Bellegarde was not there. Francezka, somewhat unreasonably, I think, haughtily refused to see or to speak with him, and sent him a message to the effect that his life would be spared, for which he should be thankful. She was very bitter against him, but the rest of the world, including Gaston Cheverny, took a more lenient view of poor Bellegarde’s offense, and he was laughed at rather than condemned. Nor was the Bishop of Louvain present. I fancy he was afraid to face Madame Riano, after having persistently declared his conviction that Gaston Cheverny would never be again heard of, and having pooh-poohed Madame Riano’s signs, dreams and presentiments that Gaston would return.
I have said before, that although declared a prince, a Tatar prince, I have a most unprince-like habit of retiring to the wall when in fine company, and this I did in the red saloon. I could not take my eyes from Francezka. It seemed to me as if no change could come over her that did not increase her hold upon hearts. Certainly I had never at any time seen her look so beautiful or so winning as in this, her day of triumph. She disarmed envy by a silent appeal for forgiveness that she was so much happier than most of the children of men.
No woman ever lived who knew better how to be splendid than Francezka Cheverny, and she and all about her were very splendid on this night. Supper was served in state, the handsomest youths of the best families in Brabant serving at table, according to the 353 old Brabant custom. There was no want of attention to any one present—not even to me, Babache. When the company was being marshaled for supper, Gaston sought me out and secured me a partner in the person of a very old and very ugly lady of rank who, I take it, had been misled by my title, and evidently thought me a person of consideration and treated me accordingly. Francezka, of course, was escorted by Count Saxe.
The supper was very grand; the old Marquis Capello’s wine flowed like water; there was a servant in livery behind every other chair; the table was loaded with delicacies; and musicians played soft music from the gallery, the guests joining in the singing. Many old songs were sung, like the ancient Carillon du Verre, and some new ones—especially one, a song of hope, beginning, Espère! Espère, il reviendra! which particularly applied to Francezka and Gaston. I saw the eyes of Francezka and Gaston meet when this strain was sweetly played; they sat, after the French custom, opposite each other in the middle of the long table. Francezka’s eyes were those of an angel, and Gaston’s were so full of pride, of love, of triumph, that they shone like stars.
During the singing I noticed, for the first time, the slight defect of memory from which I had heard Gaston still suffered. He had formerly an agreeable voice, of no great compass or quality, but he sang with taste enough to make up for both. Many heavy hours during our days in Courland had we been soothed with Gaston’s singing to his viol; many moonlit nights on the island in Lake Uzmaiz had his voice told its story in songs. In those journeyings through France and Germany and in those long and quiet evenings in Paris 354 Gaston’s singing had been one of our great resources, but he seemed to have lost all power over both words and music, and sat quite silent while all the rest trolled forth. I do not know whether any one else observed this except myself. When the singing was at its height my master called out to me, as I sat, near the foot of the long table:
“Babache, my prince, what is the name of the song Monsieur Cheverny used to sing to us on the terrace of the island in the lake?”
“It was Blondel’s song, Monsieur,” I answered.
Francezka, with a glowing face and dewy eyes, looked at Gaston, but he looked puzzled and a little embarrassed.
“I can not recall it,” he said; “it has gone from me with the memory of other things I would remember.”
Francezka, to assist his struggling memory, softly repeated the first two lines: