The inn was a plain, but comfortable place, with good wine, and excellent plain fare. After supper, Count Saxe, being weary, went to bed, the innkeeper valeting him, while I remained out of doors. The evening was softly beautiful. The sun was slowly disappearing; it was not far from eight o'clock, and the sky was all red and gold and amber. The rich and quiet landscape was not unlike that of Capello, though far from being so rich and so lovely. It was the sweet hour at which I always thought of Francezka, the hour she always kept her vigil in the Italian garden--a vigil that had seemed to me to be taking the form of remembrance of the dead, rather than expectation of the living. And knowing exactly what she was doing at that hour often produced in me a sense of nearness to Francezka.

On this evening she seemed to hover near me, and it was not the Francezka I had last seen, the bravely patient, the undyingly courageous; but the Francezka of her first wild, sweet youth, high-hearted, all fire and dew, laughter and tears, haughty and merry--the Francezka who claimed happiness as her right. And with this presence near me, and her voice ringing in my ears, I was suddenly brought back to this earth by seeing before me the unwelcome face of Jacques Haret.

I had not seen the scoundrel for four years, and never wished to see him again. He was sitting at a table in the garden of the inn--for I had unconsciously wandered from the orchard into the garden. He looked more prosperous than I had ever seen him, being well dressed all over, and for the first time evidently in clothes made for him. I was for pa.s.sing on with a brief word, when he stopped me.

"Have you heard the great news?" he asked. "No, of course you have not. Gaston Cheverny has been found. I compute that he reached the chateau of Capello this afternoon--probably at this very hour."

The earth began to rock under my feet, the heavens broke into long waves of light, as if the oceans and a million voices were shouting in my ear at once. In the midst of all this, Jacques Haret's cool, musical voice continued:

"Yes. He should reach there about this time. And a tragedy may have preceded him--Madame Cheverny may have driven a nail into the eye of Count Bellegarde, as Jael did to Sisera, or cut off his head and put it in a bag, as Judith did that of Holofernes. For Bellegarde--the greatest fool alive--told me that on this date he meant to go to Capello and make a formal offer of his hand to the supposed widow, and by the blessing of G.o.d he hoped to own Capello. I have just come from Brabant, you see. I advised Bellegarde to make his will and to repent of his sins before going on such an errand, for Madame Cheverny has the spirit of all the Kirkpatricks in her beautiful body, and is dangerous when roused."

While Jacques Haret was speaking, I recovered my composure, although my soul was in storm and tumult, but I could not ask one of the thousand questions burning upon my lips. Then I saw a figure approaching, hatless and unpowdered, and wrapped in a bed coverlet. It was Count Saxe. He had not gone to sleep, and hearing through his open window Jacques Haret's tale, had sprung from his bed and rushed into the garden. Next to Francezka, Count Saxe, of all the world, wished Gaston Cheverny to be found for reasons easily understood. He called out as he stalked forward in his bed coverlet:

"Do you know anything else about it?"

"Nothing," replied Jacques, thrusting his hands in his pockets; "but it has ruined Bellegarde's chances of living at Capello, the palace of delights."

"And some one else has come back to Capello," I added. "Lisa, Peter Embden's niece."

Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Jacques Haret show any shame at the mention of the unfortunate girl's name, or of poor old Peter's.

Count Saxe, however, standing a little way off, and gesticulating in his coverlet, cried loudly:

"Jacques Haret, you are the blackest villain, cheat, scoundrel, rogue and rapscallion yet unhung. The jail yawns for you, the gallows yearns for you. May they both get you!"

"Thanks, Monsieur," replied Jacques Haret; "I am as G.o.d made me--and He makes men different. As Monsieur Voltaire said of your Excellency, 'G.o.d has not seen fit to give wings to the donkey.' G.o.d has not seen fit to make me like the founder of La Trappe. That is all."

Count Saxe turned to me:

"Get post-horses, Babache. We must go to Paris this night; no doubt there are letters for us. This news, if it be true, is worth a hundred thousand crowns to me."

The innkeeper got horses for us, and we started for Paris in a ramshackle chaise. Jacques Haret watched our departure with the greatest interest and entirely at his ease.

When I was stepping into the chaise, I called out to him, as he stood on the gra.s.s, in the shadowy light:

"I have not time now to give you a good beating, Jacques Haret. But when next we meet, I promise it to you, and will let nothing interfere with my engagement."

"Thanks," replied Jacques, "I have been promised not less than a million of beatings and have not yet got the first one. Adieu."

As we jolted along through the May night, all sorts of agitating thoughts poured into my mind about Francezka. She was at that moment, probably, in a heaven of her own making; for, be it observed, I doubted not in the least that Jacques Haret knew what he was talking about. I was somewhat surprised that he knew in advance of Gaston's arrival, but that was easily accounted for. Gaston would not travel incognito, and the news must have flown in advance of him.

Count Saxe, lying back in his corner of the chaise, talked of Gaston, of his manliness, his courage, his charm; and of Francezka, whom he could not praise enough. I saw that a cloud had pa.s.sed from his life with Gaston's return. He told me that Francezka's face haunted him, and the absence of any reproach on her part for the imprudence which led to Gaston's capture went like a poniard to his heart. We reached the Luxembourg before midnight, and were abroad by daylight. I, myself, went to the cafe of the Green Basket, where news was to be gathered, and found that wild rumors were afloat concerning Gaston Cheverny's return. Within the next two days we got positive confirmation of it, and, also, a letter from Francezka. It was written in a trembling hand, unlike her usual firm, clear writing. It ran thus:

Count Saxe and dear, faithful Babache:

My best beloved has returned to me. Come and rejoice with me.

Francezka Cheverny.

That was all; none of her other names and t.i.tles, scarce one superfluous word--but a letter written in the very ecstasy and palpitation of joy.

It took Count Saxe not an hour to fix a day for our departure for Capello, and I wrote a letter telling Francezka when we should arrive; and trying to tell her how deep was my joy in her joy.

Within a week we rode for Brabant--only myself and Beauvais with Count Saxe--and traveled leisurely in the pleasant spring weather.

What Jacques Haret had told concerning the poor Count Bellegarde was true. He, the most absurd creature alive, who had believed for years that this glorious creature was his for the asking, had come to the chateau of Capello that May afternoon, and had made Francezka a formal offer of marriage. It had been easy enough to dispose of the poor gentleman. Francezka's temper was naturally warm. In this case, her heart eating itself with despair, her nerves racked with hope deferred, she had turned like a lioness upon the unfortunate Bellegarde. He had fled from her indignant presence, and from the wrath which shone in her eyes and blazed in her cheeks; and Francezka, trembling and tempest-tossed, had, in her turn, fled to the Italian garden, where she could be alone. For she needed to be alone to face the specter which now took shape before her. It was no less than her dead hopes, clad in their grave clothes, which told her that Gaston Cheverny was no more. And while she walked slowly up and down the path, with this horror walking beside her, she looked up, and, behold!

There stood Gaston Cheverny in the flesh.

Of what she said or did, Francezka had no memory. When she first became conscious of thought, she was lying in Gaston's arms, in an agony of sobbing and crying, and he was soothing her, and lavishing upon her every tenderness that love could devise. And after a time, when the first great shock of joy was over, Francezka rallied and became herself again--brave, resolute and loving. And then they looked into each other's eyes with rapture, and Gaston cried:

"We can never again be apart beyond the touch of each other's hand."

And after an hour spent in paradise, Francezka and Gaston walked hand in hand to the chateau, the servants and dependents were summoned, and Francezka, kneeling among them, with her hand on Gaston's shoulder, humbly gave thanks to G.o.d for having restored her best beloved to her.

The news spread like wildfire, and roused the entire country. The next day, when Francezka and Gaston publicly gave thanks in the church, half the province was present.

Gaston was, of course, besieged with inquiries concerning the vicissitudes which had befallen him. They turned out to be quite as strange as might have been expected. The wound on his head had been severe, and had caused him great suffering, and, what was worse, had brought upon him long periods of forgetfulness. He had no recollection of anything that had happened to him after being struck by the Austrian bullet, and could not recall even the incident of the little village in the Taunus, where he had been seen three months after his capture. His first connected impressions were, on finding himself in Holland, and next, he knew not how, on a Dutch ship bound for Batavia.

After nearly a year he had reached Batavia, and then began the struggle to return to Europe. He had written repeatedly to Francezka, and to his friends; that is, scrawled as well as he could, with his left hand, for his right hand, although it had no outward mark of weakness, was quite unfit for writing. He could not explain the cause of this; it was one of those blanks in his memory, in which some of the most painful as well as some of the dearest of his recollections were erased.

Being bred to the trade of a soldier, he knew no other means of livelihood and he found it hard, in his wanderings, to keep body and soul together. He was alone in a far country, unacquainted with the languages, and further borne down by those physical and mental ailments which only mended in the course of long years. Only two things remained ever clear and unclouded with him: one was, the remembrance of Francezka; the other was, a fixed determination to return to Europe. By degrees, his mind recovered its poise and his body its health; but seven years were consumed from the time he was s.n.a.t.c.hed away from his country, from his love, his health, his understanding, until he was again restored to them.

Some of this we heard before we left Paris. Of course, the women would not let Count Saxe depart in peace. The Countess Vielinski followed us with post-horses as far as Mezieres, and Count Saxe only saved himself by decamping in the night, galloping out of one gate of the town, as Madame Vielinski's berlin rolled into the other. And yet this man is called a gay Lothario!

Everywhere on the road people were talking of Gaston Cheverny's wonderful return. The number of persons who knew that he must eventually come back was very large--I believe I did not see one single person who was not convinced all along that Gaston would be found. And the country rang with praises of Madame Cheverny's constancy and devotion. Especially did this come from the people who had declared Francezka to be wildly visionary and had severely condemned her course from the beginning.

CHAPTER XXVII

A ROYAL RECOMPENSE

It was night when we reached the chateau 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 chateau.

When we dismounted before the great entrance, we could see that the chateau 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 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 ca.s.sock 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 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.