We went forward at a smart pace. Every foot of the way recalled to Francezka and Gaston their childish days, and they talked with the greatest animation.
We were skirting the forest and heights of the Ardennes, and at last, the highway bringing us upon a broad open plateau, the château of Capello lay before us in all its beauty. At the sight, Francezka stopped her horse, and, putting her hands to her face, fairly burst into tears of joy.
Little did I think how I should come to know that 151 place; of what I should see and do and suffer there. I only saw in it the pleasantest abode that man ever contrived for himself.
The château itself reminded one much of the Grand Trianon, which I have often seen in the park of Versailles. It had the same form but was larger. There was the graceful façade with its sweeping wings, the curving marble balustrade of the terrace, the windows, large and many, on which the autumn sun shone red. But the situation of the château of Capello had far more of natural beauty than the Trianon. It lay in the lap of the distant Ardennes, whose blue heights and rich woods marked the horizon. Below the château the ground sloped gradually toward a vast meadow-land, with many beautiful groves of aspens, and tall ranked Lombardy poplars. On the slope lay the park and pleasure grounds of the château. A silvery river made its devious way about this fair domain. It washed one side of the château, where it had been turned into a canal built like those of Venice, with a marble banquette ornamented with statues and an ornate bridge; but after thus playing the court lady for a short space, the river again became a woodland nymph and ran away, laughing, to the woods and fields. On one side of the château a rose garden was laid out, not too primly, and many other gardens; while on the other side, overlooking the hedgeway and quite screened from the château by groves of linden trees, and by great clumps, almost groves, of huge old lilacs, was a plaisance, in the formal Italian style.
These Italian gardens are common enough, and all 152 much alike, but in some strange manner, this one at Capello seemed to me to arrest attention at once. Perhaps it was because it appeared solitary, although in reality it was near the château. It had several falls, with marble steps bordered with box, with many yew trees, and statues of nymphs and fauns. At the very top was placed a statue of Petrarch, and on one side of it was a moss-grown marble bench, and on the other, an ancient sun-dial. The whole scene might have been transported from Petrarch’s land.
Below this garden lay a little lake, still and dark and cool. Tall cedars of Lebanon fringed its banks both on the east and the west, so neither at morning nor at evening did the waters shine and glow, but always lay somber and with a melancholy loveliness, in the midst of that joyful landscape. As I looked at this distant still lake and garden, a poignant feeling came upon me that I had seen them before, and that they held for me a story—oh me! oh me! It was as if my soul had visited them in dreams—those dreams when I told Francezka of my love and she listened to me—yes, listened to me. I had to force myself to turn my eyes from that enchanted garden and lake of pensive beauty.
We were riding forward rapidly, and when we came within close view of this garden, Francezka clapped her hands wildly.
“There, there, just as I have seen it in my dreams!” she cried. “I never dreamed of Capello in my life that I did not dream of the lake and the Italian garden—and I have not seen them since I was six years old! That statue is Petrarch’s—and on the base is an inscription from the sonnet,
| La vita fugge, e non s’aretta un ora,— |