angue Francezka in private, he would get such a
reception that his ears would burn for a week; and he looked to the
third person to restrain Francezka's tongue, which was somewhat free
on all occasions.

By that time we had dismounted from the coach. Francezka was not
awaiting the bishop at the top of the terrace, which seemed to annoy
him. He forgot that he had arrived some hours in advance of the time.

Count Saxe, however, was strolling about enjoying the fragrance of the
morning. The bishop had not seen him since our return from Courland,
and, by some accident, had never been enlightened as to his real name
and rank. It was not without secret amusement that I introduced him to
the bishop, who instantly recognized his old acquaintance. His Grace
was a moving sight at the moment. His face fell, his eye wandered
aimlessly around as he muttered to himself:

"Count Saxe--Count Saxe--and is it possible I did not know that he was
Count Saxe?"

"I think not, Monseigneur," replied Count Saxe, "else your Grace would
not have criticized my expedition into Courland so freely before my
face."

The bishop's chagrin was a little mitigated by Francezka's appearance
at that moment. She greeted him courteously, apologized for her delay
in appearing, and had old Peter to show the bishop to his apartment,
where he might repose himself until dinner time. Count Saxe made some
excuse to be absent from dinner, and when the hour came, only
Francezka, the bishop, Father Benart, Madame Chambellan and myself sat
down together.

As soon as it was over, and we had retired to the red saloon, the
bishop intimated he had something of a particular nature to say to
Francezka.

"Then, will your Grace say it here?" said Francezka, who knew the
bishop's propensity for haranguing, and reckoned, as Father Benart had
done in her own case, upon Father Benart to restrain the bishop. She
continued: "All of the friends present are close to me, and conversant
with my affairs--hence, no harm can come of your Grace's speaking
openly."

I saw the calmness of her manner, and her air of gentle expectancy
somewhat disconcerted the bishop, who perhaps found women disconcerting
creatures.

"Madame, my friend," began the bishop, following the advice of
Horatius Flaccus, and plunging into the middle of things, "I have come
upon a painful errand. Reproof is always painful to me."

"Yes, your Grace."

As Francezka said this, there was a gleam in her eyes li