“Good!” cried Gaston; “I knew I made no mistake when I cast my fortunes with Count Saxe. Let but the drum beat on the Rhine, in the Pyrenees, or in Savoy, and we shall be on the march within twenty-four hours.”
Such is the way ardent young men talk.
Then I asked what had been burning on my tongue ever since he entered the room. What of the ladies at the château of Capello—meaning Francezka, but naming Madame Riano first.
“Madame Riano is the same Peggy Kirkpatrick. The warfare between her and the Bishop of Louvain is grown more bloody and desperate than ever. Quarter is neither asked nor given. Madame Riano has told the story of the bishop being near frightened out of his wits by the burning out of a chimney, and declares he was so panic-stricken he had to take to his bed that minute. The bishop preaches openly at Madame Riano, doing everything but calling her by name from the pulpit.”
And then I spoke the word both of us had longed to hear.
“And Mademoiselle Capello?”
It was as if the sun had blazed out of twilight, Gaston Cheverny’s face glowed so.
“She is in great beauty, perfect health and happiness. 190 She desired me to ask of you not to forget her; that she remembered you daily.”
So did I remember her daily.
“And you have gone away and left the field to your brother and rival?” I said.