iano. He often said he reckoned Madame Riano to
be the first warrior of the age with Prince Eugene and Marshal the
Duke of Berwick a considerable distance behind.

At ten o'clock the start was made, Madame Riano in her traveling
chaise leading. She bade an affectionate farewell to Francezka and a
kindly one to Gaston, placed her hotel in Paris at their disposal
whenever they wished to come to Paris, said adieu to old Peter, sent
poor Lisa a gold piece and a terrible denunciation, mounted into her
chaise and started.

I had said farewell to Francezka several times in the last few years
from the terrace, when she stood alone and lonely, but with undaunted
courage and undying hope. Now that hope and courage were rewarded; she
stood with Gaston by her side, the two happiest creatures on earth.
That last vision of Francezka in her beauty and happiness haunted me
like a ravishing strain of music in a lovely dream.

When we had traveled a couple of stages Madame Riano invited Count
Saxe to ride in her chaise, an honor which he dared not decline. Next
day it was my turn. I loathe riding in a stuffy chaise, full of
packages and waiting maids, but, like my master, needs must when
Madame Riano drives. The first question she asked of me amazed me.

"What think you," said she, "of my nephew Gaston Cheverny?"

"What I always thought," I replied. "An admirable man."

"Nevertheless," replied Madame Riano, "you loved him once. You love
him no longer."

That was the worst of this terrible old lady. She always found out the
awkward truths and proclaimed them at inconvenient seasons. I made no
reply to this, and she continued:

"Men grow hard with time. It is vain to expect of a man separated from
you for seven years, and but three and thirty years of age, the same
sensibility he had when he was six and twenty and had spent many
preceding years in your company."

This was true, and I had often said so to myself, so I told Madame
Riano.

"As for yourself, Babache," continued this indomitable woman, "you are
like old Peter, only fit to love and forgive and lay your heart down
to be trampled on."

"Madame, I have laid my heart at the feet of two persons only,"
replied I, with spirit; "one is my master, Count Saxe. Surely he
never trampled on it. The other is Madame Cheverny, whom I have
reverenced ever since I first knew her, and with whom, by the strange
turns of fate, I have been much cast for some years."

"Count Saxe and m