ll things? I was roused from
my anxious reverie by the sound of locking the great iron gates, the
bolts and bars making a huge noise in the stillness of the night. This
grating sound, however, did not drown those words of Francezka's.
Something led my footsteps again to the street, where I could get from
the back a clear view of Monsieur Voltaire's room. When I reached the
place all was dark, and the doors and windows were closed for the
night, but on the corner stood a plain coach, which I recognized in
the half darkness of the summer night as belonging to Gaston
Cheverny.

If I had been surprised at his patience with Jacques Haret's
impertinence an hour ago, I now saw that it was not so long suffering
as I had thought, for Gaston, sitting in the coach and holding the
door open, was swearing at Jacques Haret with a concentration of rage
I had never seen excelled in any human being before. Every word that
he said was true, but there was a defiance in it which further
sustained my notion that Jacques Haret held some power over Gaston
Cheverny.

Jacques was taking it with the same coolness he had taken the beating
I had given him in the Luxembourg gardens. Gaston was shouting out
insults to him, and when Gaston stopped at the point where any other
man would have drawn his sword, Jacques coolly remarked:

"You have called me a liar, a blackmailer, a leper, a dog and a
devil's imp. I take it that you are of a different opinion from me on
certain points. Your withdrawing your invitation to me to the chateau
of Capello is most unhandsome. However, it is not your chateau,
anyhow."

Gaston leaped out of the coach after him, but Jacques Haret
disappeared somewhere in the darkness, for he had no scruples about
avoiding a fight, yet I believe him to have been singularly insensible
to fear.

Within three days I heard that Monsieur and Madame Cheverny had left
Paris for their estates in Brabant. As they went together, it was
plain there had been no outward break between them.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A GARRET IN PRAGUE

The great parties at Chambord followed and lasted all through June.
They were like the one in December, but they were not illuminated by
the wit, the beauty, the ineffable charm of Francezka. It may be
imagined how little I enjoyed them. My heart was like lead in my
bosom. Every waking hour, and often in my dreams, I saw Francezka's
face as I had last seen it, pale and despairing.

There was something el