sought me out and secured me a partner in the person of a very old and
very ugly lady of rank who, I take it, had been misled by my title,
and evidently thought me a person of consideration and treated me
accordingly. Francezka, of course, was escorted by Count Saxe.

The supper was very grand; the old Marquis Capello's wine flowed
like water; there was a servant in livery behind every other
chair; the table was loaded with delicacies; and musicians played
soft music from the gallery, the guests joining in the singing. Many
old songs were sung, like the ancient _Carillon du Verre_, and some
new ones--especially one, a song of hope, beginning, _Espere!
Espere, il reviendra!_ which particularly applied to Francezka and
Gaston. I saw the eyes of Francezka and Gaston meet when this
strain was sweetly played; they sat, after the French custom,
opposite each other in the middle of the long table. Francezka's
eyes were those of an angel, and Gaston's were so full of pride,
of love, of triumph, that they shone like stars.

During the singing I noticed, for the first time, the slight defect of
memory from which I had heard Gaston still suffered. He had formerly
an agreeable voice, of no great compass or quality, but he sang with
taste enough to make up for both. Many heavy hours during our days in
Courland had we been soothed with Gaston's singing to his viol; many
moonlit nights on the island in Lake Uzmaiz had his voice told its
story in songs. In those journeyings through France and Germany and in
those long and quiet evenings in Paris Gaston's singing had been one
of our great resources, but he seemed to have lost all power over both
words and music, and sat quite silent while all the rest trolled
forth. I do not know whether any one else observed this except myself.
When the singing was at its height my master called out to me, as I
sat, near the foot of the long table:

"Babache, my prince, what is the name of the song Monsieur Cheverny
used to sing to us on the terrace of the island in the lake?"

"It was Blondel's song, Monsieur," I answered.

Francezka, with a glowing face and dewy eyes, looked at Gaston, but he
looked puzzled and a little embarrassed.

"I can not recall it," he said; "it has gone from me with the memory
of other things I would remember."

Francezka, to assist his struggling memory, softly repeated the first
two lines:

O Richard! O mon roi,
L'u