“So, my lady Francezka takes the bit between her teeth and marries the man of her choice. Well, any one might safely have predicted as much. It is a good thing, though, that her fancy turned to Gaston instead of Regnard Cheverny, for Gaston is much the better man. But it is impossible—I say, Babache, it is impossible—that Gaston Cheverny should not shortly reappear.”
When Count Saxe used the word impossible, I knew for the first time he felt a poignant doubt and anxiety.
“And how shall Madame Cheverny be informed?” I asked.
“As Gaston Cheverny’s coolness saved me from the consequences of my own rashness—for look you, Babache, I was rash, and showed all the qualities of a bad general in remaining here practically unguarded—it is 283 as little as I can do to have the news of his disappearance gently conveyed to his wife. So, be prepared to ride for Brabant by the day after to-morrow if nothing be heard of Gaston Cheverny by that time.”
My heart leaped and then sank into an abyss. I should see Francezka, but what news should I carry to her!
“It would be well,” added Count Saxe, “that Regnard Cheverny be formally notified of his brother’s disappearance, that he may assist in the search.”
Which was done, a special messenger taking the letter to Prince Eugene’s headquarters, from whence it would be forwarded to Regnard Cheverny.
I made my preparations next day to leave the following morning, for I felt an inward painful conviction that nothing would be heard that day of Gaston Cheverny. Count Saxe gave me leave to remain as many days in Brabant as necessary, and if Francezka wished to return with me, I was to escort her. Such was the generous nature of the man. I took with me that last letter Gaston had written, but his other papers and belongings I left under my master’s care, hoping—but alas! not believing—that before I returned Gaston Cheverny would have been found. I rode hard on that journey, and on the fifth evening after leaving Hüningen, about ten o’clock, I reached the château of Capello. It had been less than a month since I had left Francezka full of hope and joy, and I had come now to rob her of all except hope.
Although it was the fragrant time of the year, the evening was chill, with a fine, cold rain falling. The 284 lights were still burning in the little yellow room where Francezka usually sat.
My knock at the great door of the château sounded to me like the crack of doom. Old Peter opened the door, and by some magic of thought, he saw at a glance that I was a messenger of evil. Without a word, he led me to the yellow saloon, and announced in a trembling voice, which was a warning in itself: