Although it was not necessary for me to rise early at this place of peace and beauty, the chÂteau of Capello, yet, long habit was upon me, and, by sunrise, I was up and dressed and out in the fair, fresh autumn morning. I made straight for the Italian garden, and was not surprised to find Francezka there before me.

She was sitting on the bench by the statue of Petrarch. The hoar frost glittered on the ground, just touched by the shafts of light which were to grow into the great sun. The air was soft and mild, and Francezka had no hat upon her dark hair, but sat wrapped in her crimson mantle.

She was gravely studying the inscription on the statue of Petrarch.

“Life flies apace and tarries not an hour,” she said, translating to me. “Monsieur Gaston Cheverny was mistaken in saying the next line is here—about Death following Life with huge strides. I am glad it is not here—it would be too sad.”

“Whoever placed the inscription here had looked into the serious face of Life which always confronts us,” I said.

Francezka turned on me two laughing eyes.

“Life turns a face all smiles to me now,” she said. “I am glad I am not complete mistress of myself and my possessions yet. One should sip and taste of pleasure before drinking a full draft. My father, you must know, did not have the French idea of marrying me out of hand; and I mean not to marry until I find a man I can not live without. It will be time enough then. And as for being timid—only look at my Aunt Peggy! She does as she likes and has done so all her life; and instead of being herself afraid, everybody is afraid of her—and she is very much esteemed by all who know her.”

I had seen, for long, that Madame Riano’s example was not wasted on her niece, but Francezka, like most young spirits—or rather, all young spirits—knew not how to weigh and compare. Madame Riano had never enjoyed the beauty or the fortune of this young girl, and her youth was safe from the dangers that lie in the path of beauty and riches.

“But one thing I am resolved upon,” said Francezka. “However happy I may be—and I am at this moment so happy I can scarcely forbear to sing—I danced this morning in my bedroom for very joy—I say no matter how happy I may be, I shall try to do some good in the world. At least I can make gifts.”

“Yes,” I answered, “that is the cheapest form of goodness. You give away what would else be in your way.” An ungallant speech, but made with a purpose.

Francezka looked at me angrily for a moment, then smiled and took my hand in her two velvet palms.

“Babache, you are like a chestnut bur, sometimes—but 159 I love you—and I shall always heed what you tell me. Can I do more?”

She then rose and we walked about the garden, and looked down at the lake, still darkly shaded by the cedars on the brink, although the sun was now blazing in the east. We spoke not much. Francezka’s joy seemed to have grown quieter, if more intense. In the pauses of our talk, I found the lake had a voice—a voice like itself, sad. There was some subterranean outlet which gave a motion and a sound to the water, and this sound was a mournful one. Francezka stopped and called my attention to it.

“I remember that moan of the lake,” she said—“or I think I remember it—as Monsieur Gaston Cheverny thought he remembered the inscription on the statue.”

“Yonder comes Gaston, now,” I said.

“No,” said she, sweeping her glance toward a figure afar off, descending the steps of the terrace. “It is Monsieur Regnard Cheverny.”

“And here is the other Cheverny,” said Gaston’s voice behind us.

He did not look particularly happy; the splendors of the chÂteau of Capello were in marked contrast to his own modest house, the Manoir Cheverny, which lay a mile or two away.

Gaston pointed toward it—a low-lying building, of moderate size, with a carved stone gateway opening into a courtyard, and with a fair-sized pleasure ground around it. There was both comfort and beauty about it, but nothing in the least to compare with Capello.

“It is good enough for a bachelor,” said Gaston, grimly. “There shall I end my lonely old age.”

I have observed that when a man is deeply in love, he is apt to threaten the lady of his love with the suggestion of losing him.

To this Francezka replied, demurely:

“I shall be happy to have company; for, perhaps, I shall die a spinster.”

The whole rich and peaceful landscape lay before us—the red-tiled village, the little stone church, the windmills—all singularly pleasant to look upon, giving one a sense of the well-being of the people; and to one who has seen the gardens of the world ravaged by fire and sword, this means much. Gaston assured us that as soon as his house was in order, he would have me to stay with him, thereby abandoning Count Saxe for the time; and Francezka diverted herself with asking me, if she and Count Saxe were in a burning building and I could only save one of them, which would it be—and other pleasantries.

Regnard Cheverny had evidently been looking for Mademoiselle Capello, and presently joined us, and by that time we were called to the chÂteau for breakfast. The parish priest, a modest, homely, shabby little man, named Benart, was already at the chÂteau, to pay his respects to the ladies. He remained to breakfast, and I formed a high opinion of his judgment by the respect he paid to Count Saxe, although purposely kept in ignorance of my master’s rank and condition. The little priest mentioned that his brother, the Bishop of Louvain, would soon be coming to visit him, at which Madame Riano snorted like a war-horse. I suspected that she and the bishop did not deeply love each other, and Jacques Haret afterward enlightened 161 us on the subject. I began to wonder where Jacques Haret would bestow himself, for I suspected that Mademoiselle Capello would not permit her hospitality to be imposed upon. This was settled by the action of Gaston Cheverny, who told me before breakfast, when we had a word in private, that he intended to ask Jacques Haret to the Manoir Cheverny.

“Otherwise he will remain here to Mademoiselle Capello’s annoyance, and that I wish to spare her,” he said to me.

When he had risen from table, Gaston therefore announced that he and his brother and Jacques Haret would be quartered at the Manoir Cheverny, but he hoped to see much of the ladies at the chÂteau of Capello, and also of Count Saxe and Captain Babache—which we all suitably acknowledged. Then, meaning to give the ladies time to rest, Count Saxe and myself accepted Gaston’s invitation to accompany him to his own house. This we did, walking across the park in the bright autumn morning. Jacques Haret diverted us on the way by his history of the bloody warfare which had raged for thirty years between the Bishop of Louvain and Madame Riano.

“The bishop,” said Jacques Haret, as we strolled along, “is one of those ecclesiastics who expect to appear in full canonicals—velvet robe, jeweled crozier and shining miter—before the judgment seat of God. Peggy Kirkpatrick thinks the Archangel Michael keeps the family tree of the Kirkpatricks always in mind. You may imagine how Peggy and the bishop agree. They were well acquainted in their youth before the bishop took orders, and Peggy has got a notion in her 162 head that the bishop was once in love with her, when it is well known that he hated her like perdition from their childhood. The bishop is as militant as Peggy, and I believe either one of them would travel twenty leagues for a bout. You will see that the bishop will shortly appear in these parts. He can not let his old enemy dwell in peace, and Peggy will welcome him joyfully. That woman reckons that day a holiday, when she meets an enemy in fight.”

So, with pleasant converse, we reached Gaston Cheverny’s house. Over the gateway was inscribed the arms and motto of the Chevernys, Un Loy, Un Foy, Un Roy.

The old stone house, of a story and a half, was plain, but spacious. Within it was an abundance of good furniture, linen and plate. Unlike most bachelors’ houses, there was no need to apologize for anything.

At the Manoir Cheverny, therefore, Gaston Cheverny took up his abode, with his brother and Jacques Haret as guests. Regnard showed no disposition to live at Castle Haret, alleging that he must furnish it and equip it from Brussels, which he proceeded to do; but I think he meant not to leave Gaston alone so close to the chÂteau of Capello. Regnard had two servants, and four horses quartered on his brother, and he bought another horse, giving three hundred good crowns for it. I never saw the least want of hospitality or affection for Regnard on Gaston’s part. He was as generous a soul as I ever knew.

As for Jacques Haret, he openly said he had only given up his quarters at the chÂteau of Capello because he could not wear the clothes of either Madame Riano or 163 Mademoiselle Capello. He wore, however, both Gaston and Regnard Cheverny’s clothes, until the two brothers presented him with a complete outfit, as the price for letting their wardrobes alone.

I think all of us, after our adventures and disappointments and travels, enjoyed to the full this short season of peace and rest. We apprehended great influx of company, for which Count Saxe had, at present, no taste. But the weather suddenly turning very harsh, the roads became bad, and we saw but few guests. Among them was Count Bellegarde, the young man who had been Gaston Cheverny’s friend at our first meeting. He was the same handsome, stupid, watery, no-ideaed fellow as that night in the Temple gardens. His family had put the notion into his head that he would do well to marry Mademoiselle Capello. He thought that a sight of his beauty was enough to accomplish his object. We had much diversion out of him, Jacques Haret and the two Chevernys slyly putting him up to many follies.

Our days and evenings, however, were in general spent together without other guests, and naturally there was a bond amongst us. The better we came to know Madame Riano the more we saw to esteem in her, in spite of her extraordinary pride and everlasting blowing of the trumpet of the Kirkpatricks and her general desire to dominate the universe. And it was easy to see, in Francezka, those same sterling qualities of integrity, courage and generosity which distinguished Madame Riano, and with them infinitely more tact and suavity. The rains and the snows made all of us haunt the firesides of Capello. Every one of us felt that relaxing of the mind and body which accompanies a period of rest 164 after action. Softer pleasures appealed to us. Our days slipped away, I knew not how, and our evenings were given to cards, conversation and music. Madame Riano was an inveterate card player, and well-nigh invincible, so we often had cards for diversion.

Mademoiselle Capello played charmingly on the harpsichord and Gaston Cheverny sang often to her accompaniment, which was not calculated to please Regnard, though he took it cheerfully. Jacques Haret was the very soul of entertainment. I have never known a man whose mind was always so much at ease as Jacques Haret’s. The most virtuous person that ever lived might envy this rogue his cheerful acquiescence in fate.

About a fortnight after our arrival the news came that the Bishop of Louvain intended to visit his brother, the little priest, and likewise proposed to pay his respects to the ladies of the chÂteau of Capello. Jacques Haret assured us that the parish priest’s larder was not of the sort to satisfy this particular bishop very long.

Madame Riano marshaled her forces to meet the bishop. The Chevernys were to be at hand, likewise Jacques Haret, who was a valuable ally on the present occasion.

Nobody looked forward to the meeting between Madame Riano and the bishop more than Count Saxe, who declared that he expected to learn much of the art of war from the two belligerents. His incognito was to be strictly observed even with the bishop.

On the day named for his Grace’s arrival, precisely at six o’clock, the hour named by the bishop, his chariot all gilding and coats of arms, and drawn by four horses, drew up before the great entrance of the chÂteau. 165 Madame Riano, with the light of battle in her eye, sustained Francezka, who was to receive the bishop in her quality of chatelaine for the first time. Count Saxe was in the background, and behind him stood Jacques Haret and myself. The two Chevernys were also present, awaiting the bishop on the terrace. When the bishop’s coach came rumbling up, the Chevernys dutifully opened the coach door to assist his Grace to alight. First stepped out the little parish priest, the bishop’s brother, dressed in a shabby surtout. That silent little man was a humorist of the first water. He seemed to love his brother, but not one single absurdity of the bishop’s escaped him.

After Father Benart came the bishop, a fine, large, well-built, handsome man, enveloped in a huge purple velvet mantle. He stepped gingerly as if afraid of giving his dignity a jolt. The two Chevernys greeted him respectfully, to which the bishop replied with amiable condescension. Then came the meeting with his arch enemy, Madame Riano, which was highly courteous on the bishop’s side, but a little brusque on the part of Madame Riano. The sight of the bishop’s coach and velvet mantle and grand airs seemed to stir the Scotch lady’s blood instantly to the boiling point.

Francezka was all youthful grace and courtesy, and no man not an ogre could fail to be charmed with her. Then Count Saxe as Count Moritz was presented to the bishop, and myself later; Jacques Haret had known him always and assumed a hail-fellow-well-met air with this pompous ecclesiastic, which was evidently disconcerting to him. But the bishop was no match for Jacques.

As I am to be judged at the last day, I will swear that the bishop was no more impressed by Count Saxe than if that immortal man had been the cat’s aunt, as the peasants say; passed him by with a negligent nod, to which Count Saxe returned a bow so low and with such a sparkling light of laughter in his eyes that only a wind-blown dullard like this bishop would have failed to perceive that he was a man of consequence in disguise. The little priest had seen all along that Count Saxe was a personage, and treated him always with the greatest deference.

The bishop was escorted to the red saloon and placed in a large gilt chair—he was the sort of man to like large gilt chairs. Madame Riano seated herself on one side of him, and Francezka, beautifully demure and well behaved, sat on the other side. The rest of us grouped ourselves around in a half moon. The bishop, after having formally inquired after Madame Riano’s health, with the air of a Christian and a martyr blessing his enemies, turned to Francezka with the most entire change of countenance, benignance shining forth effulgent, and asked after her welfare and travels. To this Francezka responded properly. Then both of the belligerents, unable to restrain their martial ardor longer, broke the truce. Here is the conversation that ensued between the bishop and Madame Riano, the rest of us maintaining our composure and a strict neutrality.

The bishop: “Madame Riano, I hope, under God, you are well and in good case.”

Madame Riano (flaunting her fan savagely): “Thanks be to God, I am well, your Grace. Your Grace 167 looks a little peaked. I hope your Grace has not been ill.”

Now his Grace was in the bloom of health, and nothing vexed him so much as any hint that he was otherwise. So he answered tartly that he was very well, and then, addressing Gaston Cheverny, his Grace asked a question which made us all jump in our chairs.

“Monsieur, to touch upon things in which the ladies probably take little interest—what is the news from Count Saxe in Courland? I hear that he has turned tail and is running for his life!”

At the bishop’s intimation that the subject he wished to discuss was above the feminine comprehension, thunder sat upon Madame Riano’s brow; but when he plunged into the abyss her countenance cleared as if by magic, her mouth came wide open. I believe she would not have taken a thousand crowns for that moment’s pleasure.

Count Saxe did not change countenance one whit. The rest of us grew pale, except Jacques Haret, who turned and winked rapturously at Madame Riano, wagging her head-dress of feathers in an ecstasy of delight. As for Gaston Cheverny, he did me then and there the only disservice of his life. Pointing to me, he said with the most debonair manner in the world:

“There, your Grace, sits Captain Babache, who commands Count Saxe’s body-guard. It would not become me, nor any one else, to speak of Count Saxe’s affairs in the presence of Captain Babache.”

Yes, the rascal said that, and sat there smiling and stroking the lace upon his wrists, while I yearned to give him a clip over the head with my strong right arm. 168 And Count Saxe appeared to enjoy my discomfiture, and actually laughed in my face. However, I summoned all my composure and replied to that fool of a bishop that Count Saxe was the undoubted choice of the Diet and the nobility, and still held the rescript of election. And the Duchess of Courland, Anna Iwanowna, a brisk and homely widow, wished to marry Count Saxe, and as he had no mind to put his head in the noose, he had abandoned his enterprise for the present, to be resumed when convenient.

The bishop, with Count Saxe for his text, launched into a criticism of all the campaigns of the ancients and the moderns, and the blunders he committed gave Madame Riano and us the most acute enjoyment. I saw the little priest’s eyes twinkle as the oration proceeded. Nobody interrupted the bishop, and he closed by pointing out all the mistakes of the English at Agincourt, where there is no doubt they drubbed the French handsomely.

It was then time for supper, which was announced by Peter, and we proceeded to the dining saloon. It was an agreeable supper. The bishop’s harangue had put us all in a mirthful humor, and the wine of Ximenes was of the sort described in the Scriptures, as making glad the heart of man. Although the bishop knew nothing about war, he was an excellent judge of wine, and had due respect for the Ximenes. There was skirmishing all during supper between his Grace and Madame Riano, but it was understood that no pitched battle would take place until we went to cards, the field of the cloth of green having been their chosen battle-ground 169 for thirty years. Madame Riano was the very devil at cards, and the bishop was not far behind her.

It being cold in the great red saloon, we sat, for cards, in the little yellow room, where a huge fire blazed. We were at primero, the whole party of us. The stakes were small, but the fire and fury with which the bishop and Madame Riano played against each other was something remarkable. Charges and counter charges, sarcasm, ridicule and innuendo were freely bandied between them. Victory perched first on one banner and then on the other, but I must say the lady got rather the best of it. I should say that the bishop was the better strategist; but for determined, head-long valor, Madame Riano surpassed him.

We had been playing over an hour, when a sudden wild, loud roaring was heard in the chimney, the door was burst open, and a swarm of frightened servants rushed in, crying the house was afire. At once, each of us, except Madame Riano, laid down his cards, in some consternation; but the Scotch lady, without so much as taking her eyes off her hand, remarked coolly:

“’Tis nothing but the chimney catching afire, a common enough thing in Scotland. But these foolish Brabant people know nothing about fireplaces, and are frightened at every blaze they see.”

It turned out to be truly nothing but the blazing soot in the chimney, accompanied by a great roaring, with flames coming out of the chimney’s mouth and sparks flying. The roofs being tiled, there was no real danger, but as Madame Riano said truly, the people in the Low Countries, knowing nothing of open fireplaces with 170 blazing fires, were in a state of wild alarm. Nevertheless, we could not sit still under the circumstances, but proposed to investigate. Francezka went with us. She was pale, but collected. The bishop was for going with us, being frightened, if ever I saw a man—he was a Netherlander and as ignorant of open fireplaces as the rest of his countrymen—but Madame Riano gibing at him for his pusillanimity, he resumed his cards with such composure as he could, and Madame Riano proposed they should play the game out together. We left them, therefore, seated at the table, Madame Riano quite unconcerned at the commotion, and the bishop, a little white about the chops, but standing to his game like a man.

Meanwhile, in our absence from the room, the excited and panic-stricken servants had, without any authority, opened a vast tank of water, which was on the top of the house, and a flood began to pour down the chimney of the little yellow room, where Madame Riano held her unwilling enemy. Quite unconscious of this, Count Saxe and the rest of us watched the fire burn itself out harmlessly enough; old Peter managed to quiet the frantic servants, and we returned to the yellow room. Then the sight that met our eyes can never be forgotten by any of us. The burning soot had tumbled down the chimney, and if the bishop and Madame Riano had left their play long enough there would have been no damage done to anything.

I do not believe Madame Riano was so absorbed in her game as not to know what was going on, but I am pretty sure she had in mind the punishment of the bishop. A strong odor of burning wood pervaded 171 the room; before the flood came down the chimney there had been many falling cinders, and these had set the wainscoting smoldering just behind the bishop’s chair. The floor had been flooded, and Madame Riano, her skirts tucked about her, had drawn up her feet to the seat of her chair and sat there as cool as any warrior on the eve of battle. The bishop’s feet were in the water. He held his cards tightly, but his eye roved around and lighted up when he saw us enter, Count Saxe and Francezka in the lead. Just as we came in the smoldering wainscoting blazed up brightly. Gaston Cheverny, with his hat, dipped up water enough to put out the blaze. The bishop started and turned half round, but was recalled by Madame Riano, saying in a voice of menace and of mockery:

“Come, your Grace. It is your play. Don’t be scared by a trifle like this. My faith, you would make but a poor figure in Scotland, where we never stop our game for such trifles as fire and flood.”

At that moment Regnard Cheverny earned the bishop’s undying good-will. Taking a jug of water from one of the distracted servants, who was still running about wildly in the corridor, he emptied it full upon the card table, on which a spark or two had dropped. The bishop, too, got a drenching—for which I saw gratitude writ large on his face.

“Madame,” he said, to his antagonist, “I, too, have but slight regard for fire and flood when it interrupts a game, but necessity and my rheumatics compel me to retire and change my garments.” Which he did, and appeared no more that night.

When the bishop had taken himself and his bedraggled 172 dignity off we burst involuntarily into laughter, Count Saxe and Francezka leading. Even the little parish priest joined us. Madame Riano scowled at our laughter, until Count Saxe, with his usual good judgment, told her we were laughing at the bishop, at which she screeched with delight.

I was not surprised next morning to find that the bishop was leaving earlier than he expected. He departed in the same state in which he arrived, but I was irresistibly reminded of a conquered enemy who has been accorded the honors of war.