For the last stage or two, Francezka had been so eager to get forward that her spirit far outran her body. Old Peter had been sent ahead to make the château ready for company. Mademoiselle Capello took horse on that last day, and choosing me to ride with her, galloped furiously ahead. Regnard Cheverny had no mind to be left behind, and he joined us. For once, Francezka was openly rude to him. She checked her horse and turning to him said, in that soft and insinuating 149 tone with which she veiled all of her impertinences:
“Monsieur, will you kindly ride back and ask your brother, Monsieur Gaston, to give me the pleasure of his company?”
No man could disguise his choler better than Regnard Cheverny, but that he was angry, his eyes and his face showed. He replied, however, with much smoothness, to her:
“Mademoiselle, I am the poorest hand in the world at delivering messages from a lady to a gentleman. I always forget them, or get them wrong. So, I will ride back, but if you wish my brother’s company, you will be compelled to find another messenger.”
And he rode back.
Francezka turned to me, her face sparkling with smiles. Our horses were at a standstill on the highway, the chaise and the rest of the party a good mile behind us already.
“Good Babache, was I not clever to get rid of him?” she said.
“Very clever, Mademoiselle,” I said. “But why should you choose to get rid of him? He is a well-appearing man, of great accomplishments, and good estate. Why were you so severe with him?”
“Do you really wish to know why?” She moved her horse up close to me so she could whisper in my ear. “Because he is always seeking my company; and because, in truth, I have more than enough of his now.”
“Is that ground for ill-treating a man?” I asked.