The bishop, swelling with wrath, rose and walked twice, thrice up and down the room. I fancied he was saying in his mind—Was there ever so vexatious a creature as this Francezka? She never had any proper respect for authority! And there sat that easy young brother of his, smiling at his discomfiture—the discomfiture of a bishop!
Francezka remained silent for a little while, and when she spoke it was with seriousness.
“Your Grace asks me to give up the hope on which I live. I can not do it. My husband may be dead, but I have not been able to secure the smallest proof of it. 328 It has been four years since he disappeared. But we know of strange disappearances lasting much longer. And can you ask me—his wife, who adores him—to believe him dead unless I have proof of it? No! a thousand times no!”
She rose and her face and eyes were flooded with color and light, as she stood facing the bishop.
“Do not again speak to me of putting on mourning. When I do that, then indeed is life over for me—all hope, all joy, forever dead. And do you suppose I care that idle people wonder at me? I am too busy to care for anything but my husband’s return; I have my estates to manage—a heavy task for a woman. And I am determined that if my husband returns, he shall find not only a great estate to his hand, but an accomplished wife to his mind. Look at this proof of my study and endeavor!”
She threw open the door which communicated with the little yellow room, where she spent most of her time. The walls were lined with books, and there were several musical instruments in the room.
“There do I read and study daily. Gaston Cheverny was ever fond of books—fonder than I, carried away as I was with the pleasures of life. He must often have felt the want of knowledge on my part. He shall not feel it so, when he returns. And does your Grace see yonder harpsichord? When my husband last saw me, I played but fairly well on it. Now, I spend a part of every day before it, and I am a skilled performer. And I dress every day in silk—for Gaston’s sake. For he may come to me at any moment, and I do not wish him 329 to find me a frowsy creature, but a wife worthy of him. To be that, I must be ever well dressed, well read, well behaved—such, I hope I am.”
The flood of her vehemence arrested the bishop’s impatient walk. Father Benart sighed a little, as any one might, at this poor, human heart of Francezka’s, laid bare, and beating desperately against the fate that seemed closing around her. Neither one of them spoke immediately, nor did I. No one of us present knew how to answer Francezka. After a considerable pause, the bishop said, not unkindly:
“I perceive my counsel has been in vain. I must depart.”
Francezka, then, mindful of her duties as chatelaine, pressed him to remain, or at least to take some refreshment before leaving. To the last he agreed.