Читать книгу Francezka - Molly Elliot Seawell - Страница 20

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The town of Mitau is an ugly place, built near a dull and sluggish river, rudely spanned by a bridge of boats at the market-place. The palace, however, is a fine building, and there dwelt the ugly Duchess Anna Iwanowna—bad luck forever to her!—and there could have dwelt Count Saxe if he would but have obliged the duchess by marrying her. But he could not swallow the pill.

We were in Mitau from June, 1726, when those rascally Courlanders pretended they meant to make Count Saxe Duke of Courland, until August, 1727, when we made our way out of the place—only twenty of us; and not without trouble, either, of which I shall speak presently.

To this rag of a remnant of twenty was Count Saxe’s following reduced. It is true my master had three hundred men, many of them my Uhlans, the “Clear-the-way-boys,” intrenched on the island in the Lake of Uzmaiz, five days’ march away, where they stood guard over a military chest of considerable value, and a large quantity of arms and ammunition. Our enemies would have given their ears to know where our money and arms were—for they knew Count Saxe had both—and it 73 finally took near five thousand Russians a month to find them.

I reckon those fourteen months in Mitau as going far to atone for our sins. It was a time of negotiations, contentions, bickerings, proclamations and counter proclamations, Count Saxe on the one side, and the Russian Empire on the other; the Courlanders in between, handing out lies by the shovelful, with equal impartiality on either hand! What liars they were! There was an open green field near the town, where the Diet met in those summers of 1726 and 1727, which Count Saxe called the Field of Lies, after the celebrated spot in France, where the heirs of Charlemagne met to divide the empire. I am sure more lies were told about the duchy of Courland than were told about the division of the empire of Charlemagne. We had promises enough, and even votes enough to elect Count Saxe Duke of Courland, if only he could have put his hand on ten thousand stout soldiers, to make the election good. The Russians very rightly paid no attention to the pretensions of the Holsteiners, and the Hessians, and the rest of the crown snatchers, as Madame Riano had called them. They were but lath and plaster; but Count Saxe was a man well fashioned by nature of her strongest metal, and him the Russians reckoned with, and him only.

We had but one piece of good luck in Mitau, and that was the place in which we were lodged. It was an old stone schloss near the river, and had been the residence of the dukes of Courland until they screwed the money from their miserable people with which to build the fine palace. They had made themselves secure from 74 their lieges in case the lieges should rise against their masters; for the walls of the old schloss were nine feet thick, with mere slits for windows, and it was surrounded by a moat, with a drawbridge. Moreover, there was a brick tunnel a half of a quarter of a mile long, which debouched at the river’s edge. The market-place, however, had sprung up at that point, and also, the bridge of boats, so that it was no longer available for the escape of armed men.

We did not reckon upon either defense or escape, until it was too late—the first, the last, and the only time Count Saxe was ever caught napping by his enemies. And it was by my forethought—I say it with diffidence—that the drawbridge was put in working order. It came about in this manner.

The ugly duchess, having fallen in love with Count Saxe the first time she saw him, as all the women did, poor souls, they could not help themselves—invited him to lodge with his suite at the palace, instead of at the old schloss with the rats. Never were there such rats. We used to have regular battues of rats, killing them with our swords. But Count Saxe was wary—he had no mind to be lodged too far away from his horses. As it was, our stabling was at an inconvenient distance from the schloss. But how to get away from the pressing attentions of a lady is a problem; all will admit that.

One morning, however, a placard was found affixed to the palace gates, making light of Count Saxe’s alleged intention to take up his quarters at the palace. He happened to arrive just as a great crowd had assembled, laughing and jeering. He rode up, dismounted, 75 tore the placard from the iron gateway, cuffed half a dozen grinning fellows, and like a walking volcano marched into the palace. He demanded instantly to see the duchess, and after tearing the placard to shreds in her presence, declared that nothing would induce him to subject her to such indignities; consequently he would remain at the schloss with the rats. The duchess glared at him, and in her turn cuffed a saucy page that laughed behind his hand; and from that hour she was his enemy. No woman ever forgives a man for being more prudent than she, and although I swear I know nothing of Count Saxe’s affairs with the ladies, I will admit this, that he was not reckoned a prudish man exactly.

When he returned to the schloss, and with mirth and heartfelt joy told me of the thing, my reply was to go and examine the drawbridge. Our arms and accoutrements were always kept in perfect order, so there was no need to inspect them. The chains and blocks of the drawbridge were rusty and moss-grown, but I speedily got them in working order, well oiled, and the drawbridge moved up and down as smoothly as my lady’s fan opening and shutting. Count Saxe, seeing me at work, with several men, came to find out what we were doing.

“I am putting the drawbridge in order, sir, because you were so extremely decorous with the duchess,” I said to him; at which he shouted with laughter, but owned I was right.

There was an open plaza in front of the schloss, with several mean streets making off from it. Within was 76 a courtyard of some extent, with a few dismal trees growing, and around us was the stagnant green water of the moat. Oh, what a dreary place that was!

I had mountains of writing to do, those devilish Courlanders presenting endless petitions, protests, pieces, justifications, and other rubbish, all of which had to be answered civilly. We kept up a brisk correspondence with France when we could; but the Courlanders have no notion that a courier is a sacred object, so a vast number of our letters never got farther than Mitau.

Our communication from the rest of the world was scant and uncertain. Even Mademoiselle Lecouvreur’s letters rarely reached us, although we knew she wrote faithfully and often to Count Saxe. We knew scarce anything that was happening outside, except that Monsieur Voltaire was in England, and Count Saxe hoped he would remain there.

There was one person of whom I thought daily and hourly, but could hear no word of—Mademoiselle Francezka Capello. All I knew was that she and Madame Riano had set forth from Paris, in great state, on their travels. I was not the only person athirst for news of Francezka. Gaston Cheverny was as eager. He wrote continually to his brother Regnard imploring and demanding to know of Mademoiselle Capello’s welfare; but he admitted, with the utmost chagrin, that Regnard, in those of his letters which were received, never so much as mentioned Mademoiselle Capello’s name, which led me to infer that Regnard Cheverny knew all about her.

I have never known a man who early acquired a 77 fortune that was not a calculator and an acute reckoner of his own and other men’s chances. But Gaston Cheverny was not a calculator in the mean sense. The motto of his house well described him. It ran, in the old French—Un Loy, Un Foy, Un Roy. One faith was Gaston Cheverny’s in all things. He was full of youthful spirits, of ridiculous young daring, always wanting to achieve the impossible, and of the sort, when he could not conquer the world, to beat the watch. But those men are to be loved. Gaston Cheverny had great capacity for love and romance. The image of Francezka Capello had been deeply graven on his heart, and I saw what one does not often see in a young man barely one and twenty—a real devotion to an ideal, a faithfulness that can and will endure.

He was not one of the loose-tongued sort, who tell all to everybody. I think he never spoke of Mademoiselle Capello to any one but to me, and occasionally to Count Saxe. At night, when I sat in my room reading by a single candle, before I went to bed, Gaston Cheverny would come in, throw himself on my bed, and begin to rave over Francezka. He would go back to his earliest childhood, and aided by a very active imagination, prove that he had loved her ever since she was born. He explained this to me very ingeniously, saying he was in love with Francezka before he saw her, because he was in love with a dream, of which Francezka was the reality. I listened smiling and with a good heart. Knowing Gaston Cheverny well, I thought him worthy, if any man was, of Francezka Capello. Sometimes he would rave over her beauty, and would threaten to run me through when I ventured 78 to say that it was her wit and charm which made her beautiful. Again, he was full of adoration for her lofty, high spirit; and then bewailed it, as likely to lead her into unnumbered dangers, from which Madame Riano was small protection—for Scotch Peg loved adventures as a cat loves cream.

Gaston Cheverny was of a bookish turn, and was the first one who quoted to me the saying about books: “In winter, you may read them, ad ignem, by the fireside; and in summer, ad umbram, under some shady tree; and therewith pass away the tedious hours.” We passed away some of our tedious hours at Mitau in this manner, but we had few books. Among them luckily was a volume of Bourdaloue’s sermons, of which Count Saxe always made me read one whenever the Courlanders were more devilish than usual in giving us fair words of emptiness for truth; and my master always fitted the preacher’s denunciations to his enemies.

Gaston Cheverny and I made bold to correct Count Saxe’s theology, but he called us a couple of cheek turners, and declared he knew that the Psalmist, as well as Bourdaloue, had the Courlanders in mind when he denounced liars and hypocrites. Next to sermons my master liked the verses and songs of that rogue of rogues, François Villon. Gaston Cheverny sang these songs of Villon’s very agreeably, accompanying himself on the viol, and so whiled away some of our heaviest hours. These diversions, together with our rat-killings, were the sum of our amusements, for I do not reckon the balls at the palace as amusements. Count Saxe would occasionally insist on taking me to the palace, although I objected to going on the ground that 79 the duchess had said I was ugly. But this was reckoned a witticism of mine. Anyhow, as Count Saxe remarked, I could return the compliment to the lady. The entertainments there were dull, and besides, every Russian we saw scowled at us—and there was a Russian at every turn. All the court officials were Russian, and they took good care that we should not find Mitau agreeable.

Ah, it was a dreary, weary time, especially after the winter set in. In the spring it was scarcely more cheerful. Count Saxe’s chances were dwindling, there was no doubt about that. But he bore the gradual fading of his hopes with the gaiety of heart which was his own.

And the Russians grew more numerous. They seemed to be enveloping us; and from day to day we awaited the catastrophe which, I think, all of us expected—but not exactly in the guise in which it came.

In August, things were looking black for my master, and one night, he and I and Gaston Cheverny, being seated at supper, with Beauvais serving us—an honest and devoted fellow, Beauvais is, with a squint almost as bad as my cross eye—I said to Count Saxe:

“Sir, when shall we leave Mitau?”

Count Saxe looked hard at me, putting down his glass. Then he asked, in a cool voice:

“Do you think it time, Babache, to beat the chamade?”

I remained silent. Gaston Cheverny scowled at me; he was at the age when prudence seems but a beggarly virtue at best. Only Beauvais winked at me approvingly, and Count Saxe saw him in a mirror opposite. He was a very humble fellow, as brave as Julius Cæsar, 80 devoted to Count Saxe, and understood nothing on earth about war or politics; but Count Saxe knew, when the men of the Beauvais stamp see it is time to march, that events have already marched.

“Beauvais,” cried Count Saxe, “what think you of giving up the game now?”

“Monsieur,” replied Beauvais, “I promised my old father, when next we returned to Paris, to have sixteen trumpeters ahead of us when we crossed the Pont Royal, but I am afraid I was a liar.”

Count Saxe laughed at this, and swore very melodiously at the Courlanders; but being quick to decide, he gave orders that we should prepare to leave Mitau within three days. Thence we should retire to Uzmaiz, whence we hoped to give the Russians such a bone to pick that they would not soon forget it.

When Count Saxe was through with swearing at his Courland subjects I reminded him there was a court ball that night, and that he must go and smile on the ugly duchess.

At this he swore again, and for the only time I ever knew of, plotted revenge against a lady.

“Gaston Cheverny,” he cried, “do you, when you go with me to the palace to-night, take pains to inform some of the ladies of the court that I admit the duchess is not handsome, but she is worthy. Be sure and insist upon her worth—that is a form of praise hated by women; they know if a man praises their worth it is at the expense of their beauty. So, forget it not!”

We sat not long at table after that. I had to begin to plan our departure, and Count Saxe and Gaston Cheverny wished to arrive early at the palace, so as to 81 leave before midnight. It was still daylight when they rode away into the town—daylight lasts long in those far northern regions. Two gentlemen rode with them as escorts.

After attending to what was necessary, I watched from the courtyard the sun go down in darksome glory. The sky was full of coppery clouds, and bad weather was brewing. Of course I thought of the difference between our confident departure from Paris and our crestfallen return; and Madame Riano’s simile of the drenched hen plagued me much. And Monsieur Voltaire—how I hoped the king’s ministers would see the usefulness of keeping him out of France! And Mademoiselle Lecouvreur—how sweet and generous she would be—and then came the ever-haunting thought of Francezka Capello. Where was she at this moment? Under Italian skies, or among the peaks of the Swiss mountains, or in some distant German city; at all events far, far from me—so thought I.

The darkness came down suddenly, with copper clouds grown dusky and scurrying across the night sky. The lights vanished from the shabby town, but afar off the palace windows gleamed. All was darkness and silence, but all was not peaceful. As I stood on the drawbridge, under the light of the lantern swinging overhead, it seemed to me that the town was full of moving shadows. There would be a dark mass away in the distance, and while I was looking, it would noiselessly dissolve. Then the mass would become serpentine, appearing and disappearing silently and mysteriously. I had made up my mind that these softly moving shadows, like the shapes in a dream, were not dream shapes, but 82 solid Russians, with arms in their hands; and I congratulated myself that every moment since we entered the schloss two men with loaded muskets had kept their eyes fixed on the entrance to the courtyard. They were not sentries—oh, no—it was a mere guard of honor suitable to Count Saxe’s rank; but they were not wholly ornamental.

Suddenly hoofbeats sounded out of the darkness, and Count Saxe himself, with his two gentlemen, clattered over the drawbridge. He flung himself off his horse and said to me:

“You were right, Babache. This night must we ride for Uzmaiz.”

Our horses were stabled some little distance away toward the river side. I sent four men after them, with orders to bring them as quietly as possible.

“And Gaston Cheverny, sir?” I asked of Count Saxe.

There was that in his present circumstances which would have quenched mirth in most men, but Count Saxe was one of those men who could laugh in the face of fate.

“Gone to fetch Peggy Kirkpatrick,” he said. “We arrived at the ball—everything hostile to us—the duchess uglier than I ever saw her, and the Russians elbowing us at every turn. The first person my eyes rested on was General Bibikoff. I wondered what an officer of his rank was doing at Mitau just now. I surmised, however, that it was not for his health, and that he was not alone. And whom, think you, was he talking with—Peggy Kirkpatrick! She arrived at Mitau to-day on her way to France. She had with her that charming young creature, Mademoiselle Capello, 83 grown wonderfully handsome, and splendidly dressed. I thought Gaston Cheverny would die of delight, he was so joyful to see her. Peggy was a blaze of jewels and feathers, and looked more like an ostrich than ever. By heaven! If I had ten thousand men like Scotch Peg I could conquer Europe. But she did me one of the greatest services of my life. She took the first chance to speak to me aside.

“ ‘The Russians are after you,’ she said, ‘eight hundred of them under Bibikoff. A fool, Bibikoff; a dozen of the Kirkpatricks are worth, for fighting, his whole eight hundred. But mind you, General Lacy is behind him with four thousand, and Lacy is a Scotchman, so you need to beware of him.’

“ ‘Madame,’ said I, ‘we march before daylight—every hoof and toe of us.’ For I knew her information was sound. Then, after I had expressed my everlasting thanks, what do you think she said? ‘If, then, you are so eternally grateful to me, you will kindly allow me and my niece to travel to France with you.’ I told her I was not going to France yet—still holding some cards in my hand—but to the island in Lake Uzmaiz, where I proposed to make a stand. That delighted her. To Uzmaiz she would go, and for very shame, I could not refuse, after the service she had just done me, for she had taken not only trouble, but risk, to find out about Lacy. She desired that I let Gaston Cheverny go to her lodgings with her to make ready for her departure, and the young fool was charmed, of course. They left before the end of the ball. I remained to the last, so as to avoid the appearance of running away—but where are the horses?”