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