At the moment my eyes fell upon him there came upon me a sudden fading of the strong affection I had felt for him every moment of the fourteen years which had passed since that night in the garden of the Temple, when I had come near to killing him. Never had I felt so singular and mysterious an aversion toward a man I had ever loved as toward Gaston Cheverny on my first seeing him that night, and when he clasped me in his arms, with all of the old affection, this aversion became an actual repulsion. I had disguised it perfectly. I had returned his embrace warmly. All of his kind words, his friendly glances, I had met in kind; but a coldness not to be expressed in speech had come over me toward Gaston Cheverny in this, our hour of reunion. Nothing availed to warm it, not the recollection of long and close companionship, of keen adventure, of tedious months and years, lightened by each other’s companionship, of 357 community of tastes, of a high mutual esteem—nothing, nothing availed. The Gaston Cheverny of other days I still loved tenderly. This Gaston Cheverny I regarded with entire indifference. I did not fail to remind myself that seven years’ separation, as complete as if we had inhabited different worlds, might make this change, but I could not deny that the change seemed wholly on my side; for, unless he were as good an actor as I, he felt for me all the warmth of affectionate friendship which had once been ours in common. Tormented with this singular revulsion of feeling, I remained long in the garden, until my eye happening to fall on the sun dial, I was reminded there was such a thing as time, and I heard a distant bell chiming two o’clock in the morning, when I returned to the château and went to bed.
Next morning the château was awake early, and then began, in the sweet May weather, a round of festivities which lasted every day of our stay at Capello. Fêtes in the fields, in the May days; masquerades by night, with water parties on the canal, where hidden music played; and always winding up with a ball in the Diana gallery,—these were our regular occupations. In all of these pastimes Francezka shone as queen. In beauty, gaiety, grace and wit, she was unmatched. Her enjoyment and zest of pleasure were contagious. It was natural that it should be so. Francezka’s life had been so clouded and so stormy, for seven years she had borne so heavy a burden of anguish, that when at last this burden was removed and the sun shone again it was to be expected that she should have a thirst for pleasure.
And to Gaston, cut off for so many years from any communion with those of his own race, tongue and caste, it was necessary, in order to bring himself once more in touch with his own world, that he should see something of it.
Despite that coldness of the heart I felt toward him, I could not deny that Gaston Cheverny had preserved—nay, greatly developed—his gifts and graces. I had heard that the Chevernys as a family were famed for eloquence, and certainly both Gaston and Regnard Cheverny had always known how to speak well. Gaston now displayed in perfection this excellent gift. His strange adventures in the isles of the East; his description of his seven years’ battle against alien climes, peoples and conditions; his wanderings by land and sea, the steadiness with which he kept his face turned to the west, the struggles by which he finally reached Europe again—were worth hearing and lost nothing in the telling.
Many nights, after a hard day’s pleasuring, a great supper party and a ball afterward, did Gaston Cheverny keep us up until almost daylight telling us these things. Nor was he over ready to do it, but being courteously pressed by Count Saxe, or other gentlemen, he would tell us what we wished to hear. Sometimes Francezka listened to these recitals, listened with a glorified face. Her happiness was so great, so keen, that it made me fear for her. Like the little priest, Father Benart, I thought the gods would demand their tribute, and only hoped it had been paid by her seven years of anguish.
Madame Riano was staying at the château, and had not changed a whit. She had ever liked Gaston Cheverny, 359 and they seemed to be the best of friends still. But she intended shortly to return to Paris, and so invited herself to travel with Count Saxe when he should be ready to leave. Old Peter was the same faithful, devoted, sad-eyed creature as ever, but I think not unhappy after all. Lisa’s return had given the old man’s heart its natural resting place. I asked him about her, and he told me, with tears upon his withered leathery face, of her devotion to him, her uncomplaining fortitude, her humility—he did not say penitence, for Francezka told me that neither old Peter nor she herself had ever been able to get one word of regret for the past out of Lisa. I told Francezka about my chance meeting with Jacques Haret. She asked me if I had given him a good beating; Francezka was, in some respects, a vengeful woman. I told her it had not occurred to me to do this, but I would remember it if I ever met him under favorable circumstances again. He had honestly earned a beating—the only thing he ever honestly earned in his life.
Besides Peter, my other old friend at the château, Bold, seemed also changed, but for the worse. Age had fastened upon him, and he was now decrepit. That was perhaps the reason why he was not so much with his mistress as formerly, but, in truth, the whirl of the days and nights was such that a sober and discreet dog could not keep up the pace.
Now that Gaston Cheverny had been miraculously restored to his wife, people began to ask about Regnard. Count Saxe inquired of Gaston if anything was known of Regnard, but Gaston shook his head. He had not yet had time to have inquiries made about his brother, 360 but would do so. Judging, however, from such information as he had found awaiting him, it seemed likely that Regnard was dead. This Count Saxe combatted, saying it seemed to him most unlikely that an officer of rank in the East India Company’s army should die without his family or friends receiving any notification.
And if it were indeed true that Regnard was dead, his estate was worth inquiring after. The sum he had received for Castle Haret was in itself a considerable one. To this Gaston replied obstinately that he was convinced Regnard’s long silence meant that he was dead, and as soon as it was possible, inquiries should be set on foot in England to find out all the facts connected with Regnard’s fate. In spite of this, however, I saw that Gaston was really indifferent to his brother’s fate, and remembering their unclouded intimacy and affection, in spite of their rivalry for Francezka, I found this surprising. It was the first genuine cause I had for loving Gaston Cheverny less, because his warmth and kindness to me suffered no variation.