s unmatched. Her
enjoyment and zest of pleasure were contagious. It was natural that it
should be so. Francezka's life had been so clouded and so stormy, for
seven years she had borne so heavy a burden of anguish, that when at
last this burden was removed and the sun shone again it was to be
expected that she should have a thirst for pleasure.

And to Gaston, cut off for so many years from any communion with those
of his own race, tongue and caste, it was necessary, in order to bring
himself once more in touch with his own world, that he should see
something of it.

Despite that coldness of the heart I felt toward him, I could not deny
that Gaston Cheverny had preserved--nay, greatly developed--his gifts
and graces. I had heard that the Chevernys as a family were famed for
eloquence, and certainly both Gaston and Regnard Cheverny had always
known how to speak well. Gaston now displayed in perfection this
excellent gift. His strange adventures in the isles of the East; his
description of his seven years' battle against alien climes, peoples
and conditions; his wanderings by land and sea, the steadiness with
which he kept his face turned to the west, the struggles by which he
finally reached Europe again--were worth hearing and lost nothing in
the telling.

Many nights, after a hard day's pleasuring, a great supper party and a
ball afterward, did Gaston Cheverny keep us up until almost daylight
telling us these things. Nor was he over ready to do it, but being
courteously pressed by Count Saxe, or other gentlemen, he would tell
us what we wished to hear. Sometimes Francezka listened to these
recitals, listened with a glorified face. Her happiness was so great,
so keen, that it made me fear for her. Like the little priest, Father
Benart, I thought the gods would demand their tribute, and only hoped
it had been paid by her seven years of anguish.

Madame Riano was staying at the chateau, and had not changed a whit.
She had ever liked Gaston Cheverny, and they seemed to be the best of
friends still. But she intended shortly to return to Paris, and so
invited herself to travel with Count Saxe when he should be ready to
leave. Old Peter was the same faithful, devoted, sad-eyed creature as
ever, but I think not unhappy after all. Lisa's return had given the
old man's heart its natural resting place. I asked him about her, and
he told me, with tears upon his withered leathery face, of her
devotion to him, her uncomplaining