“Gaston said to me, when he gave me this dog, ‘I give you one of my best friends. Remember me as he does—for dogs never forget. In the virtue of constancy, dogs are superior to men.’ So, Bold and I love and remember our master every hour in the day, and joyfully await his coming.”
Francezka was young, and full of hope. The thought that Gaston might never return to her did not appear 263 to have darkened her mind once. Presently, her face, so full of peace and hope and joy—for in perfect love there is peace and hope and joy—grew clouded. She gave me a sidelong glance, and then said, sighing a little:
“But there is something else, something which occurred this very day, that has troubled me. I can tell you, but I know not how to tell Gaston. Yet, I must tell him some day.” She paused again, and I waited patiently for her to continue. “Perhaps it is known to you,” she said, blushing more deeply, “for Regnard Cheverny made no secret of it—”
“That he wished to marry you?” She nodded.
“I have ever been cold to him, as a lover—though, for the past months, when he has been several times at Castle Haret, I have been kind to him, remembering that he was Gaston’s brother—and I think he misunderstood me. Often, when he has been to see me—and urged his suit more with his eyes, than with his words—I have felt frightened—and you know, I do not come of a race of cowards. There is something to frighten one about Regnard Cheverny, he is so cool, so quiet, so debonair when seeking his own will; not light of heart like Gaston, nor full of sudden fury, nor impatiently renouncing what does not please him—but Regnard pursues his object steadily, like Fate. Well, then, this day, not two hours ago, as I was taking my afternoon walk in this garden, and living over the hours I have spent with my husband, I looked toward the highroad, and there, I thought I saw him coming. I watched, with my heart almost leaping out of my breast—but, presently, I knew it was not Gaston—but Regnard. I 264 saw him disappear under the hill, and ride up to the courtyard—and then he was walking toward me across the grass.” She stopped suddenly and asked me:
“Have you noticed how much alike Gaston and Regnard have become?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle—or Madame Cheverny, I should say.”
Francezka’s face dimpled into a rosy smile.
“It is the second time to-day that I have been called Madame Cheverny. It is the charmingest name in the world, I think.”
She continued, her face becoming grave: