ing the ground, bow low to the ladies. As Gaston Cheverny
did this, I saw suddenly flash into his eyes that look of Regnard
Cheverny's. Francezka saw it, too. It was the very end of the minuet.

In the confusion that followed the breaking up of the dance Francezka
disappeared. In a little while there was a hue and cry raised for
Madame Cheverny. Messengers were sent after her. She was in her rooms,
and sent word back that she was fatigued with the chase that day, and
as she was to rehearse next day as well as act, she begged to be
excused. When I heard this message repeated, I left the ball room, and
going up the great spiral staircase, open to the moonlight which
flooded the earth, stopped opposite Francezka's window. The sky was
studded with glowing stars, and a great silver lamp of a moon made the
night radiant. Below, lights were shining from every window, and the
swell of the music kept rhythm with the beat of the dancers' feet. But
there, at that lonely height, all was still as death. Francezka's
window opened. It was not four feet from me.

"I knew your step," she said.

I remained silent and awkward. My heart, aching for her pain, had
brought my body thither, but after I had reached her, I knew not what
to say. She still wore her splendid gown and all her jewels.

"I know all about that _coup de grace_ with his right arm," she said
in a voice quiet, though trembling a little. "Do you wonder that I am
always in terror of something, I know not what? One thing is certain.
I do not know Gaston any longer. He is as strange, even stranger to me
than he is to you. Also, he is as kind, as devoted to me as ever he
was. I hate and dread mysteries--and I am enveloped in one."

She continued looking at me for a moment; I still knew not what to
say. Then, she softly closed the window. I remained out there on the
stairs until the December cold forced me to seek the fire in the great
hall below. There sat Gaston Cheverny, among a number of gentlemen. He
was the gayest, and might be adjudged the comeliest, gracefullest,
most accomplished man there, excepting always Maurice, Count of Saxe.

The next day, the king left Chambord, but the other guests stayed on
for a full fortnight.

It often occurred to me, that Chambord in its palmiest days, of
Francis the First with his Ronsard, of Louis le Grand with his
Moliere, never sheltered more wit, beauty and courage, than it did at
this time. The wit and courage of Count Saxe are