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Updated: June 10, 2025
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."
The dog saw me first, and ran forward with a yelp of pleasure. Francezka heard him and raised her eyes to mine. If ever any one in the world showed joy at seeing Babache, it was Francezka then. She advanced a step, and when I kissed her hand, she laid her other hand on mine, while the warm tears dropped from her eyes. It is something to have the loving friendship and confidence of such a woman.
He sprang up, caught me by the arm, and cried in a ringing voice: "Babache, I am the happiest man alive. But come out of doors. This room stifles me. I want to look at the stars like Francezka's eyes. I wish to breathe the perfumed air of the garden, because all beauty all perfume is like her."
It was true that Francezka and Gaston had declined with thanks to visit Chambord that year on account of returning to Capello, but they very cordially invited Count Saxe to be their guest some time during the summer, and Count Saxe, of course, included Captain Babache.
"I came here for a moment's rest, not thinking I should be fortunate enough to have a word with my Babache." I sat down by her and told her the story of my beating Jacques Haret. I could not see her face in the darkness, but she clapped her hands joyously. "I am afraid I want vengeance to be mine instead of the Lord's," she cried with her old spirit. "I am like my Aunt Peggy in that.
"My dear Babache, it is not for nothing that Count Maurice of Saxe has you at his elbow day and night. That ugly head of yours contains useful ideas. A thousand thanks to you; I will this minute put your advice to proof." He turned and walked back to where Jacques Haret was. I went away, leaving my respects for the ladies.
And not only that, but one day, going to Peter's cottage, to make some inquiry about our horses, I noted Lisa, the dove-eyed girl, at work upon a fine cambric shirt finer than any I, Babache, ever wore, or expect to wear. It was not for old Peter certainly; and if not for him, it must be for Jacques Haret and my surmise turned out to be true.
Our horses were at a standstill on the highway, the chaise and the rest of the party a good mile behind us already. "Good Babache, was I not clever to get rid of him?" she said. "Very clever, Mademoiselle," I said. "But why should you choose to get rid of him? He is a well-appearing man, of great accomplishments, and good estate. Why were you so severe with him?" "Do you really wish to know why?"
Let not a dead dog and a look of your husband's eye, and an inconsiderate fit of laughter wreck your happiness." "Do you believe all you say, Babache?" she asked, coming up to me with a world of entreaty in her eyes.
I had schooled my countenance, but I verily believe, without levity, that there is something sinister in extreme ugliness, and it was that which gave old Peter the warning of evil, and also Francezka. As she heard my name, she sprang up, her vivid face breaking into a smile like sunlight, and she cried, in her sweet and penetrating voice: "Oh, Babache, how glad I am to see you! And how is my lord?
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