It was night when we reached the chÂteau of Capello. Afar off, we could see the windows blazing with lights and hear the heavenly thrilling of music. The villagers were dancing by moonlight on the village green, to the music of pipes; we heard that every night since Gaston Cheverny’s return, there had been dancing and music everywhere on the estates of Capello, as well as at the chÂteau.

When we dismounted before the great entrance, we could see that the chÂteau was full of company, and a ball was going on in the Diana gallery. Old Peter received us, and fairly burst into tears of joy when we greeted him. An army of servants were in splendid new liveries; there seemed to be no limit to waxlights, and everything was in gala.

We were shown to our rooms to change our traveling clothes, and soon descended to the red saloon, where Francezka and Gaston received their guests. I was so eager to see how Francezka bore her happiness, that I saw only her, standing at the top of the splendidly lighted room with Gaston by her side. She wore a trailing gown of white shimmering satin, and pearls and diamonds were on her matchless white throat and 351 in her rich hair. She had lost long since the air of graceful pride and innocent triumph which marked her first bright youth, and now, with all her joy, there was a soft deprecation, that in one by nature so proud as Francezka was the sweetest thing in the world. I saw all this while my master was making his compliments to Francezka, and embracing Gaston. Francezka, by that time, was looking into my face, with tears on her cheeks, and grasping my hand with both of hers, she only said:

“My dear, dear Babache—my faithful friend—”

Then she turned to Gaston, who embraced me warmly.

“Francezka has told me all, Babache,” he cried. “How can I thank you enough!”

In that brief moment I noticed that Gaston had changed much, as one might expect in those seven years of exile and misery, but not for the worse. On the contrary, I thought him a comelier man than he had ever been before. And strange, for a man who had spent seven years of hardship and labor among a half-civilized people, he bore no trace whatever of awkwardness or boorishness amid his splendid surroundings. He might just have stepped from the oeil-de-boeuf at the king’s levee at Versailles, he was so graceful and so much at ease, but he had ever been remarkable for that.

The great apartment was full of people. I recognized Madame Riano, who called me to her and spoke to me most graciously. Also, Father Benart, who had on a new cassock for the occasion. He, too, spoke to me most kindly, but he was rather subdued and silent. I judged that like the pagan Greeks of old, this Christian 352 man felt a fear for those who stood upon the shining peaks of perfect joy.

Bellegarde was not there. Francezka, somewhat unreasonably, I think, haughtily refused to see or to speak with him, and sent him a message to the effect that his life would be spared, for which he should be thankful. She was very bitter against him, but the rest of the world, including Gaston Cheverny, took a more lenient view of poor Bellegarde’s offense, and he was laughed at rather than condemned. Nor was the Bishop of Louvain present. I fancy he was afraid to face Madame Riano, after having persistently declared his conviction that Gaston Cheverny would never be again heard of, and having pooh-poohed Madame Riano’s signs, dreams and presentiments that Gaston would return.

I have said before, that although declared a prince, a Tatar prince, I have a most unprince-like habit of retiring to the wall when in fine company, and this I did in the red saloon. I could not take my eyes from Francezka. It seemed to me as if no change could come over her that did not increase her hold upon hearts. Certainly I had never at any time seen her look so beautiful or so winning as in this, her day of triumph. She disarmed envy by a silent appeal for forgiveness that she was so much happier than most of the children of men.

No woman ever lived who knew better how to be splendid than Francezka Cheverny, and she and all about her were very splendid on this night. Supper was served in state, the handsomest youths of the best families in Brabant serving at table, according to the 353 old Brabant custom. There was no want of attention to any one present—not even to me, Babache. When the company was being marshaled for supper, Gaston sought me out and secured me a partner in the person of a very old and very ugly lady of rank who, I take it, had been misled by my title, and evidently thought me a person of consideration and treated me accordingly. Francezka, of course, was escorted by Count Saxe.

The supper was very grand; the old Marquis Capello’s wine flowed like water; there was a servant in livery behind every other chair; the table was loaded with delicacies; and musicians played soft music from the gallery, the guests joining in the singing. Many old songs were sung, like the ancient Carillon du Verre, and some new ones—especially one, a song of hope, beginning, EspÈre! EspÈre, il reviendra! which particularly applied to Francezka and Gaston. I saw the eyes of Francezka and Gaston meet when this strain was sweetly played; they sat, after the French custom, opposite each other in the middle of the long table. Francezka’s eyes were those of an angel, and Gaston’s were so full of pride, of love, of triumph, that they shone like stars.

During the singing I noticed, for the first time, the slight defect of memory from which I had heard Gaston still suffered. He had formerly an agreeable voice, of no great compass or quality, but he sang with taste enough to make up for both. Many heavy hours during our days in Courland had we been soothed with Gaston’s singing to his viol; many moonlit nights on the island in Lake Uzmaiz had his voice told its story in songs. In those journeyings through France and Germany and in those long and quiet evenings in Paris 354 Gaston’s singing had been one of our great resources, but he seemed to have lost all power over both words and music, and sat quite silent while all the rest trolled forth. I do not know whether any one else observed this except myself. When the singing was at its height my master called out to me, as I sat, near the foot of the long table:

“Babache, my prince, what is the name of the song Monsieur Cheverny used to sing to us on the terrace of the island in the lake?”

“It was Blondel’s song, Monsieur,” I answered.

Francezka, with a glowing face and dewy eyes, looked at Gaston, but he looked puzzled and a little embarrassed.

“I can not recall it,” he said; “it has gone from me with the memory of other things I would remember.”

Francezka, to assist his struggling memory, softly repeated the first two lines:

It would seem as if he could not but remember how they had often sung and played it together in their golden youth, and the secret, tender meaning they had affixed to it, known only to themselves. And Francezka, in her unhappy time, had often played that air upon the harpsichord as recalling her lost love. But Gaston only shook his head.

“It is gone from me with other things—the sweetest recollections—the sacredest memories—never to return.”

“When you begin to play the guitar once more, as 355 you used,” said Francezka gently, and smiling, to encourage him, “all these songs will come back to you again.”

Gaston raised his right hand, brown and sinewy.

“This hand looks to be the same it was when I gave it you,” he said, smiling back sadly at Francezka, “but, like my memory, it is not what it once was. I can neither play the guitar nor write, nor do anything with it as I once did.”

It was sad to see so young a man in the full vigor of manhood with these cruel marks of mental and physical suffering left upon him, but on the whole, few men living could at that moment reckon themselves happier than Gaston Cheverny. If he had suffered he had certainly come into a royal recompense.

We sat late, and afterward there was dancing in the Diana gallery. Francezka walked the minuet with Count Saxe, and afterward danced in a very merry branle. She had danced since Gaston’s return, for the first time in eight years, she told me, having no heart to dance in that first year, when she was secretly Gaston Cheverny’s wife, because he was away at the wars, and having never seen dancing in those seven years of sorrow when she waited and longed for him. But she had not lost either her grace or her gaiety, and danced as she had done in her first girlhood. Madame Riano did some strange Scotch dances with great agility in spite of her sixty years, and rated everybody soundly who could not do the Scotch dances and did not know the Scotch airs.

It was midnight before the company dispersed. I did not go to my chamber, but driven by some impulse 356 stronger than myself, slipped out of the chÂteau and took my way toward a spot sure to be silent and deserted at this hour—the Italian garden.

A great bright moon rode in the heavens, making the landscape all black and silver. The yews and box trees were as dark as the darkest night, and the lake lay in its ever-present gloom shadowed by its sad cypresses and cedars, with but a shimmering of light in its center. In the deep silence its faintly mournful sound was softly heard. Francezka was happy, that was plain. All else mattered little—even a strange and hateful feeling within my own breast—I no longer loved Gaston Cheverny.

At the moment my eyes fell upon him there came upon me a sudden fading of the strong affection I had felt for him every moment of the fourteen years which had passed since that night in the garden of the Temple, when I had come near to killing him. Never had I felt so singular and mysterious an aversion toward a man I had ever loved as toward Gaston Cheverny on my first seeing him that night, and when he clasped me in his arms, with all of the old affection, this aversion became an actual repulsion. I had disguised it perfectly. I had returned his embrace warmly. All of his kind words, his friendly glances, I had met in kind; but a coldness not to be expressed in speech had come over me toward Gaston Cheverny in this, our hour of reunion. Nothing availed to warm it, not the recollection of long and close companionship, of keen adventure, of tedious months and years, lightened by each other’s companionship, of 357 community of tastes, of a high mutual esteem—nothing, nothing availed. The Gaston Cheverny of other days I still loved tenderly. This Gaston Cheverny I regarded with entire indifference. I did not fail to remind myself that seven years’ separation, as complete as if we had inhabited different worlds, might make this change, but I could not deny that the change seemed wholly on my side; for, unless he were as good an actor as I, he felt for me all the warmth of affectionate friendship which had once been ours in common. Tormented with this singular revulsion of feeling, I remained long in the garden, until my eye happening to fall on the sun dial, I was reminded there was such a thing as time, and I heard a distant bell chiming two o’clock in the morning, when I returned to the chÂteau and went to bed.

Next morning the chÂteau was awake early, and then began, in the sweet May weather, a round of festivities which lasted every day of our stay at Capello. FÊtes in the fields, in the May days; masquerades by night, with water parties on the canal, where hidden music played; and always winding up with a ball in the Diana gallery,—these were our regular occupations. In all of these pastimes Francezka shone as queen. In beauty, gaiety, grace and wit, she was unmatched. Her enjoyment and zest of pleasure were contagious. It was natural that it should be so. Francezka’s life had been so clouded and so stormy, for seven years she had borne so heavy a burden of anguish, that when at last this burden was removed and the sun shone again it was to be expected that she should have a thirst for pleasure.

And to Gaston, cut off for so many years from any communion with those of his own race, tongue and caste, it was necessary, in order to bring himself once more in touch with his own world, that he should see something of it.

Despite that coldness of the heart I felt toward him, I could not deny that Gaston Cheverny had preserved—nay, greatly developed—his gifts and graces. I had heard that the Chevernys as a family were famed for eloquence, and certainly both Gaston and Regnard Cheverny had always known how to speak well. Gaston now displayed in perfection this excellent gift. His strange adventures in the isles of the East; his description of his seven years’ battle against alien climes, peoples and conditions; his wanderings by land and sea, the steadiness with which he kept his face turned to the west, the struggles by which he finally reached Europe again—were worth hearing and lost nothing in the telling.

Many nights, after a hard day’s pleasuring, a great supper party and a ball afterward, did Gaston Cheverny keep us up until almost daylight telling us these things. Nor was he over ready to do it, but being courteously pressed by Count Saxe, or other gentlemen, he would tell us what we wished to hear. Sometimes Francezka listened to these recitals, listened with a glorified face. Her happiness was so great, so keen, that it made me fear for her. Like the little priest, Father Benart, I thought the gods would demand their tribute, and only hoped it had been paid by her seven years of anguish.

Madame Riano was staying at the chÂteau, and had not changed a whit. She had ever liked Gaston Cheverny, 359 and they seemed to be the best of friends still. But she intended shortly to return to Paris, and so invited herself to travel with Count Saxe when he should be ready to leave. Old Peter was the same faithful, devoted, sad-eyed creature as ever, but I think not unhappy after all. Lisa’s return had given the old man’s heart its natural resting place. I asked him about her, and he told me, with tears upon his withered leathery face, of her devotion to him, her uncomplaining fortitude, her humility—he did not say penitence, for Francezka told me that neither old Peter nor she herself had ever been able to get one word of regret for the past out of Lisa. I told Francezka about my chance meeting with Jacques Haret. She asked me if I had given him a good beating; Francezka was, in some respects, a vengeful woman. I told her it had not occurred to me to do this, but I would remember it if I ever met him under favorable circumstances again. He had honestly earned a beating—the only thing he ever honestly earned in his life.

Besides Peter, my other old friend at the chÂteau, Bold, seemed also changed, but for the worse. Age had fastened upon him, and he was now decrepit. That was perhaps the reason why he was not so much with his mistress as formerly, but, in truth, the whirl of the days and nights was such that a sober and discreet dog could not keep up the pace.

Now that Gaston Cheverny had been miraculously restored to his wife, people began to ask about Regnard. Count Saxe inquired of Gaston if anything was known of Regnard, but Gaston shook his head. He had not yet had time to have inquiries made about his brother, 360 but would do so. Judging, however, from such information as he had found awaiting him, it seemed likely that Regnard was dead. This Count Saxe combatted, saying it seemed to him most unlikely that an officer of rank in the East India Company’s army should die without his family or friends receiving any notification.

And if it were indeed true that Regnard was dead, his estate was worth inquiring after. The sum he had received for Castle Haret was in itself a considerable one. To this Gaston replied obstinately that he was convinced Regnard’s long silence meant that he was dead, and as soon as it was possible, inquiries should be set on foot in England to find out all the facts connected with Regnard’s fate. In spite of this, however, I saw that Gaston was really indifferent to his brother’s fate, and remembering their unclouded intimacy and affection, in spite of their rivalry for Francezka, I found this surprising. It was the first genuine cause I had for loving Gaston Cheverny less, because his warmth and kindness to me suffered no variation.

I had not, of course, much chance for private talk with Francezka during that week of dancing and feasting, but I felt she was too loyal a soul to forget me in her hour of triumph, and would not let me depart without some evidence of her unchanged regard. On the morning of our departure I rose early, according to custom, and went forth. It was but little past sunrise, and a delicate fine rain, as thin as a muslin veil, was falling. The earth and the blooming plants were drinking it up eagerly; it was so gentle that it would not roughly strike the most delicate flower. I walked about the 361 gardens and terraces, and then went toward the Italian garden, which always seemed to be consecrated to Francezka. I was scarcely surprised, early as it was, to see her walking up and down the box walk, with Bold by her side. She had the hood of her crimson mantle drawn over her head, and was walking slowly up and down, a branch of roses in her hand. Her face was not joyful, but rather meditative, and it made my heart leap to see how it lighted up when she saw me within a yard of her.

“I did not mean to let you slip away, Babache, without one private word with you,” she cried, as I joined her. “I thought if I came out here I should probably find you. See how strong is habit. Here I am, walking and watching with my dog and my friend, just as I have done for seven years past, and he for whom I watched and waited—my best beloved—is safe at home; and yet I come always once a day to this spot, and give thanks. And I thank God for you and Bold. You know, it is high praise to be classed with Bold.”

“I know it, Madame,” said I, “and Bold is a happy dog now that his master is come home.”

Francezka’s brow clouded a little, and she looked about her to be sure that no gardeners or possible eavesdroppers were near.

“No,” she said gravely, even with a little quiver of her lip. “Bold is not a happy dog. He did not know his master, and does not know him now, and to think of how Bold and I loved and watched and waited for seven years—how many conversations we had about Gaston—and how Bold always assured me that his master 362 would return. I think he was not less comforting than you, and much more encouraging. And now he cares nothing—he even snarls at Gaston—”

She looked reproachfully at the old dog, trotting by her side. He was aged, but he had not lost his sight, or his teeth, or his native good sense, for at the charge brought against him he looked his mistress steadily in the eye, and then coolly turned off, as much as to say:

“If you choose to complain of me to Captain Babache, at least I scorn to defend myself.”

“It must have been very hard on Gaston,” I said, “for he ever loved the dog so much.”

“No,” replied Francezka, as if she were communicating some great sorrow to me. “Gaston cares no more for Bold than Bold cares for Gaston. What do you think—now, will you promise me to keep this a secret?”

“Yes.”

She came closer to me, and fixing her eyes on me with tragic intensity, said in the voice of the broken-hearted:

“Gaston had forgotten his dog!”

It was like Francezka to make a huge mountain of a thing like this. Therefore, I replied gravely:

“That is very sad and very bad, but at least, Gaston remembered you. And after all, Madame, you did attach a ridiculous consequence to the dog.”

“Did I?” cried Francezka, with the first flash of her old resentful imperious spirit that I had yet seen breaking out. “A ridiculous consequence to the creature my husband left me to be my friend and companion during his absence? And told me whenever I looked into 363 Bold’s faithful eyes I was to see his—Gaston’s—faith reflected there, for dogs never forget! And was not Bold the only living thing, except yourself, who gave me any comfort in these last seven years? Really, Babache, I can not love you any longer, if you say such things.”

It was a trifle, but I saw that the indifference between Bold and his master troubled her.

“Do you know, Madame,” said I, “that when one reaches the very heights of happiness—near the blue heavens—the least little speck of unhappiness is visible?”

“True,” replied Francezka, her somber eyes brightening. “To think, after what I have suffered for seven years that I let this trifle—yes, Babache, your word was the right one—give me one clouded moment. But—” her eyes were darkened again; “no one walks those heights of happiness long. It is only for a short time that one can live in that too pure air. The old Greeks knew this.”

“Madame,” said I, “give me leave to say that you have lived too much with your own thoughts and emotions for your own good. No human being, least of all a sensitive woman, could have endured what you have for so long without retaining some marks of it. So, although I am only Babache, a savage Tatar prince, the son of a poor notary in the Marais, yet, take my advice: be happy when you have achieved your heart’s desire and trouble not yourself with old dogs or old Greeks, either.”

Francezka’s face suddenly dimpled into smiles. The sun came out radiantly at that moment, and the grass 364 and trees, diamond hung, glittered in the golden sheen of the morning. The earth seemed new-born; life and joy seemed new created. Francezka looked toward the chÂteau and waved her hands to Gaston, on his way to the stables. He turned and came toward her. I could not but remark how comely a man he was. He had never been a beautiful creature, like poor silly Bellegarde, but a good figure of a man, with regular and well-marked features, full of grace and intelligence. In a minute or two he had joined us. I had not before noticed the behavior of Gaston and the dog to each other, but now I observed that when Gaston approached, Bold exhibited an active dislike toward his former master.

His bristles rose, he showed his teeth, and in spite of Francezka’s command, and even entreaty, he trotted off and would not return. I have always been sensitive to the dislike of dogs, believing them to be better judges of character than men are. But Gaston Cheverny did not seem to mind Bold’s disaffection; he was satisfied with Francezka’s constancy.

We remained a pleasant hour in the Italian garden. Gaston was, as he had been from the first, kind and courteous to me; pressed me to return in the autumn for the wolf hunting, which is one of the great sports of the region, and thanked me again for what I had been enabled to do for Francezka in his absence. When we returned to the chÂteau the sun was high, but Count Saxe had not yet left his room. He had then acquired the habit of lying late abed, except when he was in the field. Then he never slept at all, so his enemies said.

Madame Riano had threatened to accompany us back 365 to Paris, but we were not sure whether she would go or not. Paris dragged her one way, the hope of meeting the Bishop of Louvain and triumphing over him, dragged her the other. But we saw her great traveling chaise hauled out of the coach house and her people busy, so we were not surprised when she met us and announced that she, with her maids and her maÎtre d’hÔtel, was ready to start with us. I allowed Beauvais to communicate this intelligence to Count Saxe, not liking to be the bearer of bad news, and I heard my master swearing furiously in his bedroom. But when he appeared in traveling dress, at ten o’clock, he was smiling and polite as usual, and expressed great joy at being allowed to journey in Madame Riano’s suite. Count Saxe was a prudent as well as a courageous man, and he never belittled his antagonists, least of all Madame Riano. He often said he reckoned Madame Riano to be the first warrior of the age with Prince Eugene and Marshal the Duke of Berwick a considerable distance behind.

At ten o’clock the start was made, Madame Riano in her traveling chaise leading. She bade an affectionate farewell to Francezka and a kindly one to Gaston, placed her hÔtel in Paris at their disposal whenever they wished to come to Paris, said adieu to old Peter, sent poor Lisa a gold piece and a terrible denunciation, mounted into her chaise and started.

I had said farewell to Francezka several times in the last few years from the terrace, when she stood alone and lonely, but with undaunted courage and undying hope. Now that hope and courage were rewarded; she stood with Gaston by her side, the two happiest creatures 366 on earth. That last vision of Francezka in her beauty and happiness haunted me like a ravishing strain of music in a lovely dream.

When we had traveled a couple of stages Madame Riano invited Count Saxe to ride in her chaise, an honor which he dared not decline. Next day it was my turn. I loathe riding in a stuffy chaise, full of packages and waiting maids, but, like my master, needs must when Madame Riano drives. The first question she asked of me amazed me.

“What think you,” said she, “of my nephew Gaston Cheverny?”

“What I always thought,” I replied. “An admirable man.”

“Nevertheless,” replied Madame Riano, “you loved him once. You love him no longer.”

That was the worst of this terrible old lady. She always found out the awkward truths and proclaimed them at inconvenient seasons. I made no reply to this, and she continued:

“Men grow hard with time. It is vain to expect of a man separated from you for seven years, and but three and thirty years of age, the same sensibility he had when he was six and twenty and had spent many preceding years in your company.”

This was true, and I had often said so to myself, so I told Madame Riano.

“As for yourself, Babache,” continued this indomitable woman, “you are like old Peter, only fit to love and forgive and lay your heart down to be trampled on.”

“Madame, I have laid my heart at the feet of two persons only,” replied I, with spirit; “one is my master, 367 Count Saxe. Surely he never trampled on it. The other is Madame Cheverny, whom I have reverenced ever since I first knew her, and with whom, by the strange turns of fate, I have been much cast for some years.”

“Count Saxe and my niece do not tread on you because they both have noble natures. If they were otherwise now—”

“I should not have had for them the reverent love I cherish, had they been otherwise,” I answered, and just then, Madame Riano taking snuff, she gave a stupendous sneeze that nearly shook the chaise to pieces and actually jarred the door open; so I slipped out, mounted my horse and was glad to lay my legs across his back once more.

I had never mentioned to Count Saxe any change I saw in Gaston Cheverny, for indeed, I saw none—I only felt it. On that Paris journey, however, we talked together much concerning Francezka and her strange fate; and I found that Count Saxe, like myself, saw a subtile and unpleasing change in Gaston. But Francezka was happy—that was enough. Nothing could matter very much so long as Francezka smiled.