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. 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 Pere 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, 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 bl.u.s.ter 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 G.o.d! 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. 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 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 gla.s.ses. At the first sip of wine, the bishop's countenance cleared. He was a judge of wines and that in his gla.s.s 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, 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, 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 G.o.d's punishment."