“This is my Joyeuse Entrée, as the old Brabantians had it! Welcome, welcome—Monsieur Cheverny and my own good Babache!”
We entered a magnificent hall, with many suites of rooms. On the left, was a handsome red saloon, and on this side, overlooking the bright waters of the canal was a gallery of Diana, with the story of Actæon torn by his dogs told in panels on the walls. Beyond this still was a small yellow saloon, with a large fireplace in it. Francezka’s father, it would appear, did not take kindly to the huge porcelain stoves of the region, and followed the custom of his country in having fireplaces in which great logs of wood were burned. Francezka ran from room to room, Gaston Cheverny following her. I walked after them, examining things at my leisure; among others, in the red saloon, recognizing the 155 portraits of Francezka’s parents. Both of them had died early, and their portraits were those of youth. Francezka was a mingled likeness of both. She had not the exact and classic beauty of her mother, for Francezka’s beauty was highly irregular; but I fancy it was the more seductive. And she had, in a great degree, the esprit and the high-sparkling glance of the Scotch captain.
Among the servants and dependents who had assembled for the great occasion, old Peter did not fail to point out to me his niece, Lisa. She was a quiet-footed, slim little creature. She was not homely at all, contrary to my expectations, and had very soft shy eyes, that looked at one like the eyes of a bird that is shot.
In a little while the rest of the party arrived. Francezka met Madame Riano and Count Saxe at the entrance to the château, assuming, from the beginning, the air of being chatelaine of her own house—and she scarce sixteen! And with such grace, such intelligence! She was extremely polite now to Regnard Cheverny, being in her own bailiwick, and he seemed to cherish no memory of her past behavior. She was equally polite to Jacques Haret, for whom old Peter had reserved two of the best rooms in the château. All of us, however, were well lodged, and Count Saxe was given the apartment in which Louis le Grand had once been quartered.
My master was full of compliments on the château, as well he might be. We retired to our rooms when it was growing dusk, and in an hour supper was announced. It was served in the little yellow saloon, which was a favorite one of Francezka’s father, and was likely to be favored by her, too. It was a merry supper 156 table, with white waxlights and red firelight shining on it, and we had the wine of the gods. The Scotch gentleman had provided his cellars with vintages worth the housing.
Francezka chose to appear at supper in a dress new to us—the dress of Brabant, with the lace lappets falling over her hair, the lace apron, and red-heeled shoes, with clocked stockings. Whether she was bewitching or not, one may judge.
We sat long at table. Gaston Cheverny sang songs, then we sang in chorus. Jacques Haret, the rogue, was a pleasant table companion, and exerted himself to make the time pass joyfully. It was late before we parted, and then, in good spirits. My chamber, as always, was next Count Saxe’s. I tumbled into bed, and for the first time since I had crossed the French frontier, eighteen months before, I slept with both eyes shut. There was no need to keep one’s pistol within reach, no need to rise through the night to be sure the horses were not stolen, no need to sleep with a part of one’s clothes on, for fear of fighting or running before morning. One could sleep in peace. So slept I, and so snored I that Count Saxe waked me up with swearing at me in the middle of the night from the next room.