THE PALACE OF MONPLAISIR--THE ABODE OF THE MOST HIGH, MOST MIGHTY,
AND MOST PUISSANT PRINCE OF ORLAMUNDE.
THE glory and beauty of that April day would have made itself felt to
a condemned man on his way to execution. The earth was like heaven--so
fresh, so fragrant, so fair. The sky was one great sapphire; the little
airs that blew wantonly kissed the new-born leaves in love and sport.
The vineyards smiled; the little river Orla, a tributary of the Rhine,
laughed; the birds and the butterflies rioted in the sunshine.
The inn was astir early, the peasants singing around it; all Orlamunde
was released from work that day. At nine o’clock a courier had arrived
from Orlamunde, notifying the party from France that state coaches,
ladies and gentlemen in waiting, and a guard of honor were on their way
to meet and greet their new princess, and would arrive within the hour.
The courier reported to Berwick, who, as representing the King of
France, received the highest deference. Roger Egremont, as his
second in rank, stood with him. When the courier, with many bows and
flourishes, had concluded his tale, Berwick asked briefly,--
“And the letter for the Princess?”
“What letter, please your grace?” the man replied, shuffling uneasily
on his feet.
“The letter from the Prince of Orlamunde to the Princess d’Orantia,”
replied Berwick, in a voice of thunder, meant to be reported to the
Prince.
“There is no letter, please your grace,” the courier answered, actually
blushing for his master.
Berwick turned to Roger, and said in the same loud tone, meant to be
overheard,--
“What will his Majesty the King of France say to this?”
There was great life, movement, and bustle all about the inn, many
persons to be seen and things attended to, and as François Delaunay was
a natural-born incapable, much of it fell to Roger Egremont. He did it
all perfectly well, being quite composed and master of himself, but he
had the sensations of a man ridden by a nightmare.
At ten o’clock the whole party except the Princess Michelle and Madame
de Beaumanoir were collected in the garden of the inn. An arch of
flowers had been erected at the entrance to the garden, and from it to
the doorway of the inn was a double row of young girls in white, their
aprons full of violets and hyacinths. And pressing close on all sides
were laughing, sunburned peasants, men, women, and children.
The highroad, broad and straight and bordered with sweet-scented
lindens, was in full view. Presently the silvery echo of a bugle was
heard, and a number of mounted trumpeters heralded the advance of the
state coaches and escort. The road had been newly watered and no dust
obscured the pageant. First came the trumpeters in a handsome livery
of red and gold. They were followed by a mounted escort. Next came
the state coaches, two great machines of gilt and glass, one--the
most splendid--empty, the other one containing two ladies, very
magnificently dressed, and two gentlemen of the court, blazing with
uniforms and orders; then followed another detachment of the guard
of honor. This escort, of five hundred men, was about half the whole
military strength of Orlamunde.
As the second coach drew up before the arch of flowers, the two
gentlemen of the court descended, and assisted the two ladies out.
Berwick and Roger Egremont, who stood together at the entrance to the
garden, heard a murmur as the first lady was recognized.
“The Italian woman,” was whispered in the hearing of Berwick and Roger
Egremont. “Then the Prince could not persuade the Countess Bertha to
come. Ah! there is Madame von Roda. She was more obliging; but they say
the Prince is tired of her--and her husband has come back too. Where is
he to-day anyhow?”
Berwick and Roger exchanged glances. This, then, was the greeting,
the meeting, the escort which the Prince of Orlamunde had prepared
for his bride. The lady known as the Italian woman, Madame Marochetti
by name, was assisted to descend from the coach by the two gentlemen,
Count Bernstein, and Baron Reichenbach. Madame Marochetti, a tall,
black-browed creature with a walk like an ostrich, wore a scowl which
would have disconcerted an ogre. Madame von Roda then alighted. She
looked like a grisette of the Palais Royal dressed for a masquerade,
and had a foolish, pretty face. The gentlemen, in manners and
appearance, matched the ladies.
Berwick, advancing, formally introduced himself, and then introduced
Roger Egremont to these noble representatives of Orlamunde; and a
signal being given, Madame de Beaumanoir appeared at the door of the
inn, leaning upon the arm of François Delaunay, who was very handsomely
dressed, and looked frightened to death.
Never had Roger Egremont seen the laughing devil in Madame de
Beaumanoir’s eye more rampant than at that moment. The state assumed by
Orlamunde really amused her vastly, and she appraised instantly, and
at their true value, the ladies and gentlemen who had been selected to
receive their new Princess.
Madame de Beaumanoir had not thought it worth while to adorn herself
especially for the occasion. She wore an ancient green brocade, which
both Roger and Berwick recalled she had told them she had worn in
the glorious days of King Charles the Second. On her head, however,
sparkled a splendid coronet,--thus emphasizing the fact that she
could have dressed herself grandly had she desired. There was much
bowing and courtesying, Madame de Beaumanoir going through it with an
indescribable air of affected seriousness.
“And how is my cousin of Orlamunde? Very well and anxiously expecting
his bride,” she said, answering her own question before anybody else
could. “Well, I hope he will like what I bring him. But one never can
tell about these foreign marriages. At all events, you seem to have a
very pleasant little country here, and I expect to stay as long as I
find it agreeable.”
Roger distinctly saw one of the court gentlemen shudder at this, while
Madame de Beaumanoir, putting up her glass, coolly surveyed the two
ladies from the crowns of their heads to the soles of their rather
large feet, exactly as if she were examining a couple of new and
curious reptiles.
There was a pause, broken by a burst of young voices that rang in the
morning air, not unlike the sweet, shrill bird-songs; the white-robed
girls were singing their bridal song; and Michelle appeared, walking
alone down the broad garden path, flower-strewn.
She wore a gorgeous satin robe of the color of a pale sky. Over her
shoulders was a rich mantle of velvet of a darker blue, embroidered in
gold and pearls with the arms of Orlamunde. Her head was bare, except
for a flashing coronet that glittered in the sunshine. She walked with
slow and stately grace, her head uplifted, and bore not the slightest
trace of either fear or agitation.
Roger Egremont had never reckoned her as a strictly beautiful woman,
although he had sometimes seen her blaze forth in sudden loveliness.
But to-day she had a kind of unearthly beauty, that went to men’s
heads like wine. A great, involuntary shout rose from the watching
and waiting people, who were dazzled by her,--a rich blush covering
her creamy cheeks, her black eyes like twin stars, her red mouth half
curved in a smile. It occurred to Roger Egremont that the gorgeous
dress she wore had something to do with the splendor of her beauty. He
remembered that Bess Lukens--he had scarce remembered there was such
a person in the world as Bess Lukens, since he left France--always
looked handsomer in a stuff gown, with a linen cap and apron; some
women were made for grandeur and some were not. Michelle was one of the
first-named.
And then she was curtseying to her new ladies, and Madame Marochetti
was looking at her with insolent curiosity, which Michelle bore with
cool composure; it was not in the power of a Marochetti or a von Roda
to disconcert this proud Princess. And the gentlemen were bowing to the
ground before her, and she was accepting their assistance into the
coach with a splendid air which would have graced an empress.
Madame Marochetti and Madame von Roda then got into the coach in which
Michelle was, seating themselves on the front seat, Michelle sitting
alone on the back seat. They bent their impudent gaze on her, but met
with a cool disdain in her answering glance, that gave them small
satisfaction.
Madame de Beaumanoir, with the two gentlemen-in-waiting, got into the
second coach. Berwick, Roger Egremont, and François Delaunay rode their
horses.
It was five miles to Orlamunde, and every step of the way there was
welcome in some form--cheering, singing peasants by the roadside,
triumphal arches, and flowers. The town of Orlamunde presently came in
sight. A handsome stone bridge across the river led to the main part of
it. There was on an eminence a dingy old building, half fortress, half
schloss, in which the lords of Orlamunde had dwelt for many centuries.
But as, like most of the princelings of that day, the Princes of
Orlamunde copied as far as they could the methods and manners of Louis
le Grand, a brand new palace, a miniature Versailles, whose towers and
pinnacles gleamed whitely above the young greenery of a large park, was
visible to the left of the town. A broad, straight avenue, as broad and
as straight as the terrace at St. Germains, led to this white palace,
amid its park and gardens. Clipped trees bordered the great avenue,
and at intervals were statues, fountains, and bridges; and a noble
marble terrace, with fountains of spouting dolphins, led up to the main
entrance of this palace, named Monplaisir by its builder, the father of
the present Prince.
All this, Roger Egremont saw as he rode briskly behind the carriage
containing the woman who was to be mistress of this sweet domain,--that
is, as far as Madame Marochetti and Countess von Roda would let her,
and the Countess Bertha, as yet unseen, but whom he justly reckoned
to be the worst of the lot. Nothing escaped his eye, although he felt
as if he were acting a part in a bad dream. He had expected to see
poverty and squalor on every hand, showing the price the people of
Orlamunde had to pay for having so magnificent a prince, and was rather
disappointed at the general signs of prosperity, both in the country
and the little capital.
And, lo, they were approaching the ancient gateway of the town, with
its drawbridge and stone gate-house pierced for arquebuses. And there
was a glittering procession made up of the whole court, awaiting the
bride, and making a splendor of color in the sunny noon, with the
ivy-clad gateway and battlements for background. And in the very centre
of the gateway, sat on a noble roan horse the Prince of Orlamunde.
Roger Egremont, who had keen eyes, studied this man closely, as they
neared each other. He had a well-made figure, and his face was not
unhandsome, but his eye, his mouth, his expression,--all that part of
his physiognomy which a man makes for himself was odious and despicable
beyond comparison. As they neared the gate, Berwick whispered,--
“If I were a woman, I should not like to be his wife.”
As the coach of state drew up, the Prince wheeled his horse aside,
took off his plumed hat, and bowed low to Michelle. An equerry then
quickly opening the coach-door, Madame Marochetti and the von Roda
descended. What a look the Italian woman flashed from her eyes!--and
what a stealthy grin the Prince flashed back at her! The Prince entered
the coach, and side by side he and Michelle entered the little capital
together.
The procession, augmented by the Prince’s party, by a civic parade,
and the rest of the army of Orlamunde, proceeded by slow degrees to
the dingy old schloss. Here Michelle was to spend the last day of her
maiden life, and to be married on the morrow; for the former Princes of
Orlamunde had built a chapel in the schloss, but the last Prince had
not remembered to include a chapel in his new palace of Monplaisir; nor
had his son and successor repaired this singular oversight. Therefore
must the marriage ceremony take place at the schloss.
Arrived in the old courtyard, with a cheering crowd outside, the Prince
descended from the coach, and assisted Michelle to the pavement. Roger,
amid the throng of court people, stood close to Berwick, and as he
caught sight of the Prince’s face, observed that he looked as black as
midnight. Evidently his first interview with his handsome bride had
not been wholly satisfactory. And as for Madame Marochetti, she looked
like an embodied thunder-cloud. Madame von Roda wore an air of meek
resignation. The Countess Bertha had, so far, not appeared.
There was an hour of rest for the party, an hour spent by Roger
Egremont in the room assigned him in an old tower of the schloss. It
was one of the most wretched hours of his life. Being essentially
of a noble nature, and disposed to fight against the devil which
could not wholly be dislodged from him--or from any other man, for
that matter--his own misery was hugely increased by the prospect of
Michelle’s torments. For that she could ever be happy, or even be
decently treated by the Prince of Orlamunde, he felt perfectly sure was
impossible from the little he had already seen and heard. Had there
been a prospect of her happiness, had her husband been a man whose hand
he could take, whose word he could believe--ah, it would have been
different. He had made no protestations of unselfish love to Michelle
the night before,--nay, he had then only spoken of his own hurt and
humiliation--but he forgot his own sufferings in thinking of hers. And
as she had truly said, hers would be the heavier part. He would go
forth a disappointed man, compelled to find in life the best substitute
he could for happiness. She was chained to a man she would soon hate,
if she did not already hate him, insulted by the presence of the women
he placed about her, alone in a foreign land; her case was indeed hard.
He could have groaned aloud as he thought of her.
At two o’clock came a banquet in the great Rittersaal of the schloss.
The guests were placed at the vast table, Roger in a seat of honor next
Berwick. When all were seated, a flourish of silver trumpets announced
the entrance of the Prince and Michelle. They entered, preceded by the
Italian woman and Count Bernstein. The Prince led Michelle to the head
of the table, and placed himself by her, and the banquet proceeded.
Roger Egremont had been accustomed to seeing men drink, both in England
and in France. But he never saw any man drink as did the Prince
of Orlamunde, who remained, however, apparently sober. He talked
occasionally with Michelle, and exchanged a few words with Madame de
Beaumanoir, who sat on his left. The old duchess was singularly quiet.
Roger had expected, from the expression in her sharp, bright old eyes
that morning, that there would be a regular outbreak of sarcasm and
impertinence from her; but she was almost polite to her cousin of
Orlamunde.
Through the whole tedious affair, lasting some hours, Michelle sat
composed and even smiling. Roger would have feared for her less had
she shown more feeling, more apprehension at what was before her. But
she might have been past all emotion, for any she showed. She did not
even wince when, toward the close of the feast, a footman brought the
Prince, by his order, a gilt basket containing four puppies, which the
Prince fed from his plate, and conversed with, to the absolute neglect
of his bride.
When the dinner was over, it was near sunset. As soon as darkness came,
there were to be fireworks in the town. Until then, all were free to do
as they pleased. Roger, consumed with a furious restlessness, sought
Madame de Beaumanoir.
“So you have come to tell me you think my cousin of Orlamunde is a
brute,” was her greeting, as Roger entered her saloon. “Well, I am of
the same mind. I told Michelle not half an hour ago, that she would
do well to establish some sort of communication with France, so that
if she should be obliged to run away from this precious Prince, with
his puppies in gilt baskets and his Marochettis and his von Rodas, she
would have a place of refuge.”
Was it already gone so far as this? thought Roger, trembling for the
woman he loved. It was not, then, his own sad and jealous fancy that
made him feel that Michelle was doomed. Madame de Beaumanoir feared for
her, Berwick feared for her. Roger listening in bitter silence, the
old lady continued: “The Beaumanoirs have an old château, half of it
tumbled down, on the frontier near Pont-à-mousson,--a horrid, lonely
place. I have told Michelle of it, and how to reach it. She laughed at
me--strange girl that she is; but she may yet be glad to fly to the old
rookery of the Château de la Rivière--it stands on a little river.”
Roger said presently, with bitterness,--
“Mademoiselle d’Orantia is a very courageous woman. She has probably
made up her mind to endure her lot. She chose it for herself.”
“Oh, Lord, yes! But there are some things flesh and blood cannot
endure, as my Lord Clarendon told my blessed prince, King Charles, when
he _would_ have the Castlemaine woman about his wife,--the one who so
hated your father, my dear.”
The wrongs and sorrows of his father did not greatly trouble Roger
Egremont then.
Finding that Madame de Beaumanoir rather sharpened the edge of his
pain, Roger left her. He met Berwick, and the two walked about the town
and its environs until dark. Berwick had the same tale to tell.
“A thorough-going scoundrel, if ever I saw one, is this precious
Prince. I swear, much as I want those two places to fortify on the
river bank, I would not, like the French King, have given this
fair girl in payment for them. She is but a pawn on the board.
Orlamunde--damn him for a rascal!--wanted the money which the King
pretends to give as a dowry with Mademoiselle,--it is no dowry, but a
good, big, barefaced bribe,--and the King wanted those two places, on
which to mount a couple of dozen cannon, which, with five hundred men,
could check the advance of five thousand; and this girl was simply
the human document which attests their evil bargain. And she--rash
girl!--was willing, nay, eager for it in the beginning.”
“And you think she--she--changed?”
Berwick looked down at Roger, who was not so tall as he.
“Yes,--so much, that I was afraid she would turn back on the journey.
I had not then seen this Prince, and I tried to warn Mademoiselle
d’Orantia that she had gone too far to retreat. God forgive me if
I advised her ill. But I shall not leave this white dove quite
unprotected amid the vultures. I have full power from His Majesty, and
not a stiver does this scoundrel Prince get, unless his wife is willing
to live with him. The day Orlamunde becomes intolerable to her, that
day does the Prince cease to receive the two hundred thousand livres
which we pay, together with this unfortunate girl, for Mondberg and
Arnheim. This I shall make plain before I leave this cursed place.”
At night the fireworks were very splendid. Roger, standing on a balcony
near Michelle, tried to watch her, but Countess von Roda claimed his
attention. She liked the looks of this clean-limbed, bright-eyed young
man better than the tall and silent Berwick--she had already found
out his name--the Pike. But she thought Monsieur d’Egremont, as she
called him, rather a sulky fellow. Not only Roger’s name became French,
but everything at Orlamunde was more French than at Paris. The court
people uttered not a word of any other language but French, which they
spoke with a fearful accent. Following the fireworks was a concert, in
which the songs were all French, and the fiddles fiddled only French
airs. Michelle went through it all with the same smiling courage she
had shown from the beginning. It was midnight before all was over. The
marriage was to take place next day at noon.
Roger Egremont went to his room, to rest and to think--but not
expecting to sleep. However, throwing himself upon his bed, sleep
suddenly overtook him--and he lay in a heavy and dreamless slumber
until next morning, when the sun was high in the heavens. He was
wakened by the blowing of silver trumpets in the courtyard of the
schloss, in honor of Michelle’s wedding day.
Men have been known to sleep the night before execution, and they
invariably make a careful toilet when preparing for that interesting
occasion. This occurred to Roger when, after having been immaculately
shaved by Berwick’s man, he proceeded to dress himself carefully in
his suit of green and silver, with his waistcoat of rose brocade. His
chestnut curls, innocent of powder,--for he could not bring himself
to wear anything but his own hair,--lay upon his well-made shoulders;
his complexion was ruddy with health and youth; in short, had he been
preparing for his own hanging, he could not have been more solicitous
to make a good appearance. And he succeeded so well that, although he
had nothing on this earth which he could actually call his own except
the clothes on his back, and a few more in his portmanteau, and his
horse, Merrylegs, he might very well have pleased a lady’s eye--as he
undoubtedly had pleased Countess von Roda’s. He esteemed the lady but
lightly, however, and had let several occasions for impudence to her
pass unnoticed the night before--much to her disgust. He was long in
dressing, and when he was at last through, Berwick knocked at his door.
Berwick, too, was very nobly dressed, with his orders upon his breast,
but he looked even more grave than usual.
“God forgive me for any part I had in this affair,” he said.
At noon, the chapel in the schloss was a blaze of gold and color; the
Cardinal-Archbishop upon his throne, with shining mitre and jewelled
crozier; the altar, with its robed priests, and glowing with a myriad
of wax lights; the sanctuary lamp, like a great burning ruby; the sun
sifting through the gorgeous stained windows,--all, all was beauty.
The bridal procession entered to the sound of joyous music,--the
bridegroom, in his mantle of state, leading his bride; Michelle, in a
white glory of satin and lace and pearls, her rich hair unbound and
flowing over her shoulders, a circlet of diamonds gleaming upon her
head, two beautiful boys holding up her long train of rose-colored
velvet, sewn with jewels and bordered with ermine,--looking, as she
had done the day before, appealingly beautiful. With bell, book, and
candle was she married to the most high, most mighty, and most puissant
Karl, Prince of Orlamunde, with many other titles and dignities. And he
unblushingly took the vows of faithfulness upon himself, calling God to
witness them.
The marriage being over, a loud crashing of bells, and clanging of
trumpets and horns, and thunder of drums, and roar of artillery,
drowned the bridal music as the procession passed from the chapel
to the Hall of Knights, and Michelle was proclaimed by all her new
dignities. Then there was another procession along the great avenue to
Monplaisir, where a banquet and ball were to follow; for Prince Karl
could by no means endure the old schloss, and would not remain a moment
in it longer than he could help.
The April sun shone on the state carriages, horsed with four and six
horses, on cavaliers, on coaches, and on a merry throng of townspeople
and country folk lining the broad avenue, where the horse-chestnuts
were pushing their pale pink leaves through their green sheaths. And
the fair palace shone beautifully in the sun, the dolphins on the
marble terrace spouting wine, and a whole regiment of soldiers--the
regiment for which both Louis of France and William of Orange were
chaffering--was paraded, and it was very grand and glorious; quite like
Versailles, so Roger Egremont told several ladies, who nearly embraced
him in their ecstasy at this compliment.
The banquet was very gay, and the Prince drank quite as much wine as
the day before. The puppies did not appear this time. Madame Marochetti
enlivened things by fainting, or pretending to faint, just as the
bride’s health was proposed. The Countess von Roda, who still fancied
Roger, and sat next him at the banquet, whispered to him, sadly, “My
friend, my heart is wrung. I am a deserted woman. You cannot have
been at Orlamunde twenty-four hours without knowing that I--I--was
once loved by the dear Prince.” And then she fell to upon a fat capon
and devoured it to the bones, meanwhile telling her mournful tale in
Roger’s ear; he, inwardly raging and palpitating with agony, forced to
laugh, in spite of himself; for the sorrows of Madame von Roda, as she
told them, would have made a man laugh on his way to the gallows.
The ball followed in the evening,--more lights, more music, more
everything. Roger was not now reckoned good enough to dance with
Michelle in the _minuet de la cour_, so he could only stand off and
watch her as she moved with splendid grace through the dance, her
husband quite oblivious of her, and his attention fixed, this time, not
upon puppies, but upon a handsome lady, who chose to appear and to
sit in a conspicuous place in a very melancholy attitude. This was the
Countess Bertha, who, her curiosity having finally got the better of
her chagrin, chose to appear at the ball. And when the dance was over,
she came up and demanded to be presented to the Princess of Orlamunde
by the Prince himself. This, that worthy person did, with much
obsequiousness, and was received by the Princess with perfect dignity
and composure.
The eyes of all, however, were fixed on the great archway leading into
the Saloon of the Swans, a magnificent room, with walls of mirrors and
silver swans embossed upon them. Overhead, the painted ceiling told
the story of Leda and her lover, Jupiter. In this saloon, tables were
laid for play. The Duke of Mayerne, esteemed the prince of gamblers
in Europe, was present; already, ten of his lackeys in green velvet,
with gold chains around their necks, were bringing in little bags of
gold, over which they stood guard. The dancing was soon over,--play
being the more fascinating of the two great amusements of the court
of Orlamunde,--and the whole company trooped into the saloon to play
primero and quadrille. At the Prince’s own table were his new-made
Princess, Madame de Beaumanoir, the Countess Bertha, the Duke of
Mayerne, the Duke of Berwick, Count Bernstein, and Madame Marochetti.
Roger surveyed the party, and his heart swelled for Michelle. Except
Berwick, and Madame de Beaumanoir, what company was this for her?
Professed gamblers, low women. Berwick was the only gentleman--nay, the
only man,--at the table.
As the play progressed, he heard Berwick utter an exclamation, and then
say, smilingly, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur; I was mistaken, I see,”
and go on playing. Soon, Madame de Beaumanoir’s shrill tones rose over
the murmur of voices, the occasional bursts of laughter,--
“Oh, come now, Prince! play your cards straight, like a gentleman.”
“Madam,” said the Prince, scowling at her, “pray, proceed; is it not
your play?”
“God knows,” replied Madame de Beaumanoir; “I never played in so queer
a game before. I must be getting old--or the cards are drunk.”
At this moment Countess von Roda whispered in Roger’s ear,--
“And the Countess Bertha was asked to the Prince’s table, and I was
not! And she has been most unamiable to the Prince about his marriage;
while Madame Marochetti and I actually went to meet the bride!”
“I dare say you are as good as either of them,” bluntly replied Roger;
and then a laugh from the Prince cut the air; it was so harsh, so
discordant--Roger had never heard him laugh before, and it was not
pleasant to hear.
[Illustration: THEY WAIT TO BID THE PRINCESS GOOD-NIGHT]
That evening was twenty-four hours long to Roger Egremont. At twelve
o’clock it was time to leave. Roger, with Berwick, went to bid the
Prince and Princess good-night; Roger mentally resolving that it should
also be good-bye. For one moment, as he stood bowing before Michelle,
their eyes met, and they looked steadily at each other. That look
was, in some sort, a pledge of eternal constancy. He hardly knew how
he got out of the palace, and found himself walking along the avenue
of horse-chestnuts, the statues standing out like ghosts in the misty
light of a languid yellow moon. Berwick was with him, and stalked along
silently. He spoke but once, and then in a voice of concentrated
rage and disgust.
“This palace of Monplaisir is a den of thieves. They cheat at cards;
the women deceive the men, the men think they deceive the women. Oh,
what a hell will that poor girl find herself in!”
Roger spoke not one word until they came near the town.
“I will not go back to my lodging just now. I like the fresh air and
the wind; it does one good after the nauseous company we have been in.
Can we not leave to-morrow?”
“By God, we shall,” replied Berwick. “My errand is done. I have now
only to do my work as a soldier; and as for fearing to offend that
miserable apology for a man and a prince, he is worth no man’s enmity.”
“Arrange it so that I may be excused from a farewell visit,” asked
Roger.
“I will. You must have a cold and fever to-morrow, which will only
abate at the hour fixed for us to start. I will be out of this place,
please God, by noon.”
Roger turned off from the town into the fields and woods. He wished to
be away from the sight of that white palace, from which the lights in
the windows were disappearing one by one. Yet it seemed as if he could
always see it whenever he looked backward, until he climbed the wooded
heights around the town, and plunged into the heart of the forest.
He wandered about in the woods the whole night. He felt that, had he
been cooped up in that one room in the dingy schloss, he should have
gone mad. But in his agony he again became the primitive man. As at
Egremont, he found a kind of solace in the moist earth, the solemn
trees, the inscrutable stars. At least, pain was more easily borne
in the woods than under a roof. When he considered how many summers
and winters, how many lifetimes, those ancient trees had seen; what
vast years the rocks and hills had known; for how many æons those
glittering, palpitating stars had looked down upon the miseries, the
toils, the graves of men, he felt himself and his own sorrows become
insignificant. The thought of the briefness of life, the little time
wherein there was a flicker of breath in man, was comforting to him. If
one could suffer for long as he was suffering, and as that unfortunate
girl was suffering, the earth would be intolerable.
Toward four o’clock in the morning he had reached the limit of pain. A
man can only suffer so much, then relief must come. The ghastly moon,
that had seemed to follow him all night, was going down in the west.
In the east there was a faint glory that heralded the dawn. Amid the
awakening of the birds, and all the sights and sounds that mark the
miracle of a new day, Roger Egremont was overcome by that wretched
sleep which eludes the night, and comes only at daybreak. With his
cloak wrapped about him, he lay down under a low-branched cedar tree,
and fell into a heavy sleep.
It was long past sunrise when he awaked. He was in his right mind then,
and rising, went and washed his face in a neighboring stream, and
examined himself carefully. His suit of green and silver was wet with
dew and full of earth stains--altogether wretched. He had worn, the
night before, a hat with plumes in it; but it was nowhere to be found.
A peasant’s cottage could be seen about a mile off. Roger made for
it. A man was slouching out of the cottage when Roger, leaping the
hedge, came upon him. He looked at Roger, and his mouth came open in
a grin. Truly, this scion of the Egremonts looked ridiculous enough,
with his smart clothes wet and stained with mud, and the hood of his
riding-cloak over his head in lieu of a hat.
“Come, my man,” said Roger, not at all offended, “have you not a hat
you can sell me? And will not your good wife clean the mud off my
cloak, at least?”
Both of those things were accomplished by the power of money, and the
peasant, yoking a horse to a rude cart, drove Roger to the edge of the
town. From thence he managed to get to the schloss unobserved. He had
just changed his clothes, and looked once more the gentleman, when
Berwick knocked at the door. He wore his riding-dress.
“Come,” he said; “we can depart on the instant. I have told all the
necessary lies for you. The old Duchess was mad to see you, and plainly
told me she knew I was lying when I said you were ill with a cold and
fever,--sickening for the small-pox, I ventured, thinking to frighten
her. But not she! However, I told her we must and would depart at once,
and that you had sworn never to enter that Cave of Adullam, Monplaisir,
again. She is very dissatisfied with you. I bade adieu to the Princess.
By the high heavens, that girl should be a soldier! What a spirit
she has! And I gave that scoundrel of a prince to understand that to
mistreat a daughter of France was to bring destruction on himself. The
fellow grinned horribly at my hint. And now let us take horse.”
Roger Egremont felt almost happy when he again found his legs across
the back of Merrylegs. That faithful beast had profited by his rest,
and was as eager to leave Orlamunde as his master. Even Berwick’s valet
shook the dust of Orlamunde from his feet with joy.
When they had passed out of the town and had crossed the bridge over
the laughing river they stopped and looked back at Orlamunde lying
placid in the spring sunshine. Bare-legged girls were beating linen
and laughing on the banks of the river; the old schloss rose dark and
threatening, as if terrorizing the merry little town. A sentry upon a
lookout tower walked his narrow beat, his cuirass glistening afar. The
beautiful roofs and pinnacles of Monplaisir shone above the delicate
green of its gardens and parks. Within that fair palace was Michelle.
Roger Egremont’s heart was like lead in his bosom when he thought
of her. She was destined to misery, but, however her heart might be
tortured, he felt sure her soul would remain free. She would walk like
Una, unafraid and unashamed. He remembered what she had said about
not counting on her strength--that she was no better than he--and he
inwardly contradicted her. She was as pure and as unapproachable as
a star; for Roger Egremont knew so little of the human heart that
he esteemed the highest form of virtue to be that which knows no
temptation.