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Updated: October 13, 2025
Every foot of the way recalled to Francezka and Gaston their childish days, and they talked with the greatest animation. We were skirting the forest and heights of the Ardennes, and at last, the highway bringing us upon a broad open plateau, the château of Capello lay before us in all its beauty.
After the recital of Madame Riano's wrongs at the hands of the Kings of England, Spain and France for she had something against the last two as well as the first, and complained that they had all treated her as if she were of no more account than the drummer's cat the conversation turned on Francezka. Madame Riano heard from her regularly.
As for Francezka, I ever thought, as was said of the English poet Shakespeare, that she showed her art in her tragedy, but her nature in her comedy. The soft exquisite humor of her Hortensia can not be adequately described.
I could only remain with them a few minutes, as the coming of King Louis was imminent. Francezka, too, had to rehearse for the play to be given that night, so both of us were hurried, but Francezka took time to say to me: "We must have one of our old friendly interviews soon, Babache. That must you arrange for, if you have to neglect not only the king, but Count Saxe himself."
"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.
This was so plausible a theory that Count Saxe was much struck with it, and said to Francezka: "Madame, you would be a much better general than I, if once you would put your keen wit to the business." Francezka smiled with pleasure. No sorrow nor anxiety that ate into her soul could keep her from relishing a compliment from so great a man as Count Saxe.
Francezka declared we must have some music, and calling in her clear voice, a servant heard and answered her, and brought from the château a Spanish guitar. To this Gaston Cheverny sang. Presently, in response to the silent request of Francezka's eyes, and an eloquent assent from his own, he sang that song to which I always thought they attached a fond and secret meaning: O Richard, O mon roi!
I was astonished at the youth's temerity but I saw it was not bloodthirstiness, but rather a youthful longing for a pickle-herring tragedy. It was my lady Francezka over again. Having scolded that young lady with the air of a patriarch, for her venturesomeness, Gaston Cheverny proceeded to hunt up adventures of his own.
Although he was not with Prince Eugene's own contingent, yet it was scarcely possible that he had not received one of the several letters which had been written him by Francezka as well as other persons, concerning his brother's disappearance; nor could he fail to know of the catastrophe from other sources; but not one line or word had come from him. Francezka was very deeply incensed at him.
For the last stage or two, Francezka had been so eager to get forward that her spirit far outran her body. Old Peter had been sent ahead to make the château ready for company. Mademoiselle Capello took horse on that last day, and choosing me to ride with her, galloped furiously ahead. Regnard Cheverny had no mind to be left behind, and he joined us. For once, Francezka was openly rude to him.
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