Next morning, as usual, I was up early, and walked down to the village. There I found Father Benart, the good little man, just coming out of the church. He told me he had got word that his brother, the bishop, was coming to visit him and Madame Cheverny that day, and he knew a sharp disappointment was in store for the bishop when he should find Madame Riano absent. Then Father Benart asked me some very intelligent questions about Count Saxe’s exploits in the Rhine campaigns. As we talked we walked along a narrow road by a field, in which some women were at work, digging and planting. Among the workers I recognized at once the unfortunate Lisa. She was poorly but cleanly clad, and although it was plain she labored hard, she was inexpert, and did not accomplish a great deal.

All of the women, except Lisa, were coarse peasant women, with stout arms and legs, broad backs, and but little inferior in physical strength to men. Lisa, on the contrary, was more delicate, more thin and pale than she had ever been before. She worked steadily, neither turning to the right nor to the left, not even when one of the women pointed to her and uttered a jeer, which was greeted with coarse laughter. Her 320 pale face colored faintly, but she made no response, going on with her work. Father Benart opened his mouth to call out a reproof to the women, who joined in taunting the unfortunate girl, but changed his mind.

“No,” he said aloud, “it is just that she should bear her punishment, and this public shame may save some other girl from the same downward path, but God is more merciful than man.”

While we were standing in the road beside the field we saw a great, lumbering coach approaching, which the little priest at once recognized as that of his brother, the bishop. His Grace had not been expected until the afternoon, but here he was at eight o’clock in the morning. I suspected the bishop had not enjoyed a very good lodging the night before. When the coach drew near we saw the bishop sitting in it alone. As soon as it was close enough it was stopped, and the bishop called to his brother, invited him to step within, and recognizing me as the Tatar prince with whom he was acquainted, extended the same civility to me. We both accepted and mounted into the coach, which proceeded toward the chÂteau of Capello, where his Grace said he was going on a particular errand. I fancied the bishop preferred the cookery of the chÂteau to that of Father Benart’s housekeeper.

His Grace had sharp eyes, and had observed the scene going on in the fields, about which he inquired. Father Benart told him it was Lisa, with whose story the bishop was perfectly acquainted.

“That is one of the things that I wish especially to speak to you about,” said the bishop to Father Benart, in the tone of a schoolmaster and without regarding 321 my presence in the least. “My brother, it is with grief that I learn of what has been going on in your parish of late, of the sin and evil behavior.”

“Alas, my brother,” responded Father Benart gravely, “there is always sin and evil behavior of some sort in this parish, and I greatly fear, until mankind is totally changed from what it has ever been, that a certain portion of sin and evil behavior must abide with us.”

The bishop scowled.

“I fear you do not precisely understand me, brother. I refer particularly to the case of Peter Embden’s niece, who, I hear, has returned here, and has not only had all her sins forgiven, but forgotten, as it were. And I recognize the girl yonder flaunting her shame in the face of honest women.”

Father Benart silently pointed out of the coach window to Lisa in the distance, her thin form outlined against the bright sky of a May morning. She was a picture of patience and penitence. The bishop, however, although he was not a cruel man, loved to scold, and proceeded to harangue Father Benart, who listened patiently and replied:

“The unfortunate girl is a shining example of God’s grace. She tells me—and I have ever found her truthful, having known her from her infancy—that finding herself deserted by that villain of villains, Jacques Haret, she had but one thought—to drown herself—and, as she walked along the brink of a river with this thought in her heart, God’s light came to her; she saw it would be but to heap sin on sin, and a voice within her bade her return to her uncle, who had suffered so much for her sin. And so, struggling against the Spirit of 322 Evil, which made her dread this place worse than any in the world, she came back; came back half starved, half clothed, and arriving at nightfall, went to Peter Embden’s door, and offered to go or to stay, as he should wish. And he, a gentle and forgiving man, bade her, as did our Lord and Saviour, to sin no more, and took her again under his roof. Then, coming early next morning to ask of me what he should do, being greatly troubled in his mind, I said to him to treat this poor sinner as he himself would wish to be treated at the Last Day. So he has given her bread and shelter since.”

“Very reprehensible,” cried the bishop. “Such lapses should be punished, punished with severity, and Madame Cheverny, wilful and impractical woman that she is, disdaining advice from all, abetted you in this, for the girl could not have remained in Peter’s house without Madame Cheverny’s consent.”

“True,” said Father Benart. “Of course Peter was obliged to ask Madame Cheverny’s consent. I did not even think it necessary to remind him of that. And as to Madame Cheverny’s asking advice, I know of no one who has managed affairs so successfully as Madame Cheverny. We might all of us ask advice of her in many things.”

The air of humility with which the little priest said this convinced me that he was a wit disguised in his rusty cassock. The bishop did not relish the implication in his brother’s speech, and resumed with some choler.

“I presume that headstrong woman, Peggy Kirkpatrick, who wishes to be thought Jove in petticoats, 323 went about the parish counseling all the young women to follow Lisa Embden’s example.”

“I can not inform you on that point, brother,” replied Father Benart, “I have not cognizance of all Madame Riano says and does.”

“She is a great trial of my patience,” said the bishop. “She is the thorn in my flesh like unto the one that St. Paul prayed seven times that he might be delivered from. I should come oftener to the chÂteau of Capello, but for the unpleasant chance of meeting Peggy Kirkpatrick.”

“You will not meet her this time, brother. She is in Luxembourg.”

At once the bishop’s countenance fell, but he recovered himself sufficiently to express satisfaction that Madame Riano was in Luxembourg. He then went on to say, taking me as well as his brother into his confidence, that one object of his visit was to induce Francezka to give up all hope of her husband’s return, and, putting on mourning, to comport herself as a widow should. I could not help compassionating the bishop when he said this, knowing what he was likely to receive. He consulted with Father Benart whether he should admonish Francezka in public or in private. Father Benart reflected a moment before he answered. We were then driving along the splendid avenue of lindens toward the chÂteau, which sat in fairy beauty on its terraces, the morning sun gilding its white faÇade, the canal sparkling in the light, the grass freshly green—all, all, lovely to excess. After a pause, Father Benart spoke:

“It is a painful and delicate subject, brother, and 324 but little can be safely said upon it. I think it best, perhaps, if you are determined to speak, to do so in the presence of a third person.”

The little priest told me afterward, that he was afraid, if the bishop undertook to harangue Francezka in private, he would get such a reception that his ears would burn for a week; and he looked to the third person to restrain Francezka’s tongue, which was somewhat free on all occasions.

By that time we had dismounted from the coach. Francezka was not awaiting the bishop at the top of the terrace, which seemed to annoy him. He forgot that he had arrived some hours in advance of the time.

Count Saxe, however, was strolling about enjoying the fragrance of the morning. The bishop had not seen him since our return from Courland, and, by some accident, had never been enlightened as to his real name and rank. It was not without secret amusement that I introduced him to the bishop, who instantly recognized his old acquaintance. His Grace was a moving sight at the moment. His face fell, his eye wandered aimlessly around as he muttered to himself:

“Count Saxe—Count Saxe—and is it possible I did not know that he was Count Saxe?”

“I think not, Monseigneur,” replied Count Saxe, “else your Grace would not have criticized my expedition into Courland so freely before my face.”

The bishop’s chagrin was a little mitigated by Francezka’s appearance at that moment. She greeted him courteously, apologized for her delay in appearing, and had old Peter to show the bishop to his apartment, where he might repose himself until dinner time. 325 Count Saxe made some excuse to be absent from dinner, and when the hour came, only Francezka, the bishop, Father Benart, Madame Chambellan and myself sat down together.

As soon as it was over, and we had retired to the red saloon, the bishop intimated he had something of a particular nature to say to Francezka.

“Then, will your Grace say it here?” said Francezka, who knew the bishop’s propensity for haranguing, and reckoned, as Father Benart had done in her own case, upon Father Benart to restrain the bishop. She continued: “All of the friends present are close to me, and conversant with my affairs—hence, no harm can come of your Grace’s speaking openly.”

I saw the calmness of her manner, and her air of gentle expectancy somewhat disconcerted the bishop, who perhaps found women disconcerting creatures.

“Madame, my friend,” began the bishop, following the advice of Horatius Flaccus, and plunging into the middle of things, “I have come upon a painful errand. Reproof is always painful to me.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

As Francezka said this, there was a gleam in her eyes like laughter. And PÈre Benart took out his handkerchief and coughed violently.

“Reproof, I say, is painful to me,” repeated the bishop blandly, “but I should be a renegade to my duty, if I spared you, my child, in order to spare myself. First, I must complain of the actual encouragement you give to vice by permitting that niece of Peter Embden’s to remain in his house, which is your property.”

“I do it, your Grace,” replied Francezka, sweetly, 326 and with a glance at Father Benart, “by the express advice of my director.”

And then, with folded hands, she sat demurely looking down, and leaving Father Benart to shoulder the burden alone. The good bishop saw that he had two recalcitrants to deal with instead of one; so, like other weak, well-meaning men, he resorted to bluster when reason did not suggest itself to him.

“It is my opinion,” he said, raising his voice, “that Lisa Embden should be sent out of this parish—sent to some city, where her past is not known, and where she can give no scandal.”

Francezka turned sweetly to her accomplice, and said:

“You hear that, Father Benart? The bishop looks to you to enforce this.”

Father Benart said not a word, but raising his eyes to the ceiling, seemed to be absorbed either in prayer or in uncomplimentary speculation about his brother. The bishop, who was not quite a fool, saw that he had not gained his point. He then charged again, but this time against another position.

“We will speak later of this affair of Lisa. To come now to something more nearly concerning yourself. While your loyal devotion to your husband, and your constant expectation of his return, do your heart infinite honor, Madame, it is not equally flattering to your head. As Swift, an English writer says, reason goes to cuffs with imagination, and fancy gets astride of judgment. For, distressing as it is to me to say it, I must tell you that Monsieur Gaston Cheverny will never return.”

Francezka grew a little pale at these words, but rallied after a moment, speaking courteously.

“Such is your Grace’s opinion. But you can not expect Gaston Cheverny’s wife to be the first to give up hoping for him.”

“By no means. But—Madame Cheverny—you are a widow—and you should conduct yourself as such. You should put on mourning, and place the affairs of your husband before the courts, that they may be settled. In short—pardon the form in which I put it—but you are a widow and should conduct yourself as such.”

“In that case, I should be at liberty to marry again,” coolly remarked Francezka. “Would your Grace recommend me to that?”

The bishop fairly jumped from his chair.

“Great God! No, Madame! It would give frightful scandal!”

“But, Monseigneur, you say that I am a widow—that I should wear mourning. At least be consistent.”

The bishop, swelling with wrath, rose and walked twice, thrice up and down the room. I fancied he was saying in his mind—Was there ever so vexatious a creature as this Francezka? She never had any proper respect for authority! And there sat that easy young brother of his, smiling at his discomfiture—the discomfiture of a bishop!

Francezka remained silent for a little while, and when she spoke it was with seriousness.

“Your Grace asks me to give up the hope on which I live. I can not do it. My husband may be dead, but I have not been able to secure the smallest proof of it. 328 It has been four years since he disappeared. But we know of strange disappearances lasting much longer. And can you ask me—his wife, who adores him—to believe him dead unless I have proof of it? No! a thousand times no!”

She rose and her face and eyes were flooded with color and light, as she stood facing the bishop.

“Do not again speak to me of putting on mourning. When I do that, then indeed is life over for me—all hope, all joy, forever dead. And do you suppose I care that idle people wonder at me? I am too busy to care for anything but my husband’s return; I have my estates to manage—a heavy task for a woman. And I am determined that if my husband returns, he shall find not only a great estate to his hand, but an accomplished wife to his mind. Look at this proof of my study and endeavor!”

She threw open the door which communicated with the little yellow room, where she spent most of her time. The walls were lined with books, and there were several musical instruments in the room.

“There do I read and study daily. Gaston Cheverny was ever fond of books—fonder than I, carried away as I was with the pleasures of life. He must often have felt the want of knowledge on my part. He shall not feel it so, when he returns. And does your Grace see yonder harpsichord? When my husband last saw me, I played but fairly well on it. Now, I spend a part of every day before it, and I am a skilled performer. And I dress every day in silk—for Gaston’s sake. For he may come to me at any moment, and I do not wish him 329 to find me a frowsy creature, but a wife worthy of him. To be that, I must be ever well dressed, well read, well behaved—such, I hope I am.”

The flood of her vehemence arrested the bishop’s impatient walk. Father Benart sighed a little, as any one might, at this poor, human heart of Francezka’s, laid bare, and beating desperately against the fate that seemed closing around her. Neither one of them spoke immediately, nor did I. No one of us present knew how to answer Francezka. After a considerable pause, the bishop said, not unkindly:

“I perceive my counsel has been in vain. I must depart.”

Francezka, then, mindful of her duties as chatelaine, pressed him to remain, or at least to take some refreshment before leaving. To the last he agreed.

Peter, in response to a ring of the bell, brought a tray, with wine and glasses. At the first sip of wine, the bishop’s countenance cleared. He was a judge of wines and that in his glass was worthy even of the Bishop of Louvain.

“This is admirable—the best of the Mosel vineyards,” he said.

“Yes,” sweetly replied Francezka. “I stocked the cellar last year with good wine at a reasonable price—” which she named.

The bishop blinked his eyes at her. How came it, that she, a woman, should have so good a head? And being practical in the purchase of wine and the management of affairs should be so impractical concerning her missing husband? However, the bishop would depart, 330 so he said adieu to us all, and accompanied by Father Benart, went away, to spend the night at the priest’s house.

I made no remark about the bishop’s visit, but I saw that it was not without its effect on Francezka, in spite of her spirited protest to his Grace. She was more silent all of that day than I had yet seen her, and there was a heart-breaking look in her eyes that went to my heart, and also to the heart of the dog, Bold; for, seeing her pensive, he rose from his place at her feet, and laid his head, with a little whine of sympathy, upon her lap. For once, Francezka forgot to notice him. Her eyes were fixed on something afar which yet she saw not, and I heard her murmur:

“Oh, my tired heart!”

Father Benart told me afterward, the conclusion of the bishop’s concern about Lisa. The little priest did not tell it me exactly as I repeat it; but what I had seen of his Grace supplied all details. His defeat at Francezka’s hands determined him on punishing somebody, and Father Benart and Lisa being convenient, they became the natural objects of the bishop’s righteous indignation. In the evening, after his arrival at his brother’s house, the bishop told Father Benart that he felt it his duty to speak to Lisa Embden—he was fearful that the girl’s soul would be lost for want of counsel and reproof. Father Benart, without protesting, said that he would send for Lisa in the morning. Next morning, when the bishop was having his breakfast in the garden, Lisa appeared. This brazen creature, as the bishop chose to esteem her, looked anything but brazen. With every indication of privations undergone, 331 and with her poor clothes, Lisa was a very good exemplification that the wages of sin is death.

The bishop calling up his sternest accents said:

“I know what your sin has been—are you truly penitent for it?”

Lisa made a faint sound, indicating her penitence.

“And are you willing to do penance for it?”

Lisa inclined her head, and trembled.

“Your sin has been very great. Your behavior no doubt was light, such as to encourage Jacques Haret or any other evil man.”

Lisa raised her eyes to the bishop’s face, and said gently:

“Sir, I can not say that. However wicked I was, at least I was not wicked in that way.”

“But you must have been,” replied the bishop, with the calm confidence of ignorance. “And the misery you endured while persisting in your sinful courses, was God’s punishment.”

“But, sir,” said Lisa, still calmly, “I was not miserable then. I was the happiest of God’s creatures.”

“Impossible!” cried the bishop, starting from his chair, as he had done the day before, in the interview with that other obstinate woman, Francezka Cheverny.

Lisa did not contradict the bishop, but the bishop saw that his denial of the fact had not really affected that fact.

“Do you mean to tell me,” thundered the bishop, “that you were happy in the society of your partner in guilt?”

“Yes, sir.”

The bishop dropped back in his chair. What problems 332 were these parish affairs anyway! Here was a girl, persisting in saying she had been happy in guilt, when the bishop knew—or thought he knew—that all sinners were miserable!

“But at least you are not happy now?”

“No, sir.”

“And why?”

“Because,” replied poor Lisa, with the utmost simplicity, “I can never see Monsieur Jacques Haret again.”

“You may go.”

Lisa turned and walked rapidly away.

Soon after that I passed through the village, and noticed the bishop’s coach in front of the priest’s modest house. The two brothers were coming out of the door. Father Benart was saying:

“There are many inexplicable things in a country parish, my brother. It is not in my power to make Lisa Embden, or any other creature, feel happiness in the pursuit of good. If I can keep them a little out of the path of evil, it is all I can hope for.”

“I am of the belief,” cried the bishop, “that one self-willed and unruly woman like Peggy Kirkpatrick can put insubordination into the head of a young woman, like Francezka Cheverny—Francezka, in her turn, can implant it in her dependents. There seems to be a general lack of discipline among the women in your parish, brother.”

“True,” replied Father Benart, “and I take it that Madame Riano is to blame for Lisa Embden’s lapse from virtue.”

The bishop glared at his brother—Father Benart 333 standing, smiling and blinking in the sun. The bishop then noticed me, but I was no restraint upon him, for he plunged into a long and severe discourse upon the evils Father Benart was bringing upon his parish by allowing the women in it to do pretty much as they pleased. Father Benart meekly excused himself by saying that he could not help it. The bishop, however, showed that he had not a bad heart, by leaving a dozen gold louis, which he directed should be spent on the poor of the parish—at the same time sternly commanding that not one penny should be spent on the chief of sinners, Lisa Embden. Father Benart accepted this dole with a twinkle in his eye and solemnly promised that Lisa should not have a penny of it.

But a few days more remained of our stay. It passed quietly, in sweet and gentle converse, and with books and music. The change continued in Francezka after the bishop’s visit. He was a man of little weight, and she had frankly treated him as such, but his belief that Gaston Cheverny was no more, which she had treated with scorn, had yet left its impress on her; perhaps because people of more sense than the bishop had been more guarded and tender with her. But when we bade her good by, she said to us:

“Remember, Count Saxe and Babache, if you are my friends, you will never forget to make inquiry of each and every person you meet, from whom it would be possible to hear of my husband. For myself, once, every day, shall I go to the spot in the Italian garden which overlooks the highroad, to watch for my heart’s desire—and if he never returns—”

She paused and her eyes filled, and she quoted from some book she had lately been reading:

“Man is based on hope; he has, properly, no other possession but hope; this habitation of his is named the place of hope.”

Her eyes, as she said this, grew dark with melancholy, but there was still an undying courage shining in them. Poor, poor Francezka!