verny, being in her own bailiwick,
and he seemed to cherish no memory of her past behavior. She was
equally polite to Jacques Haret, for whom old Peter had reserved two
of the best rooms in the chateau. All of us, however, were well
lodged, and Count Saxe was given the apartment in which Louis le Grand
had once been quartered.

My master was full of compliments on the chateau, as well he might be.
We retired to our rooms when it was growing dusk, and in an hour
supper was announced. It was served in the little yellow saloon, which
was a favorite one of Francezka's father, and was likely to be favored
by her, too. It was a merry supper table, with white waxlights and
red firelight shining on it, and we had the wine of the gods. The
Scotch gentleman had provided his cellars with vintages worth the
housing.

Francezka chose to appear at supper in a dress new to us--the dress of
Brabant, with the lace lappets falling over her hair, the lace apron,
and red-heeled shoes, with clocked stockings. Whether she was
bewitching or not, one may judge.

We sat long at table. Gaston Cheverny sang songs, then we sang in
chorus. Jacques Haret, the rogue, was a pleasant table companion, and
exerted himself to make the time pass joyfully. It was late before we
parted, and then, in good spirits. My chamber, as always, was next
Count Saxe's. I tumbled into bed, and for the first time since I had
crossed the French frontier, eighteen months before, I slept with both
eyes shut. There was no need to keep one's pistol within reach, no
need to rise through the night to be sure the horses were not stolen,
no need to sleep with a part of one's clothes on, for fear of fighting
or running before morning. One could sleep in peace. So slept I, and
so snored I that Count Saxe waked me up with swearing at me in the
middle of the night from the next room.

CHAPTER XIII

HIS GRACE AND PEGGY

Although it was not necessary for me to rise early at this place of
peace and beauty, the chateau of Capello, yet, long habit was upon me,
and, by sunrise, I was up and dressed and out in the fair, fresh
autumn morning. I made straight for the Italian garden, and was not
surprised to find Francezka there before me.

She was sitting on the bench by the statue of Petrarch. The hoar frost
glittered on the ground, just touched by the shafts of light which
were to grow into the great sun. The air was soft and mild, and
Francezka had no hat upon her dark ha