HO! FOR ORLAMUNDE
AT five o’clock, Roger found Berwick waiting for him at the Porte St.
Martin, and then taking the road briskly, they arrived at St. Germains
before eight o’clock.
In the guard-room, they were told that the company of gentlemen-at-arms
had got marching orders, and on the next morning would be reviewed
by the King for the last time. All of these men had strange and
mixed feelings. They were to descend outwardly from their estate of
gentlemen, and become common soldiers, as far as their pay and duty
were concerned. But they were to rank with the musketeers of the French
King, of whom both rank and file were gentlemen; nor could any except
a gentleman be of this picked corps, and the Duke of Berwick was to
command them. These Jacobite gentlemen regarded themselves naturally as
both heroes and martyrs, and being bold and adventurous spirits, the
thought of the coming campaign, under the great Maréchal de Luxembourg,
gave them rather relief as a blessed change from the tedium of St.
Germains, and the piteous sight of their royal master, whom they were
unable to help. And so, with pain and joy, with hope and with sad
retrospection they performed their last guard duty.
On the morrow, the commandant of the guard, General Buchan, paraded it
under arms for the last time as the household troops of James Stuart.
It was a sombre February morning, the snow flying, and a bitter wind
cutting the keen air. They were formed in the courtyard of the château,
facing the main entrance. General Buchan was at their head. They
remained motionless for a few minutes,--a soldierly body of men, each
man an exile for conscience’ sake.
Then, walking down the stairway, came the poor King, leaning on the arm
of Berwick, and holding by the other hand the little Prince of Wales.
Leaving the child to Berwick, the King came into the courtyard, and
beginning with the commandant passed down the line, and wrote down in
his pocket-book the name and rank of every one of them, thanking each
man particularly for his loyalty. The last name the king wrote down was
that of Roger Egremont, Gentleman, of Egremont in Devonshire. To Roger
he said,--
“You have given up a noble heritage to follow your king, Mr. Egremont.”
“Sir,” replied Roger. “I durst not do otherwise, as I am a true man.”
The King then addressed them, speaking not without a certain
majesty,--for James Stuart bore his sorrows manfully, without complaint
or repining. He said,--
[Illustration: THEN, WALKING DOWN THE STAIRWAY, CAME THE POOR KING]
“Gentlemen, my own misfortunes are not so nigh my heart as yours. It
grieves me beyond what I can express to see so many brave and worthy
gentlemen who had once the prospect of being the chief officers in
my army reduced to the stations of private soldiers. The sense of
what all of you have done and undergone for your loyalty hath made so
deep an impression on my heart that if it please God to restore me,
it is impossible I can be forgetful of your services and sufferings.
Neither can there be any posts in my armies but what you may have
just pretensions to. As for my son, your Prince, he is of your own
blood; and as his education will be from you it is not supposable he
can ever forget your merits. At your own desire you are now going a
long march, far distant from me. I have taken care to provide you with
money, shoes and stockings, and other necessaries. Fear God and love
one another. Write all your wants particularly to me, and depend upon
it always to find in me your father and King.”[1]
To this, General Buchan replied for the corps; speaking briefly and
strongly, as men in their sad and desperate case should speak.
“For the sake of your Majesty we will submit to the meanest
circumstances and undergo the greatest hardships and fatigues that
reason can imagine or misfortune can inflict until God shall please to
restore you and us to our own.”
The King at this took off his hat and bowed his gray head low to them.
Then he turned and walked a few steps away, up the stairway, where
stood the little Prince of Wales, silent and wondering, and clinging
to Berwick. And having gone a little way, the King returned, still
carrying his hat in his hand, and bowed low again to the corps--and
then burst into a passion of tears.
At this the guard as one man kneeled and bent their eyes on the ground,
and presently rising, passed the King, the tears streaming down his
furrowed cheeks, and gave him all the royal honors.
When the parade was dismissed Roger Egremont went back to the palace.
Outside, in the gardens, he met Berwick walking with the little Prince
of Wales and his governor. The lad, his hand within that of his
half-brother, was pleading,--
“Ask the Queen, my mother, if you may take me into the forest to play.”
“Not to-day, my Prince,” replied Berwick, gently trying to loosen his
hand.
Roger kneeled, and the little fellow was compelled to let go Berwick’s
hand in order to receive upon his own hand Roger’s loyal kiss.
The child went off discontentedly, looking back at Berwick who was
smiling at him, and Roger whose face was grave.
“When do we start for Orlamunde?” asked Roger, after a while.
“In a couple of days, perhaps, or possibly not for a week. I await word
from Marly.”
Roger reflected; he could not go to Clermont to see Dicky, but he
knew of a messenger going there, and Dicky might get permission from
his superiors to come to St. Germains; there was little difficulty in
the English seminarists going to and fro. So Roger hastened to his
garret at Madame Michot’s and scratched a hasty line to Dicky; then
finding his man in the village sent off the note, and began making his
preparations to start at an hour’s notice.
He had not much to do; your man whose purse is light and his wardrobe
scanty, can make ready in a little while to go to the ends of the
earth. He looked around his great, bare room with the affection one
feels for a place where one has been well treated. Yes, it was in that
garret, on that narrow, hard bed, that he had dreamed his first dreams
about Michelle. He had thought it a palace after Newgate gaol. He went
down to the common room, which was quite deserted at that hour, asked
Madame Michot for his score, and paid it like a gentleman, without
looking at it, saying,--
“I am leaving shortly for the campaign in the Low Countries, and wish
to settle my affairs before the last hour before departure comes.”
Madame Michot expressed her regret at his going. Mr. Egremont had been
so pleasant always, but so were all of the gentlemen who frequented her
house.
“And madam,” said Roger, with an elaborate affectation of carelessness,
“I hope you will continue to bestow your friendship on Miss Lukens.”
“I will; never fear,” replied Madame Michot; and Roger, floundering
awkwardly, being at a loss for ideas as well as words, added,--
“If you would keep an eye upon her--”
Madame Michot’s mouth came open in a broad smile.
“It is hardly worth while for me to promise that, Mr. Egremont,” she
said. “I know of no one better able to take care of herself than Miss
Lukens; and if she takes it into her head to misbehave, I know of no
one strong enough to stop her.”
At which Roger laughed and went his way. He reckoned Madame Michot as
one of Bess Lukens’s most powerful friends.
On the third day Roger had an intimation that they would start on the
following morning at sunrise. He had heard no word from Dicky, and
feared he could not come to St. Germains. That day he spent strolling
through the places grown dear to him in that past year. He walked
through the forest. Spring was at hand, and the trees knew it. The
brown earth was soft under his feet, and there was a faint blue haze
over all the woods and fields and thickets. He had thought, when he
first came to St. Germains, that he would not set forth from it until
he should take the highroad for Calais, and thence to England. He had
no more forgotten his own land and Egremont than the Jewish captives
had forgotten their country when they wept by the waters of Babylon.
Every time he looked upon the fair face of Nature, or heard her voice,
it spoke to him of his home. For so long it had been all he had to
love! When the wind blew softly, it brought him recollections of the
wind that wandered through the laurel copse and sported upon the wide,
green lawn at the south corner of Egremont. When it rained he could
shut his eyes and dream he was in the little tower room where he slept
as a boy, and that the pattering drops were coming down upon the tiled
roof of the buttery hatch below his window. Sunshine and starshine,
night and day, morning and evening, in France, were transformed in
his eyes to England, and this dream of his home seemed real, and the
foreign country round about him unreal. And with every thought of
Egremont came the fixed determination to make Hugo Stein pay dearly for
every hour that he had kept the rightful master out of his own.
Thinking these and other poignant thoughts, he descended from the
heights into the lovely valley of the Seine. He passed the lodge gates
of the place where dwelt Michelle--he could not see the château for
the trees. He walked to the place where he had first seen her,--the
little retired strip of meadow, with the old rose trees scattered about
it. The spring had been farther advanced then,--it was not quite a
year,--yet he had lived so much more in that time than in any other
year of his life that it seemed a vast space of time. It occurred to
him that he had already lived an eternity, although he was not six and
twenty years old. Few men had known such outward vicissitudes; none
that he knew had experienced those inner changes. He had gone into
Newgate prison one man--he had come out of it another man. He was by
nature and birth a country gentleman--he was about to become a soldier
of fortune. Yet, such was the true, adventurous nature of the man that
he thrilled with joy at the thought of the chances and changes, the
delights and the dangers of the life upon which he was to enter.
He could see the terrace from the valley, as he strolled along. The sun
was shining, and coaches were driving slowly up and down, and people
were leaning over the parapet. He did not go near them,--he was in no
mood for people then. He climbed the vast stone stairs which lead from
the meadow to the terrace, and sat on the stone benches by the way, and
looking about him, asked himself, as all men do on leaving a place for
a new life, “Shall ever I see this place again?”
He returned to the inn in the afternoon. On the way he passed Berwick
on horseback, riding fast, with his servant behind him.
He stopped, leaned over in his saddle, and said in Roger’s ear, “We
ride to-morrow at sunrise.”
Roger literally ran back to the inn. There were a few of his modest
preparations to be finished. He would not give up hope of seeing
Dicky until the last, and so would not write him a last letter. At
eight o’clock he dressed himself, _not_ in his new suit of green
and silver, and went to the palace. He had not the heart to flaunt
his peach-colored waistcoat in the face of the King and Queen. He
had heard the ladies say that the Queen had dressed quite shabbily
of late,--although to him she ever appeared majestic in dress as in
everything else; but he had no eyes for frayed brocades and mended
lace. The King always dressed plainly, and fine clothes were so rare
at the palace that a new gala suit was sure to cause something like a
panic.
He stopped for a half-hour in the Hall of Guards--for although there
were no longer any guards, yet these gentlemen frequented their old
quarters.
There were numbers of the late corps present, all eager for the coming
campaign, and all bearing their melancholy fortune with cheerfulness
and even gayety--especially the Irish gentlemen, whose spirits rose
mightily at the prospect of fighting.
In the great saloon above, the King and Queen were, not sitting in
state as the French princes and princesses did, but walking about, and
motioning those to whom they talked to sit at ease. The King, beckoning
to Roger, said to him,--
“Mr. Egremont, I was gratified to give your services, with those of
the Duke of Berwick, to my brother the French King, for the temporary
service he intends, before you join the Maréchal de Luxembourg. Yet in
you I have lost the best penman I ever had.”
“I thank your Majesty for that word,” replied Roger, inwardly
congratulating himself on having exchanged the pen for the sword.
And then the Queen called him to her, and told him smilingly that the
little Prince of Wales had asked that Mr. Roger Egremont be made his
governor, because he told such beautiful stories of bears and lions.
Roger had sometimes amused the child with tales.
He was looking all the time for Michelle, with small hope of seeing
her. But presently he heard Madame de Beaumanoir cackling in the
distance, and in another minute she appeared, with Mademoiselle
d’Orantia, and François in attendance.
Madame de Beaumanoir always made a flutter at her entrance, even into
the presence of royalty. She chose a way of praising her ever adored
King Charles before King James, which made that now strait-laced and
deeply religious monarch writhe in his chair. It was--“One day, at
the Duchess of Portsmouth’s--he! he! your Majesty, what gay days we
had at Louisa Kéroualle’s!” Or--“I never could abide that Mistress
Eleanor Gwyn, with her orange-girl ways. Your Majesty never approved of
Nell Gwyn, that I know;” at which King James, who had been no Puritan
himself in those days, but who had repented, hummed and ha’d, and
glanced uneasily around him, and fancied a lurking smile on every face.
And so the King, after speaking to her, usually made haste to get out
of her company. To-night he pleaded pressing business in his closet,
and retired from the face of his tormentor. The Queen remained, and
a certain Scotch gentleman, who played a good fiddle offered to play
for the dancing of those present. A recruit was found in the person
of another gentleman, who played the viol da gamba; so they had an
impromptu little ball, the Queen looking on smilingly from her chair
at the top of the room. There were jigs and reels and rigadoons, the
Scotch and Irish gentlemen excelling in these merry dances. Roger, who
was a fine dancer, fairly rivalled them and altogether distanced even
the Scotch and Irish in the _minuet de la cour_. He had never seen
Mademoiselle d’Orantia dance any of these informal dances, but to-night
she did jig and reel, rigadoon and strathspey with an incomparable
merriment and grace. Roger had the anguish to see General Buchan take
her hand for the minuet, and in consequence he retired and sulked in a
corner.
It was known that Madame de Beaumanoir and Michelle were leaving
the next morning for Orlamunde, and that Berwick and Roger Egremont
were to go Rhinewards with them. There was keen curiosity to know
why the ladies should go to Orlamunde, but beyond the fact that they
went at the request of the French King, no information was to be
had. Mademoiselle d’Orantia simply declined to be pumped. Madame de
Beaumanoir frankly admitted she knew nothing about it, except that all
her expenses were paid, and she should not stay a day at Orlamunde
longer than she pleased--if she had to risk a _lettre de cachet_ by
returning home.
All last things are sad; Roger could not but think Michelle’s merriment
put on, with her peach-colored satin gown, and pearl chain. At last,
however, it was time to go home; the gentlemen fiddlers grew tired of
fiddling. The King sent for Roger Egremont into the royal closet, where
he found Berwick and the Queen.
“I have sent for you to say good-bye and God-speed to you, Mr.
Egremont,” he said. “The Duke of Berwick has my instructions. If I
should never see you more, remember I am your King and father, and have
ever found in you a good and dutiful subject and son.”
And Roger, on his knee, kissed the hands of the King and Queen, and
sent his duty to the Prince of Wales, and professed himself ready to
die for the rights of his master, if dying could help them. The Queen
too thanked him, bending upon him those glorious Italian eyes of hers,
once so proud and laughing, and now so serene and full of sorrow
majestically borne. Roger rose and backed out of the royal presence,
leaving Berwick behind, who made him an unseen motion with his thumb,
which was the magic signal for a night at the inn of Michot.
Roger left the palace, and walked fast through the town, under the
white moon and stars, toward the inn,--the last evening there too.
As usual at that hour, there was great commotion in the common room;
and as Roger entered the great door and passed Madame Michot, on her
platform, a boyish figure ran forward and clasped him--it was Dicky.
“Ah, my lad, I thought you would not let me get away without seeing
me,” cried Roger, delightedly.
“For sure, I would not, Roger,” replied Dicky, “but you know I can’t
come and go like you gentlemen of the sword. I have to get permission
from my superiors.”
“So do we,” said Roger, laughing, and drawing Dicky toward the punch
bowl, which Ogilvie the Irish gentleman, was stirring something in,
vigorously; “I know of monstrous few men who don’t have to ask some
one’s consent for all they do. But now that you are here, Dicky boy,
you shall make a night of it, and you can have from now until Christmas
to do penance.”
The gentleman with the fiddle entered then, and then began one of the
great joys of the Jacobites, the singing of songs to the confusion
of their enemies. The weaker party must have its revenge, sure; and
the revenge of the Jacobites was to make the finest songs ever sung,
some of them full of wild longings for their country, and trolled
forth with moist eyes, and choking of the throats of men; others,
shouted out, proclaiming everlasting constancy to their King, and a
willingness to do and die for him; others again, a roar of vengeance
against traitors and ingrates, robbers and despoilers,--no epithet was
vile enough for William of Orange, no scathing contempt bitter enough
for the ungrateful daughters of the King,--and sung with a fervor that
came from the souls of all who sang, and went to the souls of all who
listened. At the choruses every man joined in, whether he could sing
musically or not; at least he could stand upon his legs, and shout
out the sentiments which filled his heart. Poor souls; it was all the
revenge they had, unless it was to see William of Orange having his
own troubles with his English parliament; Mary, his wife, wretched and
jealous, dying prematurely, and at enmity with all of the same blood as
herself; poor foolish Anne, mourning the loss of her many children, and
of her husband, and on her death-bed vainly crying out, begging that
the justice she refused her brother should be done him. The Stuarts,
too, were an unhappy race, but it is remarkable that they all knew how
to make their exit, and had always some one to weep for them as they
lay a-dying.
The evening was exactly like many those same men had spent in that same
place, but it was the last. When, at the end, they all stood up and
roared out their last song, it was to dub their company “the Devil’s
Own,”--a name not wholly inappropriate; and then, in the midst of
the carousing and shouting, it came over them that it was their last
evening in that hospitable place; they grew suddenly quiet as they
drank to the King, and afterward went soberly off.
Roger and Dicky went up to the garret, where a rude pallet was spread
on the floor for Dicky.
They sat late, talking, looking out upon the river and the valley,
until the moon, faint and pallid, sank out of sight, and the earth grew
dark, while the heavens were bright with stars.
Roger told all of his affairs to Dicky, even of the journey all the way
to Orlamunde,--all, that is, except the most important; and that was
his deep and hopeless passion for Mademoiselle d’Orantia; but this,
Dicky guessed for himself.
“And, Roger, do you know it is quite possible that I may be ordained
and go to England before you come back?” said Dicky. This meant that he
might face imprisonment and death before they should meet again.
“I cannot gainsay thee, boy,” said Roger, kindly; “you ever had an
adventurous spirit,--’tis too much like my own for me to rebuke it,
although you wear a gown and I a sword. And, Dicky, forget not poor
Bess Lukens; though why should I call her poor? She hath now more
pounds than we have shillings, I dare say, and seems singularly happy
and content. She values our friendship, and I think she likes to say
the Egremonts are her friends. She does not realize how little our
service is worth, poor and exiled as we are. Pray, when you can get
leave, go and see her.”
“Indeed I will; I never saw an honester creature in all my life than
that girl.”
Dicky knew nothing of man’s love for woman, except by observation, but
he saw that Roger Egremont was not in the least in love with Red Bess.
Then they lay down to rest; Roger’s last conscious sight was of Dicky
kneeling and praying very earnestly by the unshuttered window.
“Pray for me, Dicky,” he said sleepily, and in another moment he was
walking in the forest with Michelle, who put her hand in his and told
him she was going to Orlamunde to marry him, and kissed him with great
delight.
At daylight he was awakened by Dicky, fully dressed in his seminarist’s
gown.
“Get up, Roger. I am now going to have Merrylegs fed, and your
breakfast will be waiting,--you have less than an hour to sunrise.”
The sun was just tipping the tops of the half-bare trees with golden
light, when Roger and Dicky reached the edge of the forest, where they
were to meet Berwick and Madame de Beaumanoir’s party. They walked,
Dicky with his black robe tucked up, and his light-blue, laughing,
honest eyes shining under his beretta, Roger leading Merrylegs, on
whom was strapped a small portmanteau, which contained all the worldly
possessions of the head of the house of Egremont. This included the
little bag of earth from Egremont, without which Roger had never slept
a single night since that last night at his home, nearly four years
before. They soon reached the appointed place of meeting, on the
forest’s edge, and Berwick, ever the most punctual of men, was on the
spot as soon as they were. He rode a fine gray gelding, and his servant
was riding another horse, and leading a packhorse, upon which he nimbly
strapped Roger’s little portmanteau. And in another minute there was a
great rattling of wheels and trampling of hoofs heard on the road from
the château, where it touched the highroad and Madame de Beaumanoir’s
equipage came in sight.
It was a cavalcade. First came the berline of the Duchess. She had
fought hard to travel in her great gilt coach, but the impossibility
of getting it through the passes of the Vosges daunted even her high
spirit. The berline was horsed with only a pair, but behind the baggage
wagon which followed, were led two other horses. The baggage wagon
contained the maître d’hôtel, a footman who acted as coachman, and
a couple of lady’s-maids. Behind all rode François Delaunay, glad
to escape from the berline and the company of his benefactors; and
Mademoiselle d’Orantia rode beside him.
She wore a black riding-suit with a black hat, under which her dark
eyes were lustrous. She rode with incomparable grace, and as her
delicate figure was outlined against the bright sky of sunrise, Roger
thought he had never seen her look so handsome. He remembered that she
was not always handsome, but when she bloomed, as it were, she shone
with a dazzling and brilliant beauty which was a charming surprise.
Madame de Beaumanoir, sitting in solitary state in the berline had
a long cane with a jewelled head to it in her hand, with which she
prodded the bewigged coachman and footman who sat upon the box. As soon
as the party drew up she began to screech,--
“Here I am, my lads. This dull court was dull enough at best; but
after you, Berwick, and Mr. Egremont and I go away, ’twill be like a
dissenters’ meeting,--the sort my nephew François would frequent if I
would let him.”
François bore this gibe with meekness, and Berwick engaging the old
lady in conversation, Roger had a chance to speak with Michelle, who
had drawn up her horse by the roadside.
“Do you contemplate making much of the journey a-horseback,
mademoiselle?” asked Roger.
“All of it, Mr. Egremont,” replied Michelle, promptly. “You may
remember, the second time we met, I told you that I longed to ride by
night and day, and to know how it feels to sleep with the earth for a
bed and the sky for a roof.”
When a woman recollects, a year after, what she said to a man the
second time she met him, that man may count on her having a singular
regard for him. And Roger Egremont, who was not unlearned in women,
felt his pulses tingle when she spoke. He suspected it was an
inadvertence, but it was not less delicious on that account.
Michelle spoke kindly to Dicky, who had seen her many times before, but
whose youth and profession and lack of consequence had made him keep
his distance.
“I wish you good fortune,” she said smilingly. “I know not when I shall
see France again, but I shall hope to see you then.”
“I rather hope, madam,” replied Dicky, blushing very much, “that we
shall meet again in England.”
Madame de Beaumanoir, catching sight of Dicky, called out,--
“So that’s the young Egremont who is to be a Jesuit, and to go to
England to be hanged for it.”
“A man can die but once,” answered Dicky, very readily, but blushing
still more; “and if I am to be hanged, I feel sure an English hangman
would do the job better, in less time, and in a manner more becoming a
gentleman, than a hangman of any other country whatever.”
“Why, boy,” cried the old Duchess, “I did not dream your black
beretta had so much wit under it; and you are comely too, like the
Egremonts--too comely for a priest. Cast off that black robe, and be a
cavalier, and marry some charming girl with a fortune.”
To which Dicky had enough of the ineffable impudence of the Egremonts
to reply,--
“Alas, madam, the lady who might win me from my vocation is far above
me, being a Duchess, and, although still young, is older than I--” at
which Madame de Beaumanoir screeched with delight, and Roger made a
note in his pocket-book.
“Mem.: To write to Mr. Richard Egremont’s superior at Clermont and say
that Mr. Egremont shows signs of abandoning his profession.”
“You should hear him fiddle, and hear him sing; no lark ever had a
sweeter note,” said Berwick. At this the old lady declared she must and
should take Dicky by force to Orlamunde.
It was, however, time then to start. Dicky bowed low to the ladies,
and François wrung Berwick’s hand, and Dicky and Roger hugged each
other like a couple of schoolboys. Roger sprung on Merrylegs, and Dicky
disappeared into the forest. By running fast he could reach a point
where the highroad was visible and he could see his more than brother
once more.
There seemed nothing to delay the moving of the cavalcade, but yet no
move was made. Madame de Beaumanoir explained the hitch in a manner
very unlike her usual careless merriment. She said, quite grimly,--
“I must await the letter containing the precious secret of the King of
France. A secret forsooth! As if all the kings of France could keep me
from finding it out! Your politicians are ever as blind as bats. They
never dream that any one can find out anything!”
Just then a great dust was seen on the highroad from Marly, and a
gentleman on a briskly galloping horse rode up to them. It was Monsieur
de Sennécy, one of the gentlemen in attendance on the French King.
He dismounted, and taking from his pocket two letters, addressed and
sealed by the French King, he handed one to Madame de Beaumanoir, and
the other to the Princess Michelle. Madame de Beaumanoir received hers
singularly for a person to receive a letter from the Grand Monarque.
She turned the letter over slowly, her usually merry, keen old face
quite grave, and looking full at Michelle broke the seal. There were
only a few lines, which she read at a glance and then, turning to
Michelle and then to Berwick, said, meaningly,--
“As if I did not know it! Well--may no harm come of it.”
Michelle held her letter in her hand, and grew ashy pale, fingering it
instead of opening it.
“You know the contents, mademoiselle?” said Monsieur de Sennécy,
in a surprised voice. Michelle’s pallor and agitation could not be
overlooked.
“Certainly, monsieur,” replied Michelle, with an effort; and then, with
a supreme struggle, she regained her composure, opened the letter,
which was a long one, read it through steadily, kissed the King’s
signature at the end, and then looking up, fixed her eyes on Roger
Egremont, although she spoke to Monsieur de Sennécy.
“Say to the King that all his commands shall be strictly fulfilled--and
I am his dutiful subject.”
As Michelle’s eyes sought him, Roger Egremont had a strange sensation,
and moreover, he was vexed and uncomfortable at being the only person
in the party who was not in the secret. Berwick’s face was inscrutable;
the French gentleman looked a little surprised at the way his
communications had been received, and somewhat haughtily bowed as he
remounted, wishing them a pleasant journey. The old Duchess screamed
after him, “Tell your master that I am going to Orlamunde for my own
pleasure, and I shall not stay a day longer than it pleases me, if I
am put in the Bastille for it. I know he will never dare to deliver my
message,” she added to her listeners; and then they set out upon their
journey.