I had not, of course, much chance for private talk with Francezka during that week of dancing and feasting, but I felt she was too loyal a soul to forget me in her hour of triumph, and would not let me depart without some evidence of her unchanged regard. On the morning of our departure I rose early, according to custom, and went forth. It was but little past sunrise, and a delicate fine rain, as thin as a muslin veil, was falling. The earth and the blooming plants were drinking it up eagerly; it was so gentle that it would not roughly strike the most delicate flower. I walked about the 361 gardens and terraces, and then went toward the Italian garden, which always seemed to be consecrated to Francezka. I was scarcely surprised, early as it was, to see her walking up and down the box walk, with Bold by her side. She had the hood of her crimson mantle drawn over her head, and was walking slowly up and down, a branch of roses in her hand. Her face was not joyful, but rather meditative, and it made my heart leap to see how it lighted up when she saw me within a yard of her.
“I did not mean to let you slip away, Babache, without one private word with you,” she cried, as I joined her. “I thought if I came out here I should probably find you. See how strong is habit. Here I am, walking and watching with my dog and my friend, just as I have done for seven years past, and he for whom I watched and waited—my best beloved—is safe at home; and yet I come always once a day to this spot, and give thanks. And I thank God for you and Bold. You know, it is high praise to be classed with Bold.”
“I know it, Madame,” said I, “and Bold is a happy dog now that his master is come home.”
Francezka’s brow clouded a little, and she looked about her to be sure that no gardeners or possible eavesdroppers were near.
“No,” she said gravely, even with a little quiver of her lip. “Bold is not a happy dog. He did not know his master, and does not know him now, and to think of how Bold and I loved and watched and waited for seven years—how many conversations we had about Gaston—and how Bold always assured me that his master 362 would return. I think he was not less comforting than you, and much more encouraging. And now he cares nothing—he even snarls at Gaston—”
She looked reproachfully at the old dog, trotting by her side. He was aged, but he had not lost his sight, or his teeth, or his native good sense, for at the charge brought against him he looked his mistress steadily in the eye, and then coolly turned off, as much as to say:
“If you choose to complain of me to Captain Babache, at least I scorn to defend myself.”
“It must have been very hard on Gaston,” I said, “for he ever loved the dog so much.”
“No,” replied Francezka, as if she were communicating some great sorrow to me. “Gaston cares no more for Bold than Bold cares for Gaston. What do you think—now, will you promise me to keep this a secret?”
“Yes.”