“Ah, Babache, this is to live! I have just changed my ball costume for my hunting dress. It is almost as good as those days before and after Uzmaiz!”
Action and adventure were in her blood, and she was a strong woman, capable of much exertion, but I had never seen in her before this thirst for pleasure.
And to the music of silver hunting horns and the bell-like baying of the dogs, I saw the hunt, with the king, Count Saxe and Francezka, sweep across the Bridge of the Lions and along the broad, bare, leafless avenue, into the forest, in the cold, bright December sunrise.
I had not time to join the hunt, and, busy with many duties, scarcely noted how the day slipped away. Toward three o’clock I saw a solitary figure—a woman—ride across the bridge. No one else had returned, nor was the hunting party expected until sunset. I recognized Francezka’s form and surmised that, fatigued with all she had undergone, she had slipped away from the hunting party and had returned to the castle to rest.
About five o’clock, when the short winter afternoon was closing and the sun was red, I received a message from Francezka. She desired to see me in her apartment. I climbed the stairs to her rooms at once. Her door was opened for me by old Elizabeth, Peter Embden’s sister, who, I remembered, had been Francezka’s waiting maid long ago on that journey from Königsberg. Elizabeth was harder featured than ever, and rheumatic, so she told me; but Francezka had a way 385 of keeping those about her, who had once loved her, even if they became a little infirm.
Elizabeth went to tell her mistress. I looked about the room, which had a sweet aroma of Francezka about it, something which made the place appear as if meant for her and her only. The harpsichord was by the fireplace—Francezka was always devoted to the harpsichord and played more skilfully upon it every year. There was her book of music, copied with her own hands, her embroidery frame, and the book she had been reading lay on the table, by which sat a chair with her scarf thrown over it, and a delicate perfumed handkerchief was where she had dropped it.
A fire burned upon the great hearth, and already, the room was shadowy with the coming dusk. There were two windows, one looking out upon the marvelous spiral staircase, the other facing the sunset. In a moment or two, Francezka came out of the inner room. She wore a white robe and her hair was neither dressed nor powdered, but braided down her back, as the Brabant peasant women wear theirs. Perhaps it was weariness on her part, but never was there a creature more changed than she, from the radiant being of the night before. She looked sad and dispirited, and the welcome in her eyes when she greeted me reminded me painfully of how she had met me in the sorrowful years of the past. But I chose not to see too much of this.
“It is the greatest good in the world to me, Madame,” I said, “seeing you so happy and so admired. Any woman on earth might have envied you last night.”
Francezka smiled a little—she was then seated and looking into the fire.