n
in some Austrian prison.

On the night of this interview with Prince Eugene, at which I was
present, Francezka sent for me to come to her room at the little inn
where we were staying. I saw by the gravity of her look that the old
hunchback prince's clear, but not unkind, statement of the case had
produced its effect upon her. And she also proved to me, in our
conversation, what I had long known, that although self-willed and
impetuous, Francezka was neither selfish nor inconsiderate.

"Babache," she said to me on entering, "I think you know that you are
the most comforting and helpful person in the world to me now, and
that if I consent to part with you it is not because you are of no
more use or good to me. But I see plainly that my search in the
Austrian prisons for my husband is likely to last the whole year if,
oh God! I find him even then! And I see that I can contrive all that
is necessary myself. Therefore, much as you are to me now, I can not
think it right to deprive Count Saxe of your services, and so I give
you leave to return at once. When I want you, be sure I will send for
you."

In reply, I told her that I belonged to her and to Count Saxe, and
either could make any disposition of me that was desired.

We then deliberated on the singular silence of Regnard Cheverny.
Although he was not with Prince Eugene's own contingent, yet it was
scarcely possible that he had not received one of the several letters
which had been written him by Francezka as well as other persons,
concerning his brother's disappearance; nor could he fail to know of
the catastrophe from other sources; but not one line or word had come
from him. Francezka was very deeply incensed at him. She had never
really liked nor trusted Regnard, and was not disposed to excuse him
in anything.

Her next move would be to Vienna, in order to complete her plan of
searching the Austrian prisons. With her usual promptness, she decided
to start on the morrow.

The next morning I saw her depart. She went in the chaise with Madame
Chambellan, discarding her riding horse. When she bade me farewell at
the chaise door she tried to express her thanks to me, but instead,
she burst into a passion of tears. I closed the door hastily and
turned away. I could not bear to see her weep, and I could not,
myself, utter one word.

I returned to Count Saxe. On the first of January, 1735, peace was
proclaimed; and as Count Saxe said, the rain having ceased, the