire was stage manager only in this play. The entire cast was good, but not one of the ladies and gentlemen could stand any comparison with Francezka. She was born to be in the very front rank of actresses; she could have stepped from the theater of the castle of Chambord on to the stage of the House of MoliÈre and have won renown. She swayed the audience, an audience composed wholly of fine people, whose hearts are hard to reach, and whose souls are infinitesimal; she swayed them, I say, as if they had all been shopkeepers, and lackeys, and ladies’ maids. As for the pages of honor, the little rogues did nothing but scream with laughter at the comedy parts and blubber vociferously at the moving parts.

The applause at the end of each act was deafening, the king leading off. When the play was over there was frantic hand-clapping, and shouts of “Brava!” succeeded by a general quiet, for the piece was yet to come in which Francezka, Count Maurice of Saxe, and FranÇois Marie Voltaire were to be the sole actors and Monsieur Voltaire sole author.

The whole world knows The Tattler, but only those 378 who saw it done at the castle of Chambord on that December night can have any idea of the wit of the lines, the glow of the sentiment, the pure beauty of the acting. Monsieur Voltaire was great as an actor in his own immortal creations. Nobody except that impudent dog of a Jacques Haret ever dreamed of classing Monsieur Voltaire with any but the great of the earth, and Jacques Haret did it out of sheer impudence. I had no love for Monsieur Voltaire, but I can not deny his greatness.

The acting of Count Saxe was like everything else he did, superb. As for Francezka, I ever thought, as was said of the English poet Shakespeare, that she showed her art in her tragedy, but her nature in her comedy. The soft exquisite humor of her Hortensia can not be adequately described. She kept her audience, including the king, in a roar of laughter, and when, fastening her glowing eyes on Count Saxe, as Clitander, she said, in the most innocent sweet voice imaginable, that she had chosen him because he was “sober, sensible, constant and discreet,” even I had to join the shrieks of amusement; and I never thought to laugh at Count Saxe.

I could see that the applause had got into Francezka’s blood. She dearly loved a triumph, and she had one now. She was ever the most graceful creature alive and knew how to make what beauty she had shine, for I have ever said her taste, her grace, her charm and her wit were three-fourths of her beauty. At that moment, therefore, all these things, beauties in themselves, were most in evidence. Her eyes were luminous and had a kind of veiled brilliance. She was smiling—her mouth 379 was not perfectly straight, and when she smiled there was a charming little curve and dimple in the left corner of it, which gave a piquancy to her eloquent face.

She had a tiny foot, and always wore the most beautiful shoes imaginable—and in some way, although she seemed careful not to show her feet, they were always seen. I glanced toward Gaston Cheverny. I was far back, leaning against the wall, that being my usual station, and he was one of a number of gentlemen for whom seats were provided, but who preferred to stand back of the ladies. I saw in his face his pride and love of Francezka. He seemed to me then more like the Gaston of former days than I had yet seen him. My heart warmed a little to him.

When the plays were over Monsieur Voltaire made a short speech. At that stage of his career he was very anxious to curry favor with the great, especially as he knew the king did not like him, but no matter how hard he struggled to be universally flattering, some tinge of his native sardonic humor would crop out in spite of him. For example, he complimented Francezka so highly that there was nothing left to be said of the other ladies, and of course the perfunctory praise he gave them did not make them love him any the better. Then he made a slight though obvious allusion to Francezka’s long waiting for her husband’s return, comparing it to Penelope, which would have been mightily effective if he had not said something further about her bringing conjugal faith into fashion, which was an allusion some of the ladies could not stand at all, and caused Count Saxe to laugh in spite of himself. But on the whole, the affair passed off with the greatest brilliance.

The next thing was the great supper in the hall. Although this was Beauvais’s affair, I was not without responsibility. I had devised a new and splendid form of candlestick for these royal suppers. These candlesticks consisted of a hundred Uhlans, the handsomest men in the battalion, in uniforms of silk and velvet, holding their lances upright, and from the lance-head blazed a flame of perfumed wax. Then there were those damnable little pages. It was their duty to hand the wine at supper and to attend the more distinguished guests; but they were certain to play some pranks if I were not on hand to stop them. So I always remained through the supper.

The king’s table was set as always, on a dais raised a couple of inches from the floor, under a royal canopy of crimson velvet with golden fleur-de-lis. To this table he invited Francezka, besides Madame Villars, Count Saxe, the Duc de Richelieu and one or two others, but he did not ask Monsieur Voltaire. I heard a subdued murmur of speculation as to whether he would be asked or not, and I never yet saw Monsieur Voltaire discomfited that it did not give the assemblage a wicked delight. Madame du ChÂtelet was already beginning to fume and scowl. It was said that sometimes she and Monsieur Voltaire quarreled to the point of throwing dishes at each other across the table, but they were always ready enough to quarrel with the world on each other’s account.

Francezka, escorted by the Duc de Richelieu, walked the length of the great hall, herself a picture of grace and dignity. On her way she passed Monsieur Voltaire. He stood on one leg, like a stork, his eyes blazing with 381 rage, chagrin, hope and expectancy. He had not yet been invited to the king’s table, although Francezka had, and this man, who was capable of writing Nanine, and The Tattler, was in acute misery because he had not been asked to take a seat at a certain table! I saw compassion for him in Francezka’s face, and thought she might contrive to help Monsieur Voltaire. She curtsied low to the king, ascended the dais at his invitation, and then I heard her say, as if to herself:

“I must leave room for Monsieur Voltaire,” and at the same time flashed from under her long lashes a look so full of meaning, so droll, and saying at the same time, “I pray your Majesty will excuse my awkward country ways.”

The king burst out laughing and told Count Saxe to fetch Monsieur Voltaire, which he did. I never saw a creature so pleased as Monsieur Voltaire was at this. I am sure MoliÈre did not show the same childish delight when Louis le Grand divided with him the celebrated wing of chicken.

Supper over, the king led the way to the ballroom, where, from a great orchestra of twenty-four violins, an ocean of music rose and fell like the waves of the sea. Count Saxe walked the minuet de la cour with Francezka. It seemed as if this night was to be her apotheosis, for everything seemed designed to show her off and to give her the first place. Monsieur Voltaire did not dance, but overwhelmingly grateful for the ruse by which Francezka had got him to the king’s table, could not be too assiduous to her or praise her wit too highly. From that hour she was queen at Chambord. It was after midnight that the ball began. I remained 382 only an hour or two, and then went to my rest, but not in my chamber next Count Saxe’s for once. I had not had much sleep for several nights, so I betook myself to the stables, where, upon a pile of oats designed for the morning’s feed, I wrapped myself in my cloak and fell into a deep slumber.