he gave us her own
heavenly smile. Count Saxe bowed to his saddlebow, and his eyes did
her homage.

A little farther on we passed the great Hotel Kirkpatrick. At the
sound of our horses' hoofs clanging, Madame Riano came out on her
balcony to see us. She waved at Count Saxe her great green and gold
fan, without which she never budged, and actually laughed in his face
and shook her head derisively when he bowed to her. That woman was
enough to drive any man to drink. There was no sign of Mademoiselle
Capello, but when we had passed the front of the hotel we espied a
little balcony on the side, overlooking the garden. She stood on that
balcony; I remember she wore a crimson bodice and skirt and a crimson
ribbon was in her unpowdered hair. Her eyes outshone the sun. She
returned our bows with the lowest of curtsies. Gaston Cheverny's eyes
were glued to that balcony until Mademoiselle Capello was no longer
visible. His face was glowing with delight. When we were well out
beyond the barriers and in the fair open country, he rode up beside
me. His face was all smiles and blushes, like a girl's.

"Did you see Mademoiselle Francezka?" he asked.

I nodded, and he continued:

"Last night Madame Riano had one of her great routs. I went to it with
my brother--our first visit to her since we have been in Paris. She
received us well, and so did that angel, Francezka, who said she
remembered us from her childhood. Ah, Babache, she was so kind to me.
It seems she knew all about our little fracas--she had got the whole
story out of old Peter--and was full of the sweetest regrets. She even
begged my pardon--the darling!--for having been so rude to me the
night of our first encounter. I think she is now awake to the
imprudence of her conduct, and most anxious for it not to be known,
instead of being defiant, as she was at the time. She asked me to give
you her thanks and her remembrance."

"It is enough," said I; "if I can but always merit her thanks and her
remembrance I shall be satisfied. It is for men placed like you to
aspire for more."

"Babache," he cried, "you are an honest fellow, and I am glad you made
that hole in me, if it won me your friendship."

"I did not wish to make a hole in you," I replied. "What has your
brother to say to your going with us?"

"He tried to dissuade me from going. I tried to persuade him into
going. Regnard has more of that beggarly virtue of prudence than I.
But, Babache, here is the devil