It was in September of 1735 that Francezka again saw the château of Capello. She entered her own house with sadness and disappointment, but not in despair. Hope could not die within her. As she wrote me, “My heart can not—will not—break.”
It is not to be wondered at, however, that the rest of Francezka’s world reckoned Gaston Cheverny a dead man. Father Benart, the little priest, who was a courageous man, even hinted to Francezka that she should wear mourning. This went to her heart like a knife. To put on the garments of widowhood would be the last abandonment of hope, and to this she would not consent. She adopted, however, the Spanish costume, which is black, but not mourning, and no one could accuse her of unseemliness in her attire.
She found her house swept and garnished, for Francezka’s administrative qualities were of that order which make affairs apparently go on of themselves. The dog Bold was overjoyed to see her and became, as formerly, her inseparable companion. The harvests had been good, her flocks and herds had prospered; all belonging to Francezka seemed to bask in the sunlight of good fortune, except Francezka herself.
As soon as her return was known she was overrun with visitors, mostly impelled by curiosity, who pestered her with questions. Francezka met these with the spirit 305 and courage which were a part of her. Being naturally and incurably humorous, she often smiled, and even laughed, though her heart was near to breaking, at the air of surprise and even chagrin with which her calm announcement was received that she did not yet admit her husband to be dead, and should ever hope for his return. But these idle persons inflicted upon her pride a burning smart; she continually felt that she was reckoned foolish and visionary—she, the most practical, the most resourceful, the most entirely sensible of women.
She had greater courage, a more powerful imagination than most people, and so the commonplace of the earth had ever been eager to deny her common sense. She had proved herself possessed of the most sublime common sense in the management of her life and her affairs. Beautiful and alone, she had escaped slander; with a great fortune and perfect liberty, she had avoided the ever present snare of being married for her fortune, and had chosen a man who loved her for herself alone, and would have married her in her smock. She had proved herself capable in every emergency, and had commanded love and admiration, a thing not easily forgiven. Now, the small-minded, the carpers and the critics, had their opportunity, and they fell upon her in full cry like a pack of wolves.
She could sustain herself against them. They might whisper and backbite—they might point with unctuous hypocrisy at the terrible results of a marriage made solely to please herself, but none of them dared to speak before her face. It was, however, mortifying for her self-love to know that they dared speak behind her back. 306 Francezka was, in some respects, a spoiled child of fortune. She did not for one moment relax her efforts to find Gaston Cheverny, although she no longer attempted it personally. A number of trained men were employed by her to keep the matter alive, the rewards before the public, and to follow up every possible clue.
And then she went upon her way, unchanged and unchanging in some respects. She again took up her reading and studying; the Brabant ladies were much scandalized at the amount of money which Madame Cheverny spent on books. She again had her music and singing masters to attend her. She did all these things diligently, though she had lost much of the enjoyment they once gave her. Such hope as she had left was enough to make her unmurmuring in her present life, but not enough to make her happy. And so the year of 1735 passed.