WHEREIN THE PRINCESS MICHELLE IS PUT IN THE WAY OF SECURING THE
DESTINY OF WHICH SHE HAS LONG DREAMED
BEING a changed man since last he was free, Roger Egremont had to
learn himself all over, as it were. He had been stupidly surprised, at
his first coming to St. Germains, that men had time for anything but
preparing to return to England. He came, in time, to the melancholy
belief, like the rest of his compatriots, that they would do no more
fighting for James II. The next blow they struck would be for James
III.; and he was a child not yet five years old! Nor did this sad
conviction bring them to moroseness and despair, but rather to dancing,
drinking, and fiddling. For men circumstanced as they were must seek
forgetfulness, or else die of chagrin and weariness. So there was
perpetual merry-making going on,--a masque, or a ball with a couple of
fiddlers to make music, followed by a scant supper, or a holiday in the
woods, and the ever gay inn of Michot. There was a general invitation
to Versailles, and often special ones to Marly, given by the French
King to the exiles of St. Germains; and as these people were full of
gratitude towards him for his generosity to their master, King James,
they sometimes went. But it was a costly business in carriages and fees
and the like, and money was a scarce commodity, from the palace of St.
Germains down to the humblest abode of exiles there. So the crowds
of them stayed tolerably close to the village, which they had invaded
in such numbers as to make a populous town. Roger Egremont was in the
thick of all that was going on; and if sometimes, as he lingered under
the quiet stars, returning from an evening of revelling, or walked in
the dusky autumn twilight through the leafless alleys of the forest
of St. Germains, he thought dismally of the future, and saw that no
headway was being made toward a restoration, he presently shook off his
uneasy feelings, whistled a lively air, and tried to be as unthinking
as the rest. At all events, it was much better than Newgate; that was
Roger’s everlasting consolation.
After the first dazzling delight of his freedom, he had returned to
books. Once more they became the chief pleasure of his life. But
he turned to them with altered feelings. Two years ago, they had
been all in all. Now he had human companionships and friendships.
Some of them, like that of the Duke of Berwick, Roger esteemed as a
liberal education. He did not see Dicky very often, who had returned
to studying, and his cousin Hilary was no more at St. Germains. His
cousins of the Sandhills he did not desire to see, after a certain
encounter with two of them in the courtyard of the palace one autumn
evening. There they were, Giles and Edward Egremont, reeling about the
courtyard, arm in arm, roaring drunk, and bawling and hiccuping for the
King. The Queen came to the window, saw these two poor tipsy gentlemen,
and turned away sorrowfully. Roger, who was leaning out of a window in
the Hall of Guards, ran down and collaring the two of them, carried
them off to the inn, where, both of them tumbling into Roger’s bed,
they were soon snoring. By night they had sobered up enough to appear
in the common room, where cards were produced, and as Dicky had said
of the Sandhills Egremonts long ago, they gambled the shirts off their
backs. They lost all their money, and actually wished to pledge their
swords and coats, but could find no takers. Roger was no ascetic, and
was not above cards and dice and a bowl of good liquor himself, as far
as a gentleman might go in those days--which was considerably beyond
what the present day allows. But he was no such man at cards and drink
as his cousins, and was glad enough to pack them off to Paris, with all
the money he could lay his hands on, as an inducement for them to go.
There was another cousin of his, Anthony Egremont, who was a gloomy,
fanatical man, not given to free living, but almost as offensive as
his brothers, in his own morose, disagreeable way, to Roger. It was a
misery to Roger that he could not pension these people off, and so get
rid of the sight of their follies and improprieties. He was a man of
a free and open hand, and one of his greatest pleasures, during the
little while he had enjoyed his estate, was to give generously. He had
done so, not only to Hugo and to little Dicky, but to scores of other
persons. And how easy and pleasant it was, when money was plentiful,
and his giving in no way stinted himself, to play the prince! He had
given Dicky a fine bay filly, as good a horse as there was in England,
but he had half a dozen equally as good standing in his stables. Roger
could not get over a certain lordly habit of mind which accorded ill
with the pittance from the King on which he had to live. The King’s
manner of giving it was calculated to teach Roger the vanity of earthly
wishes. He would be sent for to the royal closet privately, once a
month, when the King would gently put a little packet in his hand, with
some words of fatherly good-will; and this poor, unsuccessful King
had so much of dignity in his sorrows, so much of gentleness toward
his enemies, that Roger would be overwhelmed with the majestic picture
of a good man bearing misfortune nobly. Had James Stuart been half the
king in England he was in France, he might have kept his throne, and
not a tithe of the people who followed him into poverty and exile, and
remained with him, would have followed his successors under the same
circumstances.
Whenever Roger Egremont went abroad, it was with the hope of meeting
Mademoiselle d’Orantia. His eyes, as keen as they were bright, kept
a continual lookout for her. Sometimes he met her at the château;
occasionally he went to Madame de Beaumanoir’s rare routs, and each one
of these meetings was a distinct epoch to Roger Egremont.
Oftenest they met walking upon the terrace in the afternoon, with
great crowds of people sunning themselves in the mild autumn light,
and looking down upon the meadows, green even at the fall of the leaf.
Michelle would on those occasions, generally be walking with Madame
de Beaumanoir, who never failed to snatch Roger, and who paid him the
highest compliment she could command, by saying,--
“He’s the most delicious, impudent fellow I have seen since Charles the
Second’s time. François, do you model yourself upon this young man, and
you will be a man of spirit yet.”
Roger always fell an easy prey to the old lady at these times, for the
sake of a word with Michelle. He would drop behind and say to her,--
“How sweet are the meadows to-day, mademoiselle. There is good grass
there now, both for horses and cattle.”
At this, Michelle would smile,--a lovely smile that began in her
eyes and ended on her lips, showing a faint, elusive dimple in her
creamy cheek, not like the dimples in Bess Lukens’s rosy face. Roger’s
conversation about grass for man and beast was certainly unlike that
of most gentlemen who live at court. Yet was he so far from a rustic
that he knew more of books than any man at St. Germains. Michelle was
wise enough to see that nothing escaped Roger Egremont’s watchful
eye,--neither the growth of the grass in the meadow nor the politics
of Europe. Their conversation always drifted to books, and they had a
standing quarrel as to the relative merits of Shakespeare and Molière.
“But your Molière was a thief; he stole from Terence, from Plautus,
from almost every one of the Roman dramatists,” Roger would say, with a
sarcastic smile, to Michelle.
“As for your mighty Shakespeare,” that young lady would cry scornfully,
“he stole from the whole world. I myself have read stories writ long
before he was born, out of which I am certain he made his plays!”
Once, in one of these pleasant wrangles, as they leaned over the
parapet of the terrace, on a cold, bright December afternoon, Roger
poured out to her the story of his life at Newgate, and how ignorant he
was when he went into that gloomy place. They were as much alone as if
they had been in the depths of the forest, although all about them were
crowds of people. The King of France with his great suite was on the
terrace that day, gravely promenading with the Queen of England, and a
mob of well dressed persons followed them.
Madame de Beaumanoir, with her coach drawn up at the end of the
terrace, sat within it muffled in furs. The coach-door was open, and
ladies and gentlemen stopped and spoke to her, and lingered to hear
François read aloud some very profane verses, which caused the poor
young man to shudder visibly. But Madame de Beaumanoir would by no
means let him off, and she cackled with delight at his sufferings.
Michelle, who did not care for the class of literature which Madame
de Beaumanoir affected, spying Roger strolling along alone, shot him
a glance that brought him instantly to her side. She would walk about
a little, she said, if Mr. Egremont would escort her. Mr. Egremont,
coloring very deeply with pleasure, handed her out of the coach.
Presently they were leaning together over the iron railings, and
looking down upon the river, that glittered like steel in the bright
December afternoon.
As usual, they fell upon books, not the wild romances upon which the
court ladies fed, but something quite different. And then, won by the
sympathy in her dark eyes, Roger poured out his tale, how he could
scarcely read and write when he went to Newgate.
“And,” he said, looking down like a school-boy under her clear gaze,
“at first, for a time, I made a beast of myself with drink and gambling
and low company,--far worse than my cousins, the Egremonts of the
Sandhills have done here. You know, mademoiselle, they are reprobates.”
“I thought, Mr. Egremont, you would let none abuse your relations,”
said Michelle, smiling.
“None but myself, mademoiselle, at all events. I will say this for
myself--that as long as I was free and could live like a gentleman, I
behaved myself as such. ’Twas nothing but the agony of my untrained
mind--the fears and miseries of an ignorant, unlettered man--which
drove me to evil ways in Newgate prison. From them, books, under God’s
grace, rescued me. Why should I not love books and be forever grateful
to them?”
When next they met, it was at an evening levee in the grand saloon at
the château at Christmas time. The poor exiles tried to make an English
Christmas, as far as they could. Not even evergreens were cheap in
France,--where all growing wood is dear,--but they managed to have
some holly and cedar to trim the saloon with, and a great Yule log in
the fireplace, and a bowl of good liquor flowing. There were healths
proposed by the King and Queen, and Berwick gave the health of the
Prince of Wales, the little lad standing upon the table and clapping
his tiny hands with pleasure; and afterwards there was dancing to a
couple of fiddles, and Roger had the heavenly bliss of leading Michelle
out and dancing with her. Then, after the dance was over, and Roger
had paid her the compliment always observed at St. Germains,--“I hope,
madam, I shall have the pleasure of dancing with you one day before his
Majesty at the palace of Whitehall,”--they stood together in one of the
deep windows, and looked out upon the gardens and terrace and meadows
bathed in the white radiance of the December moon. And Michelle, who
seemed determined to know all about Roger’s past, said,--
“Is this anything like your English home?”
That was enough; Roger poured out his story of Egremont, the place he
loved so well, and then inevitably, he told of Hugo. Roger Egremont,
although gifted with that natural eloquence which made men and women
listen to him closely when he talked, was yet not one of those talkers
whose tongue is tied to no ear but his own. He was keen enough to see
that the Princess was deeply interested in what he had to say. In
truth, she was more; she observed that he had a good and graceful air
in speaking, that he used gestures sparingly, but at the right time,
that his voice, although soft, as became a gentleman, was rich and had
a ring in it, and that his eyes were full of fire,--in short, all those
little points which a woman notes in a man who pleases her; and then,
when Roger stopped, with a delicious feeling of having made headway in
her regard, she suddenly asked him the most disconcerting, appalling,
uncomfortable, awkward, and embarrassing question of his whole life.
Also, it was a question upon which Michelle had very accurate, although
not very complete knowledge, and her question was directly inspired by
the devil.
“And when and where, Mr. Egremont, did you make the acquaintance of
that beautiful young woman, Miss Lukens, whom, I understand, you have
befriended, and who is studying to sing in the King’s Opera?”
No dog marked for hanging ever had a more shame-faced look than Roger
Egremont at these words. Had he been the damnablest of villains, he
could not have appeared more of a poltroon. In truth had he been a
villain, he would have shown a brazen assurance. Instead of which, he
turned very red, shuffled his feet on the floor, looked wildly and
foolishly about him, and in short, made the poorest possible figure
that a man of sense could. Only one thing was clear to him--that
Michelle must be well assured that his relations with Bess Lukens were
altogether innocent, else she would never have mentioned her name
to him; but that only opened the way to the dreadful thought that
Michelle might think him capable of marrying Bess. And he could by no
means reveal poor Bess’s secret, that she was the gaoler’s girl--and
in short, was ever a gentleman more miserably placed by a single
indiscreet question of the lady of his heart? He could only manage to
stammer, “I--I--knew Miss Lukens first in Newgate prison;” and then,
seeing a look of astonishment in Michelle’s black eyes, a lie which was
half a truth, and served the purpose of a truth came to him, like an
inspiration from heaven.
“Her uncle was in the prison,” he said boldly. “’Twas through him I
first met her. She is the honestest girl alive, and the least likely to
grow above her station.” At which the Princess very calmly, and with
intent to torture him, told the story of Bess and the coach and Madame
de Beaumanoir,--told it so archly that the wretched Roger was forced to
laugh.
“And I think,” added the Princess, with sudden haughtiness, “she showed
a very great disposition to forget her station on that occasion--not
but that she had much provocation,” she added, remembering the
Duchess’s behavior on that day.
When Roger laid himself down at cockcrow on his bed in the garret at
Madame Michot’s, he could not but admit that the evening had not been
on the whole bad for him; and then the thought came to him, as it often
did, that were he again master of Egremont, with King James come back
to his own, the family of this young lady--this penniless, landless
Princess--would not reckon him a match for her; and turning and
swearing in his bed, and biting the bedclothes in his helpless rage, he
at last fell into sleep, to dream of Michelle.
The next time they spoke together was near a month afterward. Roger
had ridden forth on Merrylegs, of a chill and misty January afternoon.
He did not take the road to Paris, nor yet those beautifully paved
highways between St. Germains and Versailles and Marly, where the
equipages of the King of France were continually rolling, and royal
messengers booted and spurred were riding hot upon some important
errand, concerning a siege or a ballet, and ladies in their coaches
lumbered along, and beggars swarmed. Rather took he the road toward
Verneuil, which led through a wooded country, and was quiet and little
frequented.
He felt downcast on that afternoon. Berwick had given him a hint that
it might be necessary to disband the corps of gentlemen-at-arms. The
French people were not over pleased at the spectacle of a body of
troops in France, organized under the flag of England--and besides, the
poor King had no money to pay them. But they would be permitted to keep
their organization as a company of private soldiers, and fight for King
Louis, if so it pleased them. The thought of fighting was by no means
displeasing to Roger Egremont, even should he fight with a pike or a
halberd in his hand instead of a sword; but it showed to him what he
earnestly tried to shut his eyes to,--how far, far off was that return
to England, and how long must Hugo Stein, the bastard, keep warm the
place of a better man.
Turning these sad thoughts over in his mind, Roger trotted along on
Merrylegs,--a good horse, but one which Roger would have mounted his
groom upon at Egremont, he thought, no horse being ever so good as
those he bred himself upon his own land. The highroad was deserted,
except for a solitary cart once in a while, and a jolly beggar or two,
making haste toward that beggar’s paradise--Paris. But Roger wished
to be more solitary yet, and when some miles from St. Germains turned
into a by-road that led through deserted fields and melancholy woods.
It was growing toward dusk, and a warm mist was rising and making the
cloudy afternoon yet darker. Presently, Merrylegs, having his own sweet
will, the reins lying idly on his neck while his master mused, turned
into a road little used, and bordered by sombre poplars, gaunt and
bare. The way led up to rising ground, with a little hill at the top,
where the poplars ended and scattered pines and cedars grew dismally.
Roger raised his eyes and surveyed the dull and misty landscape before
him,--so lonely, so deserted, a few peasants’ huts in the distance
being the only thing that indicated human habitation,--and silhouetted
against the dun sky on the hill-top was a figure on horseback; he
recognized instantly that graceful head, with a hat and feathers, the
slight figure sitting erect, yet easily. It was Michelle--but what was
she doing so far away from home and alone? Roger rode rapidly forward,
and as the hoofs of Merrylegs were heard nearing her, the Princess
turned her head and recognized the new-comer.
Something in her face ever told Roger, on their meeting, that the sight
of him was not displeasing to her. To-day, she smiled and opened her
eyes wider, like a person roused from sleep, when Roger spoke.
“May I ask, mademoiselle,” he said, “why you are in this desert place,
so far from home?”
“By rare good fortune,” she said pleasantly, “I rode afar with my
cousin François. His horse cast a shoe about a mile away, and he
stopped at a peasant’s cottage, where he found a man able to do some
rude smith’s-work, and I came on here, promising to rejoin him. It
is good to be away from the crowds of people one encounters in every
by-path between Versailles, Marly, and St. Germains.”
“If I am in your way--” began Roger, haughtily.
“Not in the least. You, of all the men at St. Germains, can best
understand me. I sat here looking at those poor huts in the distance. I
suppose that is where the people dwell who hoot the King’s coach in the
darkness, when it passes along the highway at night. Those people have
injuries; yet, what are they, and who can mend them?”
“I can tell you their injuries very quickly, mademoiselle, but I cannot
tell you how to mend them. They must be mended though some time. Think
you those men, with stout legs and strong arms, will continue to labor
forever, and to see the fruit of their toil go in great wildernesses of
marble and bronze, like Versailles, with heaps of jewels, and thousands
of pictures and statues and coaches and horses,--and all for a few? No;
let these rustics but once find out how strong they are, and you will
see great changes.”
“Do you mean to say our King, the great Louis--” Michelle stopped,
offended, but not knowing how to go on.
“I say nothing, mademoiselle, of your King, the great Louis, except
that he is not only the most generous king, but the most generous man
who ever lived, to those in misfortune; and every man of us at St.
Germains--English, Scotch, and Irish--would shed the last drop of our
blood for him, for his kindness to our master. But I see that kings
and people know little of each other. Our English people knew little
of King James, or they would not have turned him out, and less of King
William, or they would not have put him in. If I were a king, I should
be like your great Henry,--I should wish that every peasant had a fowl
in his pot on Sunday. There spoke a great king, nay more, a great man,
for he saw the peasant’s rude power, and would stop his mouth with a
delicate fowl.”
Michelle sat musing, her chin in her hands. The two horses rubbed
noses, and stamped lightly on the soft, damp earth. The mist was rising
and enveloping the lonely landscape.
“Yet, after all, the peasant’s lot is not different from that of all
humanity.”
“I remember, mademoiselle, the very first time I spoke to you. You told
me there were only three great true things,--work, pain, and death. We
cannot help death, but we can help work and pain.”
“I do not think so,” she said, gently; “but that by no means releases
us from doing our duty. Nay, it only compels us the more. And when we
have found what is our duty,--which is not always easy,--we should go
to meet it cheerfully, as if it were a friend. I think I have found
mine. Yesterday the King sent for me to Marly. He told me something I
might do for my country, for him. It involved great pain and loss and
disappointment to me; but why should we not go half-way to meet pain,
since it searches us out and finds us no matter where we hide,--whether
it be in solitude, or in the midst of the greatest court of the
greatest king in the world? So I accepted my portion, and will live
with it cheerfully, as if it were pleasure.”
What did she mean? Roger’s natural curiosity made him long to know, but
natural courtesy restrained him. One thing he had noticed ever since he
had been in France, and had seen French people at close quarters: they
had different ideas of patriotism, chivalry, and duty from those he had
been bred upon. Where he loved his home and his country, they loved
their king; where he revered the laws, they revered their sovereign.
He was always coming upon some strange anomaly--for so it seemed to
this untravelled gentleman--in them. Yet Michelle was only half French,
and the lesser half, it seemed to him. She had not the vanity of a
Frenchwoman, who is coquettish even as a wit; she was freer than any
woman he knew of a desire to shine; she was quite satisfied to be,
instead of to do.
“I hope,” he said, diffidently, “that this duty of yours will not take
you away from us? Not that our sojourn here is fixed,--we all yearn
unspeakably for the day when we shall once more venture our carcasses
against the Prince of Orange,--but while we stay--”
“Yes,” answered Michelle; “it will take me away, a long journey, and I
know not what I shall find at the end. But I am master of my soul, and
nothing shall daunt me.”
The moon, a slender silver bow, suddenly appeared in the eastern sky,
the clouds melting away on the horizon, and the mist stealing off
magically. There were lights in the peasants’ huts. All at once the
scene grew less melancholy.
“Ah!” cried Michelle, with a sudden change in her air, a quick gleam
of daring in her eyes, which Roger saw by the faint moonlight, a laugh
upon her lips, as she struck her horse smartly with the spur she wore,
“we are talking like a couple of death’s heads. After all, one must
take chances in life. Anything is better than the dull stagnation of
mere fine ladies and gentlemen. We may learn a lesson from the poor
players in Monsieur Molière’s play-house at Paris. Think you any one
of them would refuse a great part, a chance to be the chief figure in
the events passing around them, from a paltry fear of what might befall
in the acting? Certainly they would not. Ambition must be a noble
quality, especially when it is not for one’s self so much as for one’s
country. It makes me thrill from head to foot, Mr. Egremont, to think
that I, a mere woman, can serve my King and France.”
She had gathered up the reins as she gave her horse the spur, and she
was now going down the hill at a breakneck speed. Something in the
recklessness of her manner of speaking, and the way she urged her horse
on gave Roger a strange and poignant feeling that she was not so happy
in the prospect of that long journey and absence from France at the
King’s desire. But all he said was, as they sped onward through the
mysterious twilight,--
“Wherever you go, mademoiselle, be it near or far, be it for long or
for little, you take with you the everlasting regard of Roger Egremont.”
She turned her face away from him as he spoke, and had he not at that
very moment caught her horse by the bit, and almost thrown him upon his
haunches, Michelle would have been in a ditch which yawned before them,
and of which the bridge was gone. She was an accomplished horsewoman,
and quickly recovered herself; but her narrow escape from accident did
not make her prudent. Rather did she ride faster and more recklessly.
Roger determined that Merrylegs should keep up with her, if he had to
buy another horse the next day. They passed, at a sweeping gallop, the
cottage where François’s horse was standing. The poor youth was just
putting his foot into the stirrup, and he had hard work to catch up
with them, so hard were they riding.
“We shall find Madame de Beaumanoir much displeased with us,” he cried,
panting, as he followed after them, belaboring his poor beast.
“No, no,” cried Michelle, turning her head, and letting her horse
follow his own lead, except for a restraining hand laid upon her
bridle by Roger. “Tell her that you were drinking at a wayside
tavern, or studying some ribald verses of Villon, or any other form
of--of--gayety, and she will forgive you.”
It seemed as if the recklessness in Roger’s blood had communicated
itself to Michelle. Never before had Roger seen her so full of wild
spirits. Their horses kept up a rattling pace, and, good rider though
she was, she would have come to grief more than once, but for Roger’s
watchful eyes and ever-ready hand. When they slackened their pace a
little, to blow their horses, she laughed and talked with a heedless
gayety quite new in her, and even sang the song that Dicky Egremont
liked so much, about
“Amis, passons-le gaîment!”
“Poor François,” she said, laughing, “he and I should exchange
identities. I should be the man. I love to ride thus, far and fast by
night; I fear nothing.”
“Because nothing has ever befallen you, mademoiselle,” answered Roger.
“’Twould make me very unhappy to know that you rode thus alone by
night. No road is safe after dark. The beggars by day are foot-pads by
night.”
“Well, then, if they stopped me, I should tell them plainly that I
carried neither money nor valuables with me when I rode.”
“But they might take your horse--”
“Let them try.”
“And insult you--”
“I should talk to them so that they would be enchanted. For, look you,
like yourself, I believe the vulgar have souls.”
It was eight o’clock at night before they parted at a turning in the
forest, Michelle going with François to the château, and Roger to the
castle.
“Good-bye, Mr. Egremont,” she said, catching his hand in her little
one, and holding it fast, “I shall not forget this ride.”
“Nor shall I, as long as I live,” replied Roger, in a tone that spoke
all he felt, and François coming up then, they cried out, “Adieu,”
gayly, and Merrylegs’s hoofs were soon clattering over the stony
streets of St. Germains.
Roger threw his bridle to the groom waiting at the entrance to the
castle, and swaggered into the guard-room. He felt exhilarated,
excited. Three hours of the company of Mademoiselle d’Orantia had acted
upon him like wine. Berwick was standing by the fireplace, in which the
oak logs blazed redly,--the gentlemen pensioners of King James would do
much for him, but they would not economize in fuel.
“What good thing has befallen you, Mr. Roger Egremont?” called out
Berwick, as Roger advanced to the fireplace, holding the bare blade of
his sword in his hand, and nervously bending it until the point and
hilt were close together.
“The greatest good in the world,--the free, unrestrained company of the
charmingest woman on earth for three whole hours;” and then, seeing
laughter and misunderstanding in the faces of those about him, he
turned a scowling front toward them, and said in a loud voice,--
“I met Mademoiselle d’Orantia out riding, and came home in her company.”
At which there was an instant change. No one spoke or thought lightly
of the Princess Michelle.
It was supper time, and the gentlemen of the King’s guard had a very
jolly mess-room adjoining the Hall of Guards. But Roger was in no mood
for the company of the gentlemen who had just laughed at him, and was
pleased when Berwick said to him,--
“Come, go with me to the inn, where we can have supper. I have
something to tell you.”
Roger, again putting on his cloak and hat, went forth into the night.
When they had traversed the terrace, and were going down the hillside
toward Madame Michot’s, Berwick spoke.
“You have a fine taste for adventure, my game-chick; so let me tell you
where I have spoken a good word for you. To-day the King sent for me,
and told me that the King of France wanted my services upon a journey;
and the King wished me to oblige his French Majesty. I went at once to
Marly, where I was introduced into the King’s cabinet, or, rather, into
Madame de Maintenon’s cabinet--devil take the old woman. There she sat,
with her everlasting embroidery, listening, listening, listening,--that
woman has made her fortune by listening. And the journey is this,--to
accompany Madame de Beaumanoir and Mademoiselle the Princess d’Orantia,
to the principality of Orlamunde on the Rhine. They go there for a
purpose connected with the alliance between France and Bavaria. I am
unable to tell you more at present.”
“Mademoiselle is the King’s ambassador,” cried Roger. “I know he thinks
highly of her abilities.”
“You have it,” dryly answered Berwick. “But it would never do to have
it known how or why she goes until she is there. Instantly our friend
the Prince of Orange, and all the Dutchmen in Holland would be on the
alert to circumvent her. Now, you must know, although Orlamunde is
but a little principality, yet there are to be found two admirable and
easily defended places on its territory for crossing the Rhine. What
the King wishes, and what the Elector Palatine wants, is to have those
places secretly fortified; and this we cannot do without the consent
of the Prince. Now, this is worth a journey there, and by two ladies,
escorted by their own servants, and with their kinsman, François
Delaunay, would occasion no remark, especially as there is some sort of
relationship between Madame de Beaumanoir and the princes of Orlamunde.
I am not supposed to be going with them. Oh, no! I go only to the
frontier upon military business; once there, I go where I like. The
King wants a soldier to explain to the Prince what must be done at
those places on the Rhine. I told his Majesty I would go, and on his
asking me what company I would take, I asked for you.”
Roger remained silent, too dazed, too enraptured to speak. To make a
long journey in company with Michelle--that was all his charmed fancy
could understand. He was roused from his dream in Paradise by Berwick
continuing,--
“I had another reason for this. The gentlemen-at-arms must be
dismissed; so our King told me this day, with tears in his eyes. They
will keep their organization, and fight in the next campaign as private
soldiers, so that you will have a chance to see fighting. But, my poor
Roger, I know that your purse is ill lined; and this journey into
Orlamunde will give you something wherewith to keep out the cold until
you come into your own again.”
“My Lord Duke,” said Roger, grasping his friend’s hand in the darkness,
“I think you the truest, most generous friend that ever lived. I will
go with you to Orlamunde; and, after that, I will face the devil
himself, if only in your company, for I am assured you fear him not!”
At the inn of Michot, the news had got abroad of the disbandment of the
gentlemen-at-arms. It meant beggary to most of them; yet they met it
as men of courage and adventure meet misfortune, boldly grasping it by
the hand, as if it were an old acquaintance, and toasting it with drink
and song. Afar off, as Berwick and Roger traversed the way down to the
valley, they could hear a roaring chorus, and the thumping of tankards
upon the table in the common room, from whose windows the red light
gleamed. Since they could not fight the Whigs, they could at least
abuse them, and shout in chorus their favorite song,--
“Ye Whigs are a rebellious lot,
The plague of our poor nation;
Ye give not God or Cæsar due,
You smell of reprobation.
Your Hogan Mogan foreign things,
God gave them in displeasure;
You’ve brought them o’er and made them Kings,
They’ve drained our blood and treasure.”
By the time Roger and Berwick had reached the doorway, the tune had
changed. This time it was in honor of the poor King who could no longer
give them their meagre pay.
“For I love, from my soul, a friend and a bowl,
So here goes a health to our King, brave boys;
Here’s a health to our King,
Let every true man sing,
Long live our noble King!”
Several Scotch gentlemen among the brave boys were very drunk, and an
Irishman and a Yorkshireman were rapidly coming to fisticuffs when
Berwick appeared. Respect ever followed his entrance; the acknowledged
son of their King, although a bastard, was so worthy in himself that
none failed to do him honor. The two gentlemen who were disputing
shook hands, wept maudlin tears, and each called himself a villain
for quarrelling with the other. The Scotch gentlemen quieted down.
The company became not less merry, but more orderly; Berwick was no
killjoy. They made a night of it; poor human nature requires some
solace, and these unfortunate gentlemen had but little. Roger Egremont
did not reach his garret until two o’clock. He stood looking out upon
the quiet stars before he threw himself into his bed. He began to think
he should never see Egremont again, and it tortured him; and then he
thought of the journey with Michelle, and his pain was turned to a joy
so keen, so penetrating, so agitating, that it was more painful than
pain itself.