on the subject of this rascally Jacques
Haret. I could but study his countenance, which was always vivid and
full of expression. The thought flashed into my mind that Jacques
Haret possessed some hold over Gaston Cheverny; perhaps some secret of
those lost years. Jacques Haret at Paris had known in advance of the
very day and hour of Gaston's return to Brabant. This thought troubled
me.

Gaston remained, looking down reflectively, and considering Jacques
Haret with far more seriousness than I had ever seen any one consider
him before.

"One thing is certain," I said; "Jacques Haret would forego supping
with the king's majesty himself for a supper as good and a couple of
crowns. I will say this of that rogue and thief of other men's
honor--I never saw that human being who was so little awed by names
and titles as Jacques Haret." Which was true, showing what virtues may
yet subsist in a rascal.

Gaston Cheverny's face changed as if by magic.

"Why did I not think of that before!" he cried. "My dear Babache, it
is not for nothing that Count Maurice of Saxe has you at his elbow day
and night. That ugly head of yours contains useful ideas. A thousand
thanks to you; I will this minute put your advice to proof."

He turned and walked back to where Jacques Haret was. I went away,
leaving my respects for the ladies. I thought Francezka would rather
not see me after the painful episode in the garden. And I made not the
slightest doubt that the money for the supper and a couple of crowns
thrown in would buy Jacques Haret off, as I had said, from supping
with all the kings in Christendom.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A DEVIL'S IMP

I could but suspect that a coldness had arisen between Francezka and
Gaston over Jacques Haret. When I saw Francezka driving in the Bois de
Boulogne, or sitting, surrounded by admirers, in her box at the opera
or the theater, Gaston was no more with her, but whether it was mere
accident or not, I did not know. One thing I did know, however--that
Jacques Haret had a blossoming of prosperity. This I heard at the
Green Basket, the celebrated cafe near the Pont Neuf, which was
frequented by all the brightest spirits in Paris, and where I had the
audacity to appear sometimes, not in the character of actor, but of
audience. Here it was told among the news of the day that Jacques
Haret actually had a lodging of his own, after having slept for many
years anywhere he could get a bed free, or if not a bed,