heard, troops of ladies and gentlemen
in hunting dress came down the great staircase into the courtyard.
Among them was Francezka. I myself swung her into her saddle. She
looked as radiant as if she had not been traveling, rehearsing, acting
and dancing for many hours before. As she gathered up the reins, she
cried:

"Ah, Babache, this is to live! I have just changed my ball costume for
my hunting dress. It is almost as good as those days before and after
Uzmaiz!"

Action and adventure were in her blood, and she was a strong woman,
capable of much exertion, but I had never seen in her before this
thirst for pleasure.

And to the music of silver hunting horns and the bell-like baying of
the dogs, I saw the hunt, with the king, Count Saxe and Francezka,
sweep across the Bridge of the Lions and along the broad, bare,
leafless avenue, into the forest, in the cold, bright December
sunrise.

I had not time to join the hunt, and, busy with many duties, scarcely
noted how the day slipped away. Toward three o'clock I saw a solitary
figure--a woman--ride across the bridge. No one else had returned, nor
was the hunting party expected until sunset. I recognized Francezka's
form and surmised that, fatigued with all she had undergone, she had
slipped away from the hunting party and had returned to the castle to
rest.

About five o'clock, when the short winter afternoon was closing and
the sun was red, I received a message from Francezka. She desired to
see me in her apartment. I climbed the stairs to her rooms at once.
Her door was opened for me by old Elizabeth, Peter Embden's sister,
who, I remembered, had been Francezka's waiting maid long ago on that
journey from Koenigsberg. Elizabeth was harder featured than ever, and
rheumatic, so she told me; but Francezka had a way of keeping those
about her, who had once loved her, even if they became a little
infirm.

Elizabeth went to tell her mistress. I looked about the room, which
had a sweet aroma of Francezka about it, something which made the
place appear as if meant for her and her only. The harpsichord was by
the fireplace--Francezka was always devoted to the harpsichord and
played more skilfully upon it every year. There was her book of music,
copied with her own hands, her embroidery frame, and the book she had
been reading lay on the table, by which sat a chair with her scarf
thrown over it, and a delicate perfumed handkerchief was where she had
dropped it.

A fire