ou. May they both get you!"

"Thanks, Monsieur," replied Jacques Haret; "I am as God made me--and
He makes men different. As Monsieur Voltaire said of your Excellency,
'God has not seen fit to give wings to the donkey.' God has not seen
fit to make me like the founder of La Trappe. That is all."

Count Saxe turned to me:

"Get post-horses, Babache. We must go to Paris this night; no doubt
there are letters for us. This news, if it be true, is worth a hundred
thousand crowns to me."

The innkeeper got horses for us, and we started for Paris in a
ramshackle chaise. Jacques Haret watched our departure with the
greatest interest and entirely at his ease.

When I was stepping into the chaise, I called out to him, as he stood
on the grass, in the shadowy light:

"I have not time now to give you a good beating, Jacques Haret. But
when next we meet, I promise it to you, and will let nothing interfere
with my engagement."

"Thanks," replied Jacques, "I have been promised not less than a
million of beatings and have not yet got the first one. Adieu."

As we jolted along through the May night, all sorts of agitating
thoughts poured into my mind about Francezka. She was at that moment,
probably, in a heaven of her own making; for, be it observed, I
doubted not in the least that Jacques Haret knew what he was talking
about. I was somewhat surprised that he knew in advance of Gaston's
arrival, but that was easily accounted for. Gaston would not travel
incognito, and the news must have flown in advance of him.

Count Saxe, lying back in his corner of the chaise, talked of Gaston,
of his manliness, his courage, his charm; and of Francezka, whom he
could not praise enough. I saw that a cloud had passed from his life
with Gaston's return. He told me that Francezka's face haunted him,
and the absence of any reproach on her part for the imprudence which
led to Gaston's capture went like a poniard to his heart. We reached
the Luxembourg before midnight, and were abroad by daylight. I,
myself, went to the cafe of the Green Basket, where news was to be
gathered, and found that wild rumors were afloat concerning Gaston
Cheverny's return. Within the next two days we got positive
confirmation of it, and, also, a letter from Francezka. It was written
in a trembling hand, unlike her usual firm, clear writing. It ran
thus:

Count Saxe and dear, faithful Babache:

My best beloved has returned to me. Come and rejoice with me.

F