"Babache, that would have angered any woman on earth, and as you know, I am not the most long-suffering person in the world. So I said: 'Oh, no, you mistake me, Monsieur. My chief object was to bind your brother to me--for I love him so much that I could not bear the thought that he should go away without forging a chain that would bring him back to me!'"

Francezka, still unconsciously acting her part, said this with such a depth of feeling, such love, devotion, admiration for Gaston Cheverny expressed in every tone of her voice, every glance of her eye, that it must have been wormwood to a haughty, jealous and disappointed man like Regnard Cheverny. And I made not the slightest doubt that she rather enjoyed Regnard's humiliation.

"I perceive, Madame," I answered, "that ladies can be cruel as well as pitiful to a man who loves them."

"Perhaps so," replied Francezka, sitting again, and leaning her head pensively on her hand. The dog had not stirred a foot from her in this time, and was watching her with a human look of love and intelligence in his tawny eyes. "And then Regnard, mastering his rage, said to me:

"'I thought your coldness to me came from a careless and heedless indifference of an untouched heart. Now I know it to be the steady deception of a woman already a wife. I could not forget this if I would, and I would not forget it if I could. I have the honor to bid you adieu, Madame Cheverny.' And he walked off, looking so like Gaston! And then I suddenly began to feel frightened at being frightened--do you know that feeling?"

"Yes," I replied. "It is the form that fear takes with the brave."

"I had thought," said Francezka, "that I was exempt from fear, and now I find it is my lot, just as much as any one's, to feel fear as one feels heat or cold or thirst. But fear is the most terrible thing on earth. And now, Babache, I have opened all my heart to you. It has been so comforting!"

We talked some time longer. As it seemed the likeliest thing in the world that I should see Gaston Cheverny shortly, it was agreed that she should prepare a packet for me that night, which I would take with me next morning.

The purple twilight had fallen before we quitted the Italian garden, and went to the chateau. Old Peter was glad to see me, and at supper I met Madame Chambellan, the ancient _dame de compagnie_, warranted not to interfere in any way with those she was supposed to watch over. She promptly went to sleep as soon as supper was over, when we went to the little yellow saloon. This room, Francezka had lined with books. I found she was fast becoming learned. Her naturally active mind must exercise itself on something in solitude, and she seized upon books and music with avidity. I found out that nothing so far had been heard of poor Lisa, although Jacques Haret had been seen of late in Brussels. Francezka was firmly of the belief that the burning of Gaston Cheverny's house had been instigated by that scoundrel of a Jacques Haret, in revenge for the beating Gaston had given him.

We remained late, and after old Peter had shown me to my former chamber, I had some wakeful hours. I sat at the window, looking out upon the gardens, the lake, all bathed in the mellow moonlight of a May night. And I saw certain things by "the moonlight of memory." So Francezka's wild heart had found rest at last, and it rejoiced me. But deep in my own heart was the sense of loss--the loss of those dreams wherein Francezka was mine. One often suffers more from the loss of the ideal than the real. And feeling this, I fell asleep, sitting at the open window, and had the loveliest dream I had yet had of Francezka. When I awakened, the moon had gone down, the air had turned chill and I was oppressed with that strange feeling which comes from physical discomfort when one is asleep. A light glowed from Francezka's window, and I saw her graceful figure bending over her writing table. She wore a white negligee of some sort, and her long dark hair flowed free. She had probably risen from her bed to add something to the packet she was preparing for Gaston. Soon her light was put out, and tough soldier though I am, I was glad to get into the great, soft bed provided for me.

I was to start at sunrise, and when my horse was led out next morning, Francezka was down to bid me good by. She gave me a thick packet for Gaston, saying:

"Tell him I am well, and as happy as ever I can be, away from him. And that to see you, Babache, was as good as medicine to the sick. Do not forget that, I charge you."

When I parted from her, she wore a smile of happy expectancy--a look of jocund hope was in her dewy eyes. I never saw that expression again on the face of Francezka Capello.

CHAPTER XXI

THE SERVICE OF A FRIEND

I joined Count Saxe at Brussels. I had only been away from him thirty-six hours, but when I presented myself before him he clasped me in his arms and cried:

"Babache, I am nine times as glad to see you as the Duke of Berwick was to see me, the time he told me he would rather see me than the reinforcement of three thousand men he had asked for!"

Was it strange I loved this man?

On reaching Strasburg, my first inquiry was for Gaston Cheverny; and to my great joy, I found he had returned. It had been determined by the Duke of Berwick to send Count Saxe's regiment, with certain others, to Huningen, a good day and a half's march from Strasburg, and Gaston Cheverny, with other officers, was at Huningen already.

When we rode into town, the night had fallen. We found without trouble the house where our officers were quartered, and riding up to the door, dismounted--and there stood Gaston Cheverny.

It had been more than six months since I had seen him, and he had not had a Mantuan winter of it; but he looked singularly well, and was overjoyed to be with the clear-the-way boys once more. He led us into the house, where supper was already on the table, and the other officers were a.s.sembled. At the first chance I had, which was when we were about to sit down to table, I handed Gaston the packet given me by Francezka. At once he said to Count Saxe:

"Sir, I beg that you will excuse me while I read my letters brought me by Captain Babache."

"Since when have you eaten, Gaston Cheverny?" asked my master.

"At noon, Monsieur."

"And you are not hungry?"

"I am as hungry as a wolf."

"Then sit you down and eat, and not until you have supped shall you read a single line of love."

Gaston, very sulky, sat down. Count Saxe and the rest of us laughed at him. Gaston still sulked, but managed to eat a good supper, and drink his share of wine. He did not smile until near the end. Count Saxe, raising his gla.s.s, drank to a pair of bright eyes in Brabant, at which the young man chose to smile; and after drinking the toast was suffered to depart with his treasure.

Count Saxe not needing my services, I presently went to Gaston's room.

He was seated at a rude table, with a single candle on it, devouring Francezka's letter. He put it in his breast when I entered.

"Now," he cried, joyfully, "tell me all about her--every word, every look of hers while you were with her. And she writes me that she has confided all to you."

"She did--and whenever I called her Madame Cheverny, a smile like the morning shone upon her face."

His face, too, was glowing, and he said:

"You see, there was nothing to be done but that we should be married.

We had, so to speak, no choice."

To this I answered:

"Madame Cheverny gave another reason to me; she said it was because she loved you so much she could not let you go away unpledged to her."

Gaston laughed a joyous laugh, and then I told him faithfully all Francezka had said and done while I was at the chateau.

"And did she say anything of my brother? For I know that he has seen her many times since I have," Gaston asked, after we had talked together for a long time.

Count Saxe always said there was something between my eyes which told just what was pa.s.sing in my mind. I was not prepared for this question of Gaston Cheverny's; it confused me, and I showed it.

"I see," he said, after a moment. "Regnard has been pursuing Francezka. But, no doubt, she has told him, as she was quite at liberty to do, of our marriage. It is only the public knowledge of it that would place her in jeopardy. Well, the secret is safe enough with Regnard. He is deeply chagrined. I feel for him, because he is my brother; but in love and war, one must learn to face defeat."

Then he asked after his dog, and all I had to tell him contented him very much.

By that time it was ten o'clock. It was Gaston Cheverny's custom, as well as mine, to walk a little out of doors every night before we slept, so we walked together on the bank of the river. The night was sultry and starless; it looked as if there would be rain on the morrow. All was still and sleeping in the little town. In our own quarters, a low stone house, there was no light. Count Saxe was weary with his long day's ride, and had gone to bed immediately after supper. The other officers had followed his example. It seemed as if the whole world slept, except Gaston Cheverny and me. We walked up and down the river bank under a lowering night sky speaking but little, and that mostly of Francezka.

Gaston had the same golden hopes that Francezka had. Beautiful visions of their future life arose before him. He was full of a n.o.ble enthusiasm for his profession and looked to achieving distinction as a counterbalance to Francezka's fortune. Like Francezka, he seemed to have fallen into that dazzling error that Fate was under bond to favor them.

When, at last, we turned our steps toward the house, Gaston stopped for a moment on the threshold, and said:

"But what if misfortune befall? Francezka will no more forget me than I shall forget her--and when I forget her, may G.o.d forget me." These were his final words.

I went to my chamber, and was soon asleep upon my camp bed. I awakened about two o'clock in the morning with a strange feeling that something disastrous had happened. The rain was falling heavily--a summer rain that fell in great drops musically upon the thirsty ground and the trees in full leaf. So strong was the feeling of apprehension upon me that I rose quietly, slipped on my clothes, and opened the door to Count Saxe's room. He was lying in his bed, sound asleep. The window was wide open--for the night had been uncomfortably warm. It occurred to me how easy it would be to kidnap Count Saxe; there were but three sentries about the place, the rest of the small body of twenty soldiers being quartered some distance away, to guard the hay stores.

I determined to speak to Count Saxe next morning, upon the rashness of remaining at Huningen under those risky circ.u.mstances. I had often laughed behind Madame Riano's back at what she called presentiments, but this sudden waking, this seeing, all at once, a very present danger which had escaped everybody's notice, seemed to me uncomfortably like those supernatural warnings which Madame Riano was always talking about. However, I concluded to take perfectly natural means to satisfy myself there was no danger brewing, and so went to Gaston Cheverny's room. It was quite dark, and I lighted a candle with my flint and steel. He was not in his bed, and it had not been slept in. A chair, in which he had evidently been sitting, was pushed back from the table, on which were papers and a letter sealed and addressed to Francezka. The one window of the room, which looked upon the river, was wide open, and as I went to it, above the steady downpour of the rain I heard some faint noises on the river bank.

I went out, and called to the sentry, giving the countersign. There was no answer--for there was no sentry. I gave the alarm instantly, and at the same moment I heard distinctly the grating oars in their rowlocks, and the sound of a boat pulling off from the sh.o.r.e. Lights shone in the house. Count Saxe, half dressed, was the first person out of it. The other officers came running with lanterns. We found the three sentries lying on the gra.s.s at some distance from each other, bound and gagged. By that time, the guards at the hay ricks, a quarter of a mile off, had seen the commotion, and were on hand. At once, the river bank was searched. Every man was accounted for, except Gaston Cheverny; but in a few minutes, a squad of soldiers returned from the river bank hauling a young Austrian officer with them. His uniform was all mud, and his face and hands were liberally besmeared. He was at once taken within the house, to be interrogated by Count Saxe, and he was, without exception, the most cheerful looking prisoner I ever saw.

As a soldier flashed a lantern into his eyes, we saw that his countenance was wreathed in smiles.