o write to her more than once, and delicately
intimated a desire that she would honor Chambord at some time with her
presence. I little thought when I wrote that letter that Francezka
would be likely to see Chambord. But events were moving silently but
swiftly, and when I least expected it--when Francezka's sad fate
seemed fixed; when her life had apparently adjusted itself finally, a
great, a stupendous change was at hand. It came suddenly but quietly,
and the news of it met us at the last place and from the last person
one might possibly expect. It was May, when being overtaken by sunset
on the way to Paris, and the horses being tired, Count Saxe and myself
stopped at a little roadside inn, just one stage from Paris. Count
Saxe had not even a servant with him, thinking to spend only a few
hours in Paris and then to return at once to Chambord.

The inn was a plain, but comfortable place, with good wine, and
excellent plain fare. After supper, Count Saxe, being weary, went to
bed, the innkeeper valeting him, while I remained out of doors. The
evening was softly beautiful. The sun was slowly disappearing; it was
not far from eight o'clock, and the sky was all red and gold and
amber. The rich and quiet landscape was not unlike that of Capello,
though far from being so rich and so lovely. It was the sweet hour at
which I always thought of Francezka, the hour she always kept her
vigil in the Italian garden--a vigil that had seemed to me to be
taking the form of remembrance of the dead, rather than expectation of
the living. And knowing exactly what she was doing at that hour often
produced in me a sense of nearness to Francezka.

On this evening she seemed to hover near me, and it was not the
Francezka I had last seen, the bravely patient, the undyingly
courageous; but the Francezka of her first wild, sweet youth,
high-hearted, all fire and dew, laughter and tears, haughty and
merry--the Francezka who claimed happiness as her right. And with this
presence near me, and her voice ringing in my ears, I was suddenly
brought back to this earth by seeing before me the unwelcome face of
Jacques Haret.

I had not seen the scoundrel for four years, and never wished to see
him again. He was sitting at a table in the garden of the inn--for I
had unconsciously wandered from the orchard into the garden. He looked
more prosperous than I had ever seen him, being well dressed all over,
and for the first time evidently in clothes made fo