self, sad. There was some
subterranean outlet which gave a motion and a sound to the water, and
this sound was a mournful one. Francezka stopped and called my
attention to it.

"I remember that moan of the lake," she said--"or I think I remember
it--as Monsieur Gaston Cheverny thought he remembered the inscription
on the statue."

"Yonder comes Gaston, now," I said.

"No," said she, sweeping her glance toward a figure afar off,
descending the steps of the terrace. "It is Monsieur Regnard
Cheverny."

"And here is the other Cheverny," said Gaston's voice behind us.

He did not look particularly happy; the splendors of the chateau of
Capello were in marked contrast to his own modest house, the Manoir
Cheverny, which lay a mile or two away.

Gaston pointed toward it--a low-lying building, of moderate size, with
a carved stone gateway opening into a courtyard, and with a fair-sized
pleasure ground around it. There was both comfort and beauty about it,
but nothing in the least to compare with Capello.

"It is good enough for a bachelor," said Gaston, grimly. "There shall
I end my lonely old age."

I have observed that when a man is deeply in love, he is apt to
threaten the lady of his love with the suggestion of losing him.

To this Francezka replied, demurely:

"I shall be happy to have company; for, perhaps, I shall die a
spinster."

The whole rich and peaceful landscape lay before us--the red-tiled
village, the little stone church, the windmills--all singularly
pleasant to look upon, giving one a sense of the well-being of the
people; and to one who has seen the gardens of the world ravaged by
fire and sword, this means much. Gaston assured us that as soon as
his house was in order, he would have me to stay with him, thereby
abandoning Count Saxe for the time; and Francezka diverted herself
with asking me, if she and Count Saxe were in a burning building
and I could only save one of them, which would it be--and other
pleasantries.

Regnard Cheverny had evidently been looking for Mademoiselle Capello,
and presently joined us, and by that time we were called to the
chateau for breakfast. The parish priest, a modest, homely, shabby
little man, named Benart, was already at the chateau, to pay his
respects to the ladies. He remained to breakfast, and I formed a high
opinion of his judgment by the respect he paid to Count Saxe, although
purposely kept in ignorance of my master's rank and condition. The
little p