Francezka. Molly Elliot Seawell

he burst forth, as young men of twenty do, raving over her beauty, her wit, her grace, lamenting her venturesomeness as if he were Solomon and Methuselah in one. I felt not one pang of jealousy. Francezka Capello was not for me, nor I for her—but that was no reason why I should not love her as one loves a star.

      “And why does not Madame Riano keep a closer watch over her?” he demanded angrily, as if I had something to do with it. “Jacques Haret says that because Madame Riano always ruled her father, her husband, her confessor, her lawyers, and her doctors, she thinks to rule this girl by mere precept; but Francezka has the spirit of a fiery Scot and a hot Spaniard in her, and no one can rule her except by gentleness and persuasion. Then she is a lamb.”

      He then told me all about the château of Capello in Brabant. It was a superb estate, and his own modest country house was within sight of it. Castle Haret, which Regnard Cheverny had so cleverly acquired, was some distance off in the same province. In Francezka’s childhood, during her parents’ lifetime, she had lived at the château, where Gaston and his brother had often played with her as a little girl. Since she had been in 67 Peggy Kirkpatrick’s care she had lived in Paris. But it was known that her Brabant estate was dearer to her than any or all of her possessions, and the Brabant people said that when she was her own mistress she would live in Brabant. The night at the Temple, Gaston Cheverny had gradually recognized his little playmate of years gone by, and from that moment, he confessed, with shining eyes, he had thought only of her.

      “And now, in this expedition to Courland, I see the road to honor and fortune and Francezka open,” cried my young game chick, and I assured him so it was.

      I remained with him the best part of two hours. The last thing he said to me was:

      “The surgeon says I may mount my horse in a fortnight, but you say the word, and I mount and ride for Courland to-morrow!”

      When I walked back to the Luxembourg, through the dark and quiet streets, I bethought myself that this young man, take him all in all, was the best recruit we had yet got. And so I told Count Saxe that very night.

      There were unlooked-for vexatious delays about starting. We had thought to leave at any hour, when I spoke to Gaston Cheverny, but my master was summoned to Versailles, and there was much parleying about nothing; for after all, it came to what we could do in Courland of ourselves.

      Cardinal Fleury must see Count Saxe, that the rights of the Church be guarded. The king must talk with him about the rights of the ex-King of Poland, his father-in-law. It was all very futile. Every one of us knew that Peggy Kirkpatrick told the 68 truth when she said we were going upon a marauding expedition after the crown of Courland; but the Russians were bent on the same errand, as were the Holsteiners and the Hessians, and it was a case of every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. I knew Count Saxe could beat them all to rags, and he could probably govern Courland as well as any of the other buccaneers after the crown. But I own from the beginning, I thought Count Saxe’s genius lay in war, not in peace. This thought gave me great content, for if we succeeded, it was well—if we failed, it was well. War is the game of the gods, as Count Saxe had said, and in that he had not then a peer.

      It was on the morning of the last day of May, 1726, that we left Paris. It was a golden morning. The river ran silver, the fountains played gold in the sun, the heavens were a cloudless blue. I was in command of the battalion of Uhlans, and we made a gallant show, in our scarlet dolmans, our lances, with their scarlet pennons, catching the sun like points of fire. Gaston Cheverny rode with Count Saxe as aide-de-camp. He looked pale, but sat his horse firmly. We wore, according to the custom on opening a campaign, a little sprig of laurel in our helmets, but Gaston Cheverny wore also a deep red rose. As for Count Saxe, I will not speak of him, except to say that he looked like Mars himself.

      Great crowds lined the streets, and we were very heartily cheered. Many persons of distinction were out, notably old Marshal de Noailles, who, as I said before, always called my master “My Saxe.” The marshal rode with us, his white hair floating over his shoulders. Numerous coaches were at the Port Royal, where we crossed 69 the river. Among them was the coach of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She gave us her own heavenly smile. Count Saxe bowed to his saddlebow, and his eyes did her homage.

      A little farther on we passed the great Hôtel Kirkpatrick. At the sound of our horses’ hoofs clanging, Madame Riano came out on her balcony to see us. She waved at Count Saxe her great green and gold fan, without which she never budged, and actually laughed in his face and shook her head derisively when he bowed to her. That woman was enough to drive any man to drink. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Capello, but when we had passed the front of the hôtel we espied a little balcony on the side, overlooking the garden. She stood on that balcony; I remember she wore a crimson bodice and skirt and a crimson ribbon was in her unpowdered hair. Her eyes outshone the sun. She returned our bows with the lowest of curtsies. Gaston Cheverny’s eyes were glued to that balcony until Mademoiselle Capello was no longer visible. His face was glowing with delight. When we were well out beyond the barriers and in the fair open country, he rode up beside me. His face was all smiles and blushes, like a girl’s.

      “Did you see Mademoiselle Francezka?” he asked.

      I nodded, and he continued:

      “Last night Madame Riano had one of her great routs. I went to it with my brother—our first visit to her since we have been in Paris. She received us well, and so did that angel, Francezka, who said she remembered us from her childhood. Ah, Babache, she was so kind to me. It seems she knew all about our little fracas—she 70 had got the whole story out of old Peter—and was full of the sweetest regrets. She even begged my pardon—the darling!—for having been so rude to me the night of our first encounter. I think she is now awake to the imprudence of her conduct, and most anxious for it not to be known, instead of being defiant, as she was at the time. She asked me to give you her thanks and her remembrance.”

      “It is enough,” said I; “if I can but always merit her thanks and her remembrance I shall be satisfied. It is for men placed like you to aspire for more.”

      “Babache,” he cried, “you are an honest fellow, and I am glad you made that hole in me, if it won me your friendship.”

      “I did not wish to make a hole in you,” I replied. “What has your brother to say to your going with us?”

      “He tried to dissuade me from going. I tried to persuade him into going. Regnard has more of that beggarly virtue of prudence than I. But, Babache, here is the devil to pay; my brother fell desperately in love with Mademoiselle Capello at first sight.”

      “That is nothing,” said I, unfeelingly. “You are so much alike it can matter but little to her which one she may love.”

      “Out, rascal! But—but—mademoiselle was much kinder to me than to Regnard. Indeed, she was not kind at all to him.”

      “Oh, poor brother! How that must have pained you!”

      “No! no! My brother and I are nearer to each other than most brothers, but when a young lady is concerned we are as man to man. So I was rather pleased not to have my brother for a rival.”

      71

      “He will be in Paris while you are away, and may make his hay in your absence.”

      Gaston’s face was flooded with laughter and color as he replied:

      “Well—under the rose, remember—Mademoiselle Capello will not be in Paris long. She confided to me that her aunt was setting out upon her travels shortly, meaning to go as far north as Russia. Then, on their return, they will stop in Brabant, probably until mademoiselle attains her majority. It will go hard with me if I am not at my own house for a little while at least, while Mademoiselle Capello is my neighbor. And Babache!” he rode closer and whispered in my ear: “She told me last night she would be watching on a certain balcony when we passed, and I asked her what color of gown she would wear, because I should wear a flower of that color, and she said crimson, and here I have a crimson rose in my helmet.”

      His boyish eyes were radiant with joy and triumph. His was a spirit