“YOU HAVE BROUGHT ME TO THE GATE OF PARADISE AND HAVE SHOWN ME THE
GLORY OF THE BEAUTY WITHIN--AND THEN HAVE THRUST ME AWAY!”
THE party did not leave Châlons until the sun had come out, which was
after midday. Berwick, as usual, rode with Michelle. She trusted and
admired him as all discerning women did, and often asked herself if the
little Prince of Wales would ever be half the man his tall, taciturn,
half-brother was. And Berwick, knowing, as Roger did not, what was
before her, felt for her a profound pity and esteem.
“We shall have but a short day’s journey,” she said, when the spires of
Châlons had melted from their view and they were riding, a little in
advance of the chaise, on a good highroad.
“But,” she added, “I think I do not care how short the day’s journey
is, for it makes the time longer that I shall be in France. I never
knew how much I loved my country until I made ready to leave it.”
“’Tis the best country in the world to strangers,” cried Berwick,
gallantly, “but, mademoiselle, no country is like one’s own. The bread
which is given to exiles, albeit the kindest and readiest hand in the
world that gives it, has ever a bitter taste. The clothes that are
bought with another’s money never have any warmth in them. If it were
not for hope all of us at St. Germains would have died long ago.”
“You at St. Germains have not so tiresome a time as the gentlemen
and ladies at Marly,” said Michelle, smiling. “At least you have the
unchanging favor of your King. At Marly every one wants something and
works--how they work!--for it. In winter’s cold and summer’s heat, in
illness, in weariness of body and spirit, yet they work, work, work!
You are not so worn out at St. Germains.”
“True,” said Berwick, with his grave smile. “The French court calls for
ten times the patience and assiduity we ever needed at St. James’s. And
some of us--the younger ones--take things joyously at St. Germains, for
we all hope to be restored to our own. Even our friend Egremont plumes
himself that his estate will be worth more when he gets it back into
his hand than when it was torn from him.”
As Berwick spoke Roger’s name, a blush kindled all over the creamy
cheeks of Michelle. Berwick was sorry for her at that moment. She shook
her bridle-reins and quickened her horse’s pace, and no more was said
of Roger.
It was late in the sunny afternoon before they reached Vitry. When they
clattered up to the entrance of the courtyard of the Three Roses, Roger
was waiting for them. As soon as Michelle drew rein, Roger stepped
forward, and without regarding the rights of Berwick, who had the
privilege, as the gentleman riding with her, of lifting the Princess
Michelle from her horse, swung her to the ground. And again Michelle
blushed.
Madame de Beaumanoir and François were close behind. The landlord,
bowing to the ground, was at hand, and supper was ordered at once.
There is something in change and movement which makes almost any inn
tolerable for a night, and the life they were leading was novel to
all of them except Berwick. Their supper, in Madame de Beaumanoir’s
room, served by the landlord himself, with the maître d’hôtel to stand
between him and the old Duchess, was gay as usual. When it was over,
the young moon was high in the sky of night, which was still ineffably
blue and clear.
Roger began to urge Madame de Beaumanoir to walk out and see the old
castle by moonlight. Madame de Beaumanoir pleaded fatigue, rheumatism,
old age. Roger answered these objections by producing from somewhere
about the inn, an ancient and moth-eaten sedan chair, in which the old
lady, with screams of laughter, ensconced herself.
“And you, mademoiselle, will go too?” he asked of Michelle.
“With pleasure,” she replied.
Roger looked at Berwick, who shook his head, as much as to say, “Manage
this campaign by yourself, my fine fellow!”
François had bought a volume of sermons at Châlons, which he had
carefully concealed from Madame de Beaumanoir, and was dying to read,
so he relieved them of his company; and Madame de Beaumanoir, with two
chairmen carrying her, set forth, Roger and Michelle walking by the
window of the chair, and pointing out the beauties of the little town,
lying still and quiet in the moonlight, which cast its mysterious charm
over all the scene. When they reached the point where the castle rose
before them, its silvered battlements shining in the light of moon and
stars, they rested under a tree in a little open place surrounded by
gardens. Madame de Beaumanoir, as soon as her chair was set down, put
her head out of the window, and entered into a discourse, lasting half
an hour or more, concerning a certain moonlight water party at Hampton
Court in which the blessed King Charles figured in the usual manner.
When she had finally reached the end of her tale, she looked about
her. Both of the chairmen were asleep, and Roger and Michelle were
nowhere in sight. Madame de Beaumanoir scolded her chairmen until they
were broad-awake, but there was no finding the deserters. Those two
renegades had walked off, Michelle scarce knowing what she did, except
that the moonlight was sweet, and that Roger’s voice was very seductive
when he said,--
“There is a very noble tower which can be seen if you will but come a
few yards away.”
The few yards away was a considerable distance; and when they found
themselves alone, under a hedge, with the gray mass of the old castle
looming up before them in dreamlike beauty, the two poor souls forgot
everything but each other. They spoke little, but under all Roger
said lurked something that told of the passion within him. She was
Mademoiselle the Princess d’Orantia, and he was simply Mr. Egremont, a
gentleman who had not so much as a pair of boots, except what he might
win with his sword. Obviously love should never so much as be thought
of between them; but--perversity governs the world. And this vast
inequality between them disappeared when they stood alone together in
the moonlight, Michelle’s eyes, the only feature she knew not how to
control, looking at poor Roger with a world of meaning in their soft
depths. Her eyes were dark and deep and changing, like the Dark Pool at
Egremont, in which were mirrored night and day, clouds and sunshine,
darkness and light; it was never the same for an hour together.
And sweet moments like these must be many before they reached
Orlamunde; and after that--well, a campaign was coming; a soldier with
his sword could cut his way through a forest of obstacles. So thought
Roger.
They were roused from their dream in Paradise by Madame de Beaumanoir’s
voice in the distance, cutting the air like a knife. They ran back,
like a couple of school children caught playing truant,--the bold Roger
Egremont as meek and apologetic as François Delaunay could have been.
“A pretty cavalier you are!” bawled the old lady to Roger on one side
of her chair, “leaving me in the lurch like this. I warrant your
father, for all his faults, poor man, and he had a plenty, would never
have been so rude. Nor would those worthless Sandhills Egremonts have
so used me. Let me tell you, young man, you have a great deal to learn
yet, nor do I see any great aptitude in you!”
Roger bore this assault on himself and his family with exemplary and
silent patience. It was then Michelle’s turn.
“And you, miss, call you this proper to go off for a couple of
hours,”--it had been a scant half-hour--“with a gentleman in this
manner? What if at Orlamunde--”
“Madam, madam,” implored Roger, “I alone am to blame; this young lady
is perfectly innocent.”
“I know it,” snapped Madame de Beaumanoir. “Everybody is always
perfectly innocent in cases like this.”
“If I were Monsieur François Delaunay,” continued Roger, recovering
his spirits slightly, “would you so belabor me for being a little too
gallant to a charming young lady, like Mademoiselle d’Orantia?”
“Oh, François, he is a sheep of a man, if you please; he has no red
blood in him.”
Roger managed, however, to keep Madame de Beaumanoir’s denunciations
directed toward himself, and they returned to the inn, the old lady
rating him soundly the whole way. When they arrived at the door,
Berwick and François were awaiting them.
Michelle escaped to her room, while Madame de Beaumanoir, standing
under the swinging lantern in the doorway, gave Roger a new and
complete scolding in French, as she had done in English, the chairmen
and porters standing around and grinning, Berwick urging her on, and
supplying fuel for the fire of her wrath, François mutely sympathetic,
and Roger, hat in hand, in speechless humility. When at last she
retired, leaving Roger to the tender mercies of Berwick, he registered
a vow before high Heaven that never would he give cause for offence to
Madame de Beaumanoir again, if he should live to be a thousand years
old.
The next day they made Bar-sur-Aube, and in a day or two more they were
climbing the rough sides of the mountains of the Vosges.
In the pleasant champagne country it had been spring, with a glint of
summer, but in the Vosges they returned to winter. The air was sharp
and cold, the inns were far apart and comfortless. The streams, swollen
by the melting snow and the spring rains, had in many cases washed the
bridges away. The travellers were delayed at many rivers, and sometimes
passed days in wretched houses of entertainment, and once even in a
charcoal-burner’s hut. They were two weeks in crossing the mountain
ranges.
But they were two happy weeks to Egremont and Michelle, in spite of
rain and wind and cold and privations.
Roger’s little volume of Ronsard’s poems was a delight to him. He
wished the chance to read those passionate, sweet poems to Michelle,
and cunningly contrived it, by taking the volume out of his breast
when he knew Michelle was observing him, and reading it as he jogged
along on Merrylegs. Of course, a woman must know what a man is reading
whenever she sees a book in his hand. Roger always replaced his dear
Ronsard with an ostentatious show of secrecy, in his breast, as soon as
he saw Michelle’s attention openly fixed on him. It was not long before
she asked him what book was that he read so often and seemed so anxious
to conceal.
“A book, madam, in which you would take no interest. Yet will I show it
to you if you really wish to see it.”
This was most vexatious. She really wished to see it, but she really
did not wish to acknowledge this. But Roger deliberately putting the
book back into his breast, Michelle could not forbear asking to see it.
She assumed a careless tone, but that did not deceive Roger. At once
her eyes sparkled.
“Dear Ronsard!” she cried; “I ever loved him!” and then she began to
read some of his verses, and stopped with a conscious blush.
“Let me read you something that I love,” said Roger; and turning the
leaves at random, he found a stanza full of sentiment, which he read so
meaningly that the color deepened in Michelle’s usually pale cheeks.
After that, Roger took a mean advantage of her admission that she loved
Ronsard, and often, when they were riding alone together, would he read
to her from that poet of the heart--and read so well that it was plain
Pierre Ronsard was speaking for Roger Egremont. The volume was a kind
of talisman. With it Roger could at will bring the blood surging into
Michelle’s fair face, make her glance sidewise at him with a tell-tale
light in her eyes, and render her blind and deaf to all except the
poet’s magical words.
The very happiest time of all was three days of storm they spent in the
charcoal-burner’s hut. It was new to them both to see a storm-swept
mountain forest, the wind roaring along the rocky gorges, bearing
down the sturdy pines and larches in its madness, and wrapping sky
and mountains in a shroud of black rain and mist. Roger and Michelle
watched it together from the one unglazed window of the hut, and were
lost in admiration at the beauty and fury of the tempest. They were
safe in the little secluded place where the charcoal-burner had built
his rude shelter. The ladies slept in the hut, the gentlemen lodged
in the chaise. The servants slept in a hut still poorer and ruder, a
short distance off. There was food and a plenty of good wine, thanks
to the maître d’hôtel, and the gentlefolks rather liked their strange
experience. The servants grumbled much. On the third night, when the
dun clouds that almost rested on the tree-tops had drifted sullenly
southward, and the angry wind had been soothed, the full moon came out
gloriously. Roger was not indiscreet enough to propose to Michelle a
prospect of the scene by moonlight; his recollection of the moonlight
at Vitry was too recent and too poignant. But going out of the hut,
where by the light of a single candle Madame de Beaumanoir with
Berwick and François played primero, he cast a sly and meaning glance
back at Michelle.
When he had been gone five minutes and the old duchess was deep in her
game, Michelle rose, and wrapping her cloak in which she had sat more
closely about her, opened the door silently and slipped out. Leaning
against the door-post was Roger Egremont.
“Look, mademoiselle,” he said; “the trees are so still--so still,
and so white on their tops, and so black under their branches; and
listen--you can hear the singing of a dozen waterfalls.”
Michelle listened, and the voices of the falling waters made the night
musical.
“You will see many nights like this,” she said, “but I shall not.
Remember me sometimes when you are in a lonely mountain place like
this, and something recalls this spot.”
“Remember you!” replied Roger, in a low voice, and said no more; but he
looked at her hard in the bright moonlight and saw what he wished to
see in her melting eyes. He took her little warm hand in his; he needed
not to speak, and the hand he held fluttered, but made no effort to
escape.
“And will you think of me sometimes at Orlamunde?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, in a strange voice, “I shall; you may depend upon it.”
“And when you hear that I have got a step in promotion, or better
still, that we are restored to our own in our own country, then look
to hear shortly from Roger Egremont, for not a moment will I lose in
writing you first and seeking you afterward.”
Roger had not meant to go so far, but when a gentleman has got this
distance there is not much farther for him to travel. But at this
moment Michelle withdrew her hand, and suddenly disappeared, so
suddenly indeed that Roger looked about him amazed, and could not
imagine how quickly and silently she must have opened the door of
the hut and gone in; for that was what he thought she had done. He
waited five minutes, and then himself opened the door, and entering
looked about him, expecting to see Michelle. There was no sign of her,
however, although he carefully explored every corner by the dim light
of the candle. There was but one room, with no loft or other place
of concealment. Madame de Beaumanoir was far too deep in her game to
notice any one. François had left off playing and was half asleep,
after having been well scolded for his inattention half a dozen times
that evening. Berwick flashed an inquiring look at Roger, and Roger
shook his head, and disappeared as silently as he had come in.
Outside he saw that it was far easier for Michelle to disappear unseen
around the corner of the little hut than to go inside, and wondered at
his own stupidity in seeking her there. And he was deeply vexed and his
masculine self-love was wounded at the moment she had chosen to leave
him.
The place was in the heart of the forest, with only a small spot
cleared about it. Bright as the moon shone, all was black under the
branches of the solemn larches and firs. Roger walked about, listening
intently for the fluttering sound of Michelle’s dress, or her light
footstep. He made a circle around the hut, calling softly at intervals,
“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Where are you?” But there was no response
except the dashing of the water over the rocks in the distance, and
the occasional lonely cry of an owl that complained to the moon. Roger
began to feel annoyed and even a little alarmed. What business had
Michelle to go off in that manner, in a forest by night? She might
very well be lost for a time, even for the whole night. And there were
wolves about--the charcoal-burner had told of seeing them every winter.
As this dreadful thought struck him, Michelle’s soft voice, just at his
elbow, caught his ear.
“Are you looking for me, Mr. Egremont?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Roger, turning to her. They were in a bright patch of
moonlight, and he could see her quite well. He was vexed with her, and
he showed it.
“You have alarmed me much by going off alone. I have been searching for
you for the last half-hour.”
“Forgive me the trouble I have caused you,” she said, walking toward
the hut and looking back at him. Her cloak was around her, but her dark
head was bare, and her eyes shone with strange brilliancy.
“I am a very unhappy woman, Mr. Egremont, and, I fear, a guilty one.
I came upon this journey to do my duty to my King and to my country,
but I am afraid I shall do both more harm than good by my coming, and
as for myself and you--ah, I have done infinite harm! We shall both be
miserable for the rest of our lives, perhaps.”
Roger, following her, was stupefied by her language. She was usually
the most intelligible of women, and although she often spoke
playfully, no one made the meaning of words clearer than Mademoiselle
d’Orantia--this woman renowned for her wit and address. Miserable and
guilty! What inexplicable words for her to use! And to tell him so
plainly that he was linked with that guilt and misery of which she
spoke! It made his heart pound against his ribs,--the mere thought of
it.
He walked rapidly, and catching up with her, cried, “Mademoiselle, I
do not understand;” but she walked so fast and turned her head away
so persistently that he could not get another word out of her, and
presently they came to the door of the hut, and Roger signing to her to
enter first, she went in and left him alone.
Roger remained outside in the chilly night for a time, puzzled and
troubled and intoxicated by her words. But presently in his man’s mind
came the reflection that women were, after all, fanciful and sensitive
creatures, of whom the greatest wits among them were likely to be the
most fanciful and sensitive. A man would be a fool who would take
them quite literally. Unhappy and guilty--yes, they called themselves
unhappy when they missed receiving a love-letter, and wept and raved
over trifles, while they could bear the loss of fortune, of health, all
that makes life endurable, with smiling composure. And Michelle would
call herself guilty if she committed a peccadillo which a man would
reckon at not a pin’s consequence; and Roger knew women well enough to
recall that the very best of them can, under love or hate, commit deeds
of which the mere thought would make a man’s hair to rise on his head.
So, having recovered somewhat from his first dismay, he presently
entered the hut. The game was over. Madame de Beaumanoir was wigging
François for not having brought some extra packs of cards with him.
Berwick sat on a settle by the fireside, and Michelle was by his side.
He was speaking to her kindly, very kindly, and she listened to him
with a smile upon her pale lips, but with an expression of so much
misery in her dark eyes that it gave Roger a shock.
Directly they were separating for the night. The three gentlemen had
ensconced themselves in the chaise, and muffled themselves in their
cloaks. In five minutes François was snoring. Then Roger said in a low
voice to Berwick,--
“When a woman says she is miserable and guilty, I take it she has the
vapors--or--or--is in love with a man and cannot see her way to marry
him directly. Is not that your opinion?”
“With most women, yes. With all women, no. If Mademoiselle d’Orantia
said she was miserable and guilty, I should take it seriously.”
With this for a nightcap, Roger Egremont spent the night.
Next morning it was clear and bright, and they began the descent of the
mountains. At every stage they came nearer the springtime.
When, after some days’ travel, they reached the valley of the Moselle,
it was full spring, with all its glories. They had then been three
weeks on their way.
Michelle had been as sweet, as kind to Roger, as ever she was,--nay,
sweeter and kinder. But Roger saw that she avoided, with the utmost
art, being alone with him for a moment. This made him receive her
kindness somewhat sullenly; he thought a lady who had showed him so
much favor as Michelle had done that night at the charcoal-burner’s
hut contracted a debt to him of more of the same good treatment.
Nevertheless, finding in a contest of wit between them that Michelle
was his superior in finesse, he concluded to take his defeats
good-humoredly. One thing was certain, he could not say any more to
her, or to any woman, concerning his love, than what he had already
said, for was he not, so far, a mere gentleman adventurer? But he had a
campaign before him, under a fighting general, and what might he not
accomplish, even in a single campaign? Roger Egremont was of a sanguine
nature, which helped him over many of the rough places in life, and
he was far too much of a man to think that life was to be spent in
Arcady. Rather did he incline to make the most of those bright hours,
such as he had known upon that blessed journey, because they were so
fleeting--and so fleeting because they were so golden.
They were nearing the end of their travel, and Roger remembered that
the principality of Orlamunde lay between the Rhine and the Moselle
and they were then in the beautiful Moselle country. They followed a
straight course, crossing many times the bright, winding river, that
now hides all its loveliness in dark woods, and then reveals it all in
fair fields and meadows. The season was far advanced, the vineyards
were sprouting. Nature daily and hourly performed miracles of change
and beauty before their eyes.
At last, on a heavenly April evening, toward sunset, they caught sight,
from a wooded height, of a distant silver thread. It was the Rhine.
They spurred forward. Michelle had carried out her promise, and had
made the whole journey from France in her saddle, and was then riding
between Roger and Berwick. She looked at Berwick and said in a strange
voice, “Yonder is the Rhine.”
“And Orlamunde but five miles away from this spot,” replied Berwick.
Roger turned in his saddle to survey the country they had just passed
over. It was one of those moments when he realized that there was
something in this expedition known to all but him and it gave him
discomfort.
In a little while they reached a small but comfortable inn, with
a little wood behind it and a charming garden in front of it, and
shielding it from the highroad. They seemed to be expected, for the
landlord himself bustled out to receive them, the best rooms in the
house were prepared for them, and even dressed with flowers, and the
best supper the inn could furnish was awaiting them, together with
wines of the best vintages of the Rhine and the Moselle. Roger did
not pay great attention to this,--the baggage wagon and servants
had arrived some hours in advance, and there had been time to make
preparations for so large a party.
After the supper, served by the landlord himself with many smirks and
bows, the ladies, with their three cavaliers, went out into the garden
sweet and gay, to watch the sunset after a day so fair and bright, and
Michelle then said to Roger,--
“Mr. Egremont, will you not sing to us the whole of that song of exile
composed by Captain Ogilvie, the Irish gentleman? I think it the very
sweetest air and charmingest words I ever heard.”
And Roger, blushing with delight, went to the inn, and borrowing an old
Spanish guitar, on which he could thrum a little, returned and sang
with much taste, although with no great voice, that song beloved of the
exiles,--
“Yes, it was for our lawful King,
We left our lovely England’s shore,
That we exiled ourselves from Scotland, my love,
That we exiled ourselves from Ireland.
“Now, when we have done all that men can do,
And all we have done is of no avail,
My native land, my love, adieu!
For we must cross the sea, my love,
For we must cross the sea.
“We look our last on native shores,
We grasp our oars, and cry,
Adieu, for evermore, my love!
Adieu, for evermore!
“The soldier comes back from the war,
The sailor recrosses the sea;
But I? I have left my love, to return no more,
My love, to return no more.
“When the day is done, and the wings of night
Spread their shadow over all;
And each gives himself to the sweets of sleep,
For me--I think of one who is far away.
And in the long, long night, I weep for my love,
For the long, long night, I weep.”
Roger put so much feeling into what he sang that it touched every
heart, and Michelle’s eyes filled with tears, at which Roger’s grew
bright with triumph. And suddenly Madame de Beaumanoir’s voice cut the
air,--
“Now that we have reached within five miles of Orlamunde we can talk
openly about the affair which brings us all here. I love to talk of
things I know, and it has been a mortal trial to me to hold my tongue,
especially as we all know the whole thing except Mr. Egremont.”
Roger rose instantly, polite, but a little disconcerted. He supposed
that the secret affair was some political measure connected with the
relations of France and the little principality of Orlamunde, and the
measure the King had confided to the ladies and to Berwick. François
Delaunay knew it, but that was natural enough, considering that he was
the ostensible protector of his aunt and cousin on their journey.
Roger made a good excuse for leaving the company; he must go and look
after Merrylegs. The faithful beast showed some signs of fatigue, and
must be attended to by his master, and not by a hireling.
Roger remained away a long time. He wished not to intrude himself until
much time for discussion had passed. He walked about the fields, and
always in the direction of the Rhine, so that he saw the river quite
plainly. The evenings were long, and although the moon did not now rise
till past midnight, the sky was bright with opaline light, and a star
or two shone beautifully in the western horizon. It was nearly eight
o’clock when he turned homeward, and it was an hour before the lights
of the inn came in sight.
As he was passing through the little wood which lay behind the garden
of the inn, he was surprised to see Michelle standing under the trees.
He went up to her, saying,--
“The beauty of the evening tempted me to go afar.”
“And you left us free to discuss the affair which brought us here. Ah,
Mr. Egremont, you are not a man to deceive, even when you try.”
“It was very right that I should leave you, mademoiselle,” replied
Roger, courteously; and then, catching sight of Michelle’s face, he
said,--
“I hope that your errand here will be for your happiness.”
“It will not,” she said calmly, “for my errand is to marry the Prince
of Orlamunde.”
Although it was night, and there was no moon, yet could Roger Egremont
see the Princess Michelle’s face plainly, and she could see his. At
first he was so dazed by her words that he looked like a man suddenly
struck a blow from behind, but quickly his countenance changed as his
consciousness began to work of itself. The Prince of Orlamunde! Was
he old or young? Was he a comely man or a hunchback? Was he marrying
her for love, or was she being sold in a market? All these thoughts
came roaring and rushing through his mind at once. Was she marrying
for love? Ah, no. He knew the answer to that. He remembered that night
by the charcoal-burner’s hut; those days together; those times when
she recalled to him words that he had spoken, mentioning the very day
and hour and place when they had passed his lips. And the thought
brought rage quick and strong. All the time she was amusing herself
with him,--mere soldier of fortune that he was, with a long sword and
a short purse; and he had told her all--all--all,--confessions about
his behavior in Newgate gaol, things that he had been ashamed to tell
any human being--and she was laughing at him all the while, and going
to marry the Prince of Orlamunde, princeling of a territory scarce as
big as the estate of Egremont,--living, no doubt, in a kind of sixpenny
magnificence, selling his country to the French King for a hundred
louis d’or a month, perhaps. Oh, what a wretch must that Prince of
Orlamunde be!
Michelle, watching his changing face growing dark with wrath, thought,
as she had done more than once, how anger disfigured him. He was a
dashing and personable man when the world went well with him, but let
him but be crossed, and he was positively ugly.
He turned on her after a while, saying impudently,--
“Let me felicitate you, Mademoiselle d’Orantia. No doubt you are making
a very splendid marriage. I understood before leaving France that the
Prince of Orlamunde had an army,--a whole regiment, I am told,--which
both the King of France and the Prince of Orange are chaffering for.
You will live in a palace, have ladies-in-waiting, and a paraphernalia
not quite so grand as that of the Queen of France, but something like
it. And there will be Maintenons and Montespans, most likely--”
Roger stopped. The devil that had got hold of him in Newgate prison
and had made a beast of him was now clawing him, but some spark of the
gentleman in him checked his insults to a woman.
“You are quite right in all you say,” replied Michelle, in a thrilling
voice. “And I shall hate it all, as you know,--the trumpery state, the
small politics. I know of no woman who can bear them more ill than I.
But a greater misery than all has befallen me. I go to be the wife of
the Prince of Orlamunde when I love you, Roger Egremont, and would
rather be your wife with nothing but the clothes upon my back than to
be the Queen of France. And I am an ambitious woman too. And until we
made this journey together I actually thought with pleasure of being
Princess of Orlamunde.”
Roger felt his knees giving way under him. There was a bench near
the tree where they stood, and he sat down upon it. Michelle stood
up before him, straight and slim in the half-light. The sky was now
full of stars, and by their pale splendor he could see every look that
passed over her speaking face.
“But if you love me,” he stammered, “it is not yet too late.”
“Yes, it is too late.”
The echo of her words was indescribably melancholy; a night-bird’s sad
cry quivering through the trees seemed like its echo.
“Yes, it is too late. To-morrow the Prince sends his people to meet me
here, and then next day the marriage takes place. Of course there is
a bargain in the matter. The King of France wishes certain things of
the Prince of Orlamunde. The Prince demanded not only money, but a
wife from France, and I, poor unfortunate that I am, agreed to be the
sacrifice. I thought it great and noble to immolate myself for my King,
but that was before I loved you. Now it is too late to turn back; even
Berwick has gently warned me of this when he saw with what a heart of
stone I come to Orlamunde. But after all, what does the happiness or
misery of one woman matter? It is only the eternal passing. If I had
known happiness, it would have been gone from me; none can keep it.
And, at least, I have had some moments of perfect joy with you. They
were few and short, but many people live through a long life without
ever knowing one moment’s complete joy.”
Roger sat listening eagerly and angrily to every word, and then he
burst forth,--
“But why did you bring me upon this devilish journey?”--the evil spirit
in him making him think first of his own humiliation. “Berwick, the
Duchess, François Delaunay, even the maître d’hôtel,--ha! ha!--must
have seen how it was with me.” Roger rose and struck his forehead.
“It is that I am a very bad woman,” replied Michelle. “Berwick
suggested you, and I said no word. But, at least, I did not then know
all my feelings for you, all of yours for me. I said to myself: ‘This
poor English gentleman is the only man who ever pleased my fancy; why
not indulge myself with his company?’ You see you are not the only
selfish one. You think now only of _your_ pain. I thought only of _my_
pleasure. And then--I know not how--from that morning in the Cathedral
at Meaux, or perhaps before--only, I had not spent two full days in
your company before I knew how it was with me. And now let there be no
more pretence between us. Do not reckon me to be the best woman that
lives; you are quite as good a man as I am a woman. It is a continual
danger for us to be together. Reckon on your own strength, and know
that mine is no greater. We must part. I have done wrong enough both to
you and to the Prince of Orlamunde; not that it really distresses me to
think of him,--I told you I am not a very good woman; his sufferings
would not give me much pain. Yours would drive me to distraction if
I saw them. So I must not see them. There are but two more days, as
I told you. I am to reach Orlamunde to-morrow and be married the
next day, and then you must go. On the day after to-morrow,--do you
understand?--we part, never to meet again. Two more sunrises, two more
sunsets, two more nights of pain, and everything will be over.”
Roger remained silent. She had ever an eloquent and persuasive
tongue, and as she spoke, the searching melancholy of her eyes, the
ineffable sadness of her voice cut him to the heart. After a pause she
continued,--
“It is very hard for you, but these things are not to men what they
are to women. It is much harder for me. I shall have a husband whom I
hate and who will hate me, for I foresee it; I have a presentiment at
this moment. But I deserve it, having done much to bring this shame and
sorrow on us both.”
After having cruelly and selfishly blamed and insulted her, Roger
suddenly changed; he thought of her only as a lamb soon to be handed
over to the wolf. He rose, and opening his arms wide, cried, “You have
brought me to the gates of Paradise, and have shown me the glory of the
beauty within, and then have thrust me away. But you have the heavier
part, the heavier part!”
And then their lips met and their souls rushed together. Time ceased
for them. When they slowly came back to the world about them and saw
the pitying stars shining overhead, and heard again the night-bird’s
melancholy call, Michelle retreated from him.
“I have, indeed, the heavier part,” she said, bursting into tears.
“Besides losing you, I can never see my own country again. I can never
be free from a husband I hate already, and I have never seen him. I
shall not find here one single friend; that my soul tells me. Truly, am
I punished.”
“But, at least,” cried Roger, approaching her as she withdrew herself,
weeping, from him, “We have had, as you say, some days of happiness;
we have had some moments--that night outside the hut in the mountains,
this minute just past,--when we have known ecstasy. Neither the Prince
of Orlamunde nor heaven nor hell can rob us of _that_!”
As he spoke, she turned and fled from him. He took a step forward and
then checked himself. He saw her slight figure flitting through the
trees, and then she disappeared in the darkness of the night toward the
inn.
Soon afterward Berwick, sitting at a table examining a map in the
common room, which was on the ground-floor of the little inn,
heard the door open behind him, and Michelle, like a ghost, passed
noiselessly through the room. As Berwick respectfully rose she halted
involuntarily. She was as white as death, and she passed her hand over
her face with an unconscious gesture of despair; then going upon her
way he heard her mount the stairs. She went quickly half-way up, then
stopped.
“Can I assist you, mademoiselle?” asked Berwick from the foot of the
stairs.
“No, I thank you; no one at all can be of the least assistance to me,”
replied Michelle’s voice from the dark stairway. In pity Berwick left
her and returned to his maps.
It was close on to midnight when Roger Egremont returned. Berwick had
become so interested in his maps and a memorandum he was writing that
he had forgotten all else for the time, and when Roger came forward
Berwick began to speak as if all that had been passing in his mind was
already known to Roger.
“Look at this,” he cried. “If we can secure these two places and
fortify them as we should, we can make the passage of the Rhine at
our pleasure, and halt any enemy who comes over on our side within a
hundred miles. I shall not, however, trust this Prince of Orlamunde’s
word for the work being done, but I shall make the drawings myself, as
the King of France authorized me, and send a trusty person in three
months to see that all is properly done, and that he does not take our
mortars to defend his capital. The whole town could be planted in the
Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.”
Berwick stopped. Roger had come forward naturally enough and seated
himself to inspect the map, but his face looked as pale and strange as
Michelle’s had looked.
“What ails you, man?” asked Berwick, kindly, laying his hand on Roger’s
shoulder.
“I have had a blow,” replied Roger, breathing heavily. “I feel it very
much now; but I shall be myself to-morrow, never fear. Now show me the
drawings.”
Berwick said not a word, but showed the maps, talked, and explained
things far more than was his wont. Roger Egremont, usually the more
talkative of the two, spoke not a single word. Occasionally his eyes,
commonly so bright and clear, now dull and expressionless, wandered
uneasily about the room. When a neighboring church clock struck one,
Berwick rose.
“Come,” he said, “a man must sleep sometimes. We shall be awake betimes
in the morning. All of Orlamunde will be here to meet the Princess
Michelle. She is to marry the Prince, you know.”
Berwick turned his back as he spoke to Roger, and went up the narrow
stair.
Roger had a little room over Berwick’s head, and under the sloping
roof. All night long Berwick heard him tossing and groaning and
muttering. At daylight he became quiet, and Berwick, whose rest he
had much disturbed, fell into a deep sleep. From this he was awakened
at eight o’clock by the sound of merry music, the clang of horns and
trumpets, and the songs of maidens. The peasants around about had made
bold to salute the young lady who was to become the bride of their
Prince. Berwick saw from his window Michelle, beautifully dressed,
standing on a little balcony, bathed in the white light of a lovely
morning; she was kissing her hand to a flock of merry peasant girls
who were flinging down spring flowers before her--anemones, the sweet
narcissus, jonquils and crocus and violets--and singing verses made for
the occasion. She was smiling and gracious--for was she not, the very
next day, to marry their Prince?