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"Francezka Capello," I said. He was very much surprised at my guess, but the young always think their elders have no eyes. Then he burst forth, as young men of twenty do, raving over her beauty, her wit, her grace, lamenting her venturesomeness as if he were Solomon and Methuselah in one. I felt not one pang of jealousy.
I hoped from this that our conversation had dissipated all those strange ideas concerning Gaston which had lodged in her mind. If Francezka was admired by the men, Gaston certainly succeeded in captivating the ladies. Many of them declared that any woman could have been faithful to a man as charming, as witty, as gallant, as Gaston Cheverny.
We waited and worked from day to day, thinking every morning might see the Russians swarming toward us, and our great guns, of which we had four good loud bellowers, to say nothing of smaller pieces, pouring death from their iron throats upon every man who attempted to cross that narrow blue strip of placid water. But yet, the Russians came not. Francezka to me, in those days, was a marvel.
There was no telling to what heights Madame Riano's wrath might rise; she would be capable of wringing Jacques Haret's neck if she had a good mind to, and as the thing was not suspected by any except a few persons who had seen the last performance, it was undoubtedly best to keep it quiet. Francezka blushed a little at the mention of Jacques Haret's name.
Gaston laughed a joyous laugh, and then I told him faithfully all Francezka had said and done while I was at the château. "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 passing in my mind.
Meanwhile, Francezka and Gaston had withdrawn into the shadow of the courtyard wall, where Gaston continued to whisper in her ear. Count Saxe, however, speaking to me by name, Francezka glanced up, and instantly coming toward me, laid her hand on my arm. "This is my good friend Babache," she said, smiling into my face. "Yes, Mademoiselle," I answered, "this is your good friend Babache."
There are other dogs reckoned more affectionate and intelligent than these Spanish pointers, but I never knew any dumb creature superior to this one, as time strangely proved; for this dog afterward played a great part in the drama of Francezka Capello's life. The dog seemed enraptured with Francezka, and she with him.
At the end of the hall, I heard the great door clang. At once the thought of the lake suggested itself to me and I ran out of doors. The way Francezka usually took to the lake was by way of the Italian garden. I knew this, but a strange confusion fell upon me when I found myself out of doors, under the blue-black starlit sky. I could not recall the way to the Italian garden nor yet the lake.
It was at once stopped by a Russian officer, but we saw that he permitted Madame Riano to alight, and another person a slim young figure in a crimson mantle and that, I knew, was Francezka Capello. There was a parley between Madame Riano and the officer, but he escorted her and Mademoiselle Capello to the drawbridge, Gaston Cheverny standing his ground until the ladies were well in the courtyard.
I walked after them, examining things at my leisure; among others, in the red saloon, recognizing the portraits of Francezka's parents. Both of them had died early, and their portraits were those of youth. Francezka was a mingled likeness of both. She had not the exact and classic beauty of her mother, for Francezka's beauty was highly irregular; but I fancy it was the more seductive.
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