sent, for we knew well
enough that the excellent wages paid old Peter found their way into
Jacques Haret's pocket. And not only that, but one day, going to
Peter's cottage, to make some inquiry about our horses, I noted Lisa,
the dove-eyed girl, at work upon a fine cambric shirt--finer than any
I, Babache, ever wore, or expect to wear. It was not for old Peter
certainly; and if not for him, it must be for Jacques Haret--and my
surmise turned out to be true.

At last the time came for us to say goodbye to the chateau of Capello,
and to start for Paris, that town of many devils, some of them women.

On the evening before our departure, all of us who had left Koenigsberg
together, and Jacques Haret, assembled at the chateau. Count Saxe and
I were to take the road for Paris at daylight. All expressed regret
at our separation; we had been associated closely for three months, in
battle, in siege, in flight, and in sweet repose; and we parted with
those feelings of regard that our mutual vicissitudes would naturally
inspire. We had an evening of pleasant converse; Gaston Cheverny sang
for us, not forgetting the song that he and Francezka loved so
much--_O Richard, O mon roi_--and Francezka accompanied Gaston on the
harpsichord. Jacques Haret was, as usual, the life of the company, and
Regnard Cheverny was not eclipsed by any one present.

Our last farewells took place in the red saloon. Madame Riano paid us
the handsomest compliments possible, and expressed the hope, or rather
the conviction, that she would have the pleasure some day of
entertaining us at her ancestral seat in Scotland, under the rule of
Scotland's lawful king--for so she called Prince Charles Edward
Stuart. She represented that this ancestral seat, somewhere in the
wilds of Scotland, was a far more magnificent place than the chateau
of Capello, or the Hotel Kirkpatrick. Madame Riano always pictured
Scotland to us as a land flowing with milk and honey, of unparalleled
richness and splendor, of stupendous wealth lavishly expended. I have
sometimes been told the contrary of this. Our healths were drunk, to
which Count Saxe responded as only he could respond. We toasted the
ladies, drank to our reunion, and when the clocks were striking
twelve, we said adieu.

I can never forget Mademoiselle Capello on that night: her beauty, in
which archness and pensiveness alternated, her cheerful hope of
meeting, together with her sincere regret at parting, the shining of