ONCE MORE IN THE SALOON OF THE SWANS
ROGER EGREMONT had by 1698 acquired a presentiment that by the sword
alone should he prosper. At the peace, in 1697, he was more fortunate
than those deserving men who found themselves shut out of the reduced
military establishment, and forced to accept that dole of five, ten, or
twenty pistoles which poor James Stuart, with tears in his eyes, gave
to them wrapped in small pieces of paper, as he sat in his closet at
St. Germains. Under the reorganization, Berwick was given a regiment
of foot, made out of the Irish brigade, and in this regiment was Roger
Egremont, reduced, however, from major, in the war establishment, to
captain again. In two years he had not once seen Berwick. Roger had
been with his regiment in Flanders, not caring again to revisit France.
He had heard, however, several times from Berwick, now a sober married
man; brief, naive letters, earnest in friendship, and unconsciously
betraying, what his world already knew, that in the society of the
beautiful, kind, graceful, and charming Honora de Burgh, Berwick’s
noble and tender heart had found perfect happiness. He had a son,--a
boy, beautiful like his mother. Then Roger heard, through others, that
this sweet wife of Berwick’s was fading away in consumption; and in the
winter of 1698 she breathed her last.
Within a month Roger received a letter from Berwick. It read:--
“You have doubtless heard, my friend, of the death of my wife. I
will say nothing on that subject. You have seen her, and you know my
heart. I intend to travel as soon as the spring opens. Will you go
with me? I know of no one else whose company would be so acceptable.
Take advantage of the present peace; no one can tell how long it will
last. We shall not be called upon, I think, to fight again for James
II.; our next fighting will be for James III. I reckon upon your
coming with me.”
Roger was at Compiègne when he got this letter. He replied at once,
agreeing to it. His leave was arranged without trouble, and in March he
found himself at St. Germains, to meet Berwick, and to pay his respects
to his King and Queen.
St. Germains was always a haunted place to him. He had not heard one
word direct from Michelle since the day, five years before, that he had
parted from her. He dared not ask. But not for one day in those five
years had she been absent wholly from his mind. The beauty of her eyes,
the faint perfume of her hair, was ever present to him. He had not one
single memorial of her--he needed none. He had however, his little bag
of earth from Egremont; and still slept with it under his pillow.
He found Berwick but little changed outwardly. He had ever been a
sedate man, but with a quiet fund of bonhomie. Now, however, under
that calm and composed exterior, Roger saw in him a grief so deep, so
unspoken, that it must have changed the whole man. Berwick’s brief and
fleeting time of happiness had been overclouded by the apprehension
that Honora de Burgh’s sweet spirit was not long for this world; and
when she was called away, in the springtime of her youth, he felt as if
so sweet and delicate a flower was not fitted to withstand the chilling
blasts of this life. He spoke of her occasionally to Roger, and often
of the beautiful boy, like--too like--herself, which she had left him;
and Roger came to love and respect Berwick the more, from the deep
and manly Christianity with which he bore this dreadful sorrow. This
time Roger was lodged in the palace close to Berwick’s apartments. The
glory of the inn of Michot had departed. The crowd of brave and merry
gentlemen who had thronged the little town five and six years before,
and who had regarded St. Germains as a place of temporary retirement,
were gone--many of them to the country from which there is no return.
The others were chiefly, like Roger Egremont, grown hardy soldiers,
living honorably upon scanty pay.
Roger had three things to do: first, to provide himself with a horse,
for Merrylegs, after having carried him through five campaigns, was now
to be honorably retired. Roger bestowed him upon Madame Michot, to draw
the weekly cart to and from Paris, he being yet fitted for such light
work. The second was, to see Dicky; and the third, to see Bess Lukens.
He heard of Bess at St. Germains before he saw her. Bess was making a
great noise in the world in more ways than one. As a regular singer
in the King’s Opera, she was supposed to be under the tutelage of
the Abbé d’Albret, conductor of the music. Bess, however, who was as
hard to govern as most _prime donne_, refused to submit as absolutely
as she should have done to the Abbé, and still clung to the methods
of Papa Mazet, whose house she declined to leave. The Abbé and
herself had words, and Bess in a rage, called him “a popish liar
and meddler.” There was but one thing to do for this: Mademoiselle
Luccheni was retired from the Opera until she should learn to acquiesce
in discipline. The King, however, noting her absence, sent for the
Abbé, and desired that Mademoiselle Luccheni be at once reinstated.
His Majesty went so far as to say there was not in Paris such another
voice as Mademoiselle Luccheni’s. The Abbé, raging but helpless, went
to Bess and proposed an armistice. Bess, to whom it had been conveyed
that the King desired her return, coolly declined any terms short of
absolute surrender. The Abbé was forced to capitulate. Things went on
harmoniously for about a fortnight. Then the Abbé, giving a musical
party at his house, at which Monseigneur deigned to signify he would
attend, rashly promised, without consulting Bess, that she would sing.
Bess, on hearing this, betook herself to St. Germains, alleging that
she had been asked to sing at the château, and the commands of her
own King and Queen must ever take precedence. This producing a great
commotion, the English Queen felt herself called upon to write a letter
to Monseigneur, saying that Miss Luccheni had misunderstood things.
Her invitation turned out to have come from the ten-year-old Prince
of Wales, who, meeting her in the forest, recognized her, and asked
her to sing to him then and there. Bess was delighted to sing for him,
and so charmed the lad that he invited her to come to the château the
next Sunday, and sing for his father and mother. This, Bess stoutly
declared, she considered a command, as coming from her Prince. Several
dozens of eminent persons, including the Kings of France and England,
the Dauphin and the Archbishop of Paris, became mixed up in the affair.
It was very exciting, and eclipsed in interest the news from Spain.
Bess Lukens was the only person involved in the matter who thoroughly
enjoyed it. All this, Roger had heard at St. Germains, and it lost
nothing in the telling when Bess, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes,
recounted it again to him at Paris. A born comic actress, she brought
out all the absurdities in the matter, mimicking the furious little
Abbé to the life, and even repeating the King’s own words, and the
King’s own walk as he strutted up and down the Orangerie at the Petit
Trianon, and Madame de Maintenon’s pious exhortations.
“Of course,” said Bess, coolly, in conclusion, as she plumped herself
down in a chair, “that old ape of a popish Abbé is right,--excuse me,
Roger; I forgot for the moment you were a papist yourself. Papa Mazet
is too old, and his methods are _not_ those of this age, and he can’t
teach as well as the people the Abbé employs. But an’t that the more
reason why I should swear that Papa Mazet is just as capable as ever he
was, and is to-day the best teacher in Paris? Didn’t I tell that old
monkey of an Abbé that Papa Mazet could walk ten miles, ride twenty,
and go thirty in a coach, just as well as ever he could, when the poor,
dear man can barely go twice round the garden, with his stick and my
arm to help him? I hope I am an honest woman,” declared Bess, with an
air of extreme virtue, “and I mean to stand by Papa Mazet if I lose my
place in the Opera for it.”
Roger laughed as he had not done for years, so heartily; and then, both
of them growing sober, they studied each other furtively, to see such
marks as Time might leave. Roger Egremont was now thirty-two years old.
His complexion had grown dark and weather-beaten during his years of
campaigning. He had lost, as men do, that gayety of heart which shines
through the eyes, and his curling brown hair, which he still wore
upon his shoulders, now more from habit than vanity, had some silver
threads in it. But he looked a soldier, straight of figure and direct
of glance. Bess thought him more nearly handsome than ever in his life.
His tender friendship to her showed no abatement. As for that other
woman, some woman’s instinct as true as truth told Bess Lukens that
Roger Egremont had loved Michelle well, and could never forget her.
Bess would rather have had it so. She shrank from the thought that he
should be any woman’s successful lover. As for Roger, he never saw Bess
without an increase of admiration for her. She improved year by year,
in a certain dignity of appearance and manners. She would never dream
now of putting on man’s apparel to disguise herself for travelling. She
was now fully able to command respect for herself in her own proper
person. Her beauty seemed to grow in perfection, for in place of that
rosy flush of girlhood her features had acquired greater delicacy,
which comported well with her softer manners. She was now in her
twenty-eighth year, but she showed the flight of time less than Roger.
“And so you took care of my cousin Dicky when he was so ill on his
return from England two years ago. Truly, we must stop calling him
Dicky, and say Father Egremont,” said Roger.
“He will be Dicky Egremont as long as he lives,” replied Bess, smiling;
“he never can be rid of that boyishness which makes us all love him.
Have you seen him yet?”
“I go to see him from here. He is not free to see visitors until the
afternoon.”
“Oh, yes. Those everlasting superiors of his! They would have fetched
him away before he was half well, but I went out to St. Germains and
got some gentlemen there to persuade them to let him stay with us until
he got his strength back--as the apothecary too said he should. Just
as he was able to play the violin and we could have some sweet music,
a couple of old black gowns--popish priests, I mean--came and took him
off. He pretended he was glad to go, but he always wants to go where he
thinks it is most likely to be disagreeable for him.”
“That is not much the way of the Egremonts,” said Roger, laughing; “but
Dicky is a soldier under orders, and he does well not to shirk them.”
When he was rising to go, Roger asked a question which brought a deep
blush to Bess’s cheek.
“Well, Bess, when shall I be called upon to give you away at your
wedding?--for I will by no means allow Papa Mazet that privilege.”
“Never, Mr. Roger. I am well enough off as I am. I have no taste for
marrying in my own class, and no ambition to marry above me, and be
flouted by the man I marry. Besides, I have to take care of the Mazets,
who made me, such as I am; and when they are gone I shall hope to find
some other old people or orphan children to take care of; so, Bess
Lukens was I born, and Bess Lukens will I die.”
And, strange to say, Roger believed her, although it is difficult for
any man to persuade himself that any woman can really live and die
happy and unmarried.
Then he went to the Jesuits to see Dicky. Dicky had not changed in
the least, and the two cousins walked up and down the garden of the
Jesuits’ house, and talked as if they had never been parted a day
since they left Egremont. Dicky had much to tell of that brief and
tragic visit to England. “And I saw Egremont, Roger; I went by night.
It looked prosperous,--the farms well tilled, the park in good order,
the dun deer more abundant than I had ever known them. But--but every
oak tree on the place is cut down. I was told that Hugo made near eight
thousand pounds by the sale of this timber alone.”
Roger ground his teeth. Those oaks, every one of which was fit to be
the mainmast of a man-of-war! It had been his dream to make his King a
present, worthy of a king to give, as well as receive, of those miles
of sturdy oaks, that were indeed too noble for any use but that of the
masts and spars of fighting-ships. Dicky, seeing Roger was troubled by
this, continued:
“I heard that Hugo tried to turn such of the estate as he could into
ready money; he acts as if he doubted that it would always be his. But
he could find no one to take the land, and for very shame he cannot
sell the jewels and pictures. His foreign blood comes out more and
more every day, the people told me; and he is now seeking a foreign
appointment, as minister of William of Orange, and as he has been
steadfast in the Orange interest, ’tis very likely he will get what he
wants.”
“God reward him!” was Roger’s comment; and the kind of reward this
might reasonably be expected to be was easily inferred.
“And, Roger,” said Dicky again, after a moment, “it will not be long
before I see Egremont again. I have had the promise, ever since I came
back, that at the next vacancy for England, I am to be sent. For there
are so many young men, of the best blood of England, whose heart’s
desire it is to lead the forlorn hope of the Society of Jesus in our
native country, that we have to make applications far in advance. I
have been waiting to go ever since I recovered from my illness. When
one of our fathers is imprisoned, or sent out of the country, or there
is a request for one, there are ten men, each begging that he may be
sent; but the next call it is my turn to answer,--and I am the envy
of all my English brethren here, and at Louvain, and St. Omer’s, and
Clermont.”
“And you under sentence of death if you set foot in England!” cried
Roger, excitedly. “It is not right; it is not right--and I shall
protest to your superiors--nay, I will go to the King himself.”
“Tush, Roger. What did I join the Society for? To sit here, safe at
Paris, while better men risk their lives and liberty in England, in
North America, all over the world? No, I too am a soldier and I claim
the post of danger. Would you have an Egremont do otherwise?”
“Yes, but you are under the death sentence--”
“You should hear of the sufferings of our fathers in North America. A
plain English hanging would be merciful to many of them. Besides, when
every English Jesuit is on record as applying for duty in England,
would you have had me, Richard Egremont, hold back?”
Roger hesitated a moment, then, throwing his arms around Dicky as when
they were little boys, he cried:
“No, my lad. I would not have thee to hold back. God guard thee
well--for a brave youngster.”
The sun was near setting, and the yellowing light shone on the solemn
yews and clipped cedars of the garden. A bell began to toll inside; it
was time to part. The two young men walked hurriedly to the solid iron
gate in the wall, and stood for a moment, with their hands clasped,
and each with a hand on the other’s shoulder.
“Good-bye, dear Roger,” said Dicky. “If we should never meet on this
side of Death, know that I ever loved you better than anybody in the
world, and esteemed you more than any man I ever knew. And if you
should hear of me as dying on the scaffold in England, remember, my
last thought, my last prayer will be for you.”
Roger stood silent. Some inner voice spoke with the clearness and
certainty of the bell which continued its melancholy tolling through
the mild spring air. And the bell was saying, “Farewell, farewell.”
Roger’s eyes were moist, but Dicky’s sparkling blue ones were filled
with a calm and happy light; the warrior soul of him was not to be
alarmed at the scaffold, the executioner, the knife. He pressed Roger
in his arms.
“Good-bye, dear Roger, good-bye,” he cried again, and then turning
ran back through the garden toward the house. Roger walked along the
dark, narrow street in the spring twilight. The bell was still tolling
solemnly. It was still saying “Farewell.”
He went to his inn, got his horse, the third Merrylegs, and rode back
to St. Germains at a sharp gait. He roused himself somewhat from his
depression, but a conviction settled upon his soul that he should never
again see Dicky Egremont.
Next morning he got a message early from Berwick: “Be prepared to start
within twenty-four hours.”
There was, then, but a day before him. He had not yet been to see
Madame de Beaumanoir, Roger meaning every day to go, but putting it off
as men do unpleasant things. But that was his last chance. Moreover,
François Delaunay, who had been absent for a time, returned and came
to the castle to see him, and to bring him a reproachful message from
the old Duchess.
François was the same François--good-hearted, timid, and still
unsuccessfully attempting a rakish air and swashbuckler manner.
“The Duchess is still the same,” he confided plaintively to Roger, as
the two walked up and down the terrace in the March sunshine. “God
never made but one such woman, I think.”
“At least she has not a bad heart,” replied Roger, consolingly, but
laughing at the same time.
“N--n--no,” dubiously assented François; “but--think of a woman who has
spent ten years trying to make a swashbuckler out of me!”
And as François tapped himself gloomily on the breast, Roger was
obliged to confess to himself that Madame de Beaumanoir had set herself
an impossible task.
In the afternoon he took his way along the familiar road to the avenue
of the château. He knew every step he trod. Here was the entrance into
the forest, where the French King’s messenger had brought the letter to
Michelle on that spring morning, just five years ago almost to the day.
There was that woodland path from the meadow, where he and Michelle had
walked hand in hand, a shepherd and his shepherdess, on that August
evening, after the hay-making. He could scarcely believe, as he stepped
upon the marble terrace and entered the great hall of the château, that
her graceful figure would not presently appear, and that he should not
hear her charming voice. And he dared not let his mind dwell on her
state at that moment.
The old Duchess received him in her large salon. She was scarcely
changed at all. She had been withered and weazened and bright-eyed six
years before, and she was still withered and weazened and bright-eyed,
and she still wore the green brocade gown.
“At last!” was her greeting; “you have not been near me in five years.
Such is the way of men though,--a little love when we are young; no
woman can hope for more.”
“Madam,” replied Roger, “I have been at St. Germains but one week in
five years, until I came four days ago. And when I was here before you
were absent.”
“True enough. But why have you so avoided the place?”
“Ask a soldier, madam, why he is here, or why he is not there?”
“Tut, tut. You had some reason for not coming. Well, I can hardly blame
you. Since the peace, the poor old praying King has, I think, given up
hope of ever getting back to England, and I suppose he must have asked
himself every day since ’88 what he ran away for. And I, too, have
well-nigh abandoned all hope of going back, and shall have to end my
days in a foreign country. If my husband had died but a year before he
did, I should have been back and settled in England, and I’d like to
see any Orange prince or princess that would have turned me out!”
“I wish, madam, from the very bottom of my heart, that your spirit had
animated the King. But I ever thought there was some temporary weakness
of the mind that drove him to act so strangely. He, one of our bravest
admirals,--whom Maréchal Turenne and the Prince of Condé declared to be
more insensible of fear than any man they had ever known--absolutely
ran away when he was implored but to remain, and assured that all the
fighting should be done for him! Well, that is all over. We shall have
our chance, though, with James III.”
“You will, my dear, not I. Now tell me of your adventures, for I hear
that Berwick praises you extremely, and you have won promotion.”
The old lady, being very pressing, Roger told her such of his
adventures as he thought would please her, but he had signal unsuccess.
“All about war, in which, according to your own account, for everything
you did, your men or your superior officers deserved the credit; and
not a single love-affair! Not even a little scrape with a married
woman! Look here, Captain Roger Egremont, I once thought you fit
company for his glorious Majesty, King Charles the Second; but know
you, I now esteem you fitter for this snivelling, forgiving, pious old
figure of a King we have at the palace yonder. I shall not let François
Delaunay associate with you; he will be sure to learn some goodness or
godliness of you that will make him more prudish than he is. I am very
much disappointed in you, Roger Egremont.”
“Truly, madam, you grieve me. But if I have had no love affairs,
consider, I have had but little money. So long as my father’s bastard
enjoys my estate, so long shall I be a poor man. I am like some of the
other poor and virtuous in this world,--virtuous because I am poor.”
“François has not even that excuse. But you have not asked me one word
about my niece, the Princess of Orlamunde.”
Roger felt himself grow pale, but he answered readily:
“I was about then to inquire of her Highness.”
“Highness fiddlestick! Dearly has she paid for that ridiculous title
and that semi-royal coronet she wears. Did I not tell you and Berwick
that one look at my cousin of Orlamunde convinced me that he was a
scoundrel? And I do not think my niece a woman to submit humbly to a
scoundrel. She made some spirited attempts to drive out the men and
women rascals and harpies whom the Prince had collected around him;
but, of course, she failed. Then, instead of taking to lap-dogs or
devotion, as most women do, my lady defiantly leads her own life; has
clever men about her, when she can get them; has learned the lesson of
despising what the world says,--a dangerous, dangerous lesson for any
woman to learn; drives her husband wild by her defiance of him, and
then laughs at him; in short, acts just as one could foresee a proud,
injured, fearless woman would. I fancy, too, her health is breaking
down under the strain of misery. In one thing alone has she been
judicious; she kept the French King informed of exactly how Orlamunde
was standing to his engagements--which is very poorly indeed--as
long as she could; and but for her Orlamunde would have sold those
two fortified places to the allies, within a year from the time he
guaranteed them to Louis. Even now it is not certain that the French
guns have not been sold to William of Orange,--twenty-four bronze
cannon, so I have heard. Of course, this only makes Orlamunde hate
her the more, and he has found means to stop her correspondence with
France. And who, think you, is the precious gentleman through whom
Orlamunde has been transacting this vile business with Dutch William?
Your bastard brother, Hugo Stein--who is the English diplomatic agent
at Orlamunde.”
Roger had been getting paler and paler as the old lady spoke, her dark
eyes sparkling. Now he flushed deeply.
“Yes, Hugo Egremont, as he calls himself, is Orlamunde’s _alter ego_,
and has been, almost since that unfortunate marriage. It was he who was
after the Prince to give up the fortified places,--and it is he who has
been trying to persuade the Prince to sell the bronze guns, and he may
have succeeded. He seems to have plenty of money, so I hear--got from
his estates in England--”
“My oak timber!” burst in Roger, thinking of the eight thousand pounds
of which Dicky had told him.
“And has the entire confidence of his government.”
“He was ever an astute scoundrel,” again broke in Roger, growing a
deeper and darker red.
“And he hates Michelle, and she hates him. And he provides the Prince
with money--scamps need a deal more than honest gentlemen. And it is
not likely that the English and Dutch are giving him money for nothing;
so I am mightily afraid the twenty-four guns are gone.”
The old lady talked on vivaciously, and Roger heard every word, but as
in a dream. And presently he rose to go, and made Madame de Beaumanoir
a handsome compliment, and kissed her little withered, jewelled hand,
and walked back to the palace, by way of the terrace, still like a man
in a dream.
Michelle ill, wretched, defiant, badly used,--poor, poor unfortunate!
The knowledge of her misery, however it pierced his heart, did not
make him forget that he should give Berwick the information Madame
de Beaumanoir had given him--and so he went straight to Berwick’s
apartments in the Palace and told him.
Berwick’s comment on the Prince of Orlamunde was simple: “The
Scoundrel!” Then he added: “I was going to Marly to-night to say
farewell to the King of France, and I will go at once. It is important
that he should know of Orlamunde’s treachery, if it has really
occurred.”
And in ten minutes Roger saw him start off, in his black riding-suit,
for Marly.
Before night he returned. Roger was walking up and down the courtyard
with the little Prince of Wales, telling him stories about England,
while the boy’s governor, Lord Middleton, walked on the other side of
the lad. Berwick rode into the courtyard, dismounted, threw off his
black riding-cloak, and after ceremoniously greeting the little Prince
and his governor, said to Roger,--
“We ride for Orlamunde to-morrow, at sunrise, by order of the King of
France. All, and more, is true, of what Madame de Beaumanoir told us.
And the man who is working against us, the man who is the agent of
William of Orange at Orlamunde, the man we are ordered to have flung
out of that wicked place, wicked as its rascal Prince, the man we
are to take the vengeance of the King of France on,--is Hugo Stein,
sometime known as Sir Hugo Egremont, of Egremont.”
“And I shall take my private vengeance on him,” said Roger, in a quiet
voice, but his comely countenance growing ugly, in the way Michelle had
often noticed when wrath possessed him.
And at sunrise next morning they took the road to Meaux, to Épernay, to
Châlons, to Vitry, to Bar, and through the country of the Vosges, just
as they had done five years before. It was at the same season of the
year, and the face of the country was so little changed that Roger had
the strange feeling of having made the journey, not once, but a myriad
of times before. He could see, as they passed along the highways,
through fields and forests, and past towns and villages, Michelle’s
airy figure on her horse; he could hear her voice as plainly as if
she were speaking then. He went into the great cathedral of Meaux and
knelt in the same spot where he had knelt with her, and the merry birds
sang with glee under the eaves, just as they had done on that morning
when he had been with her in the church. He saw the old castle of
Vitry, bathed in the spring sunshine, so like--so like what it had been
before. When they entered the passes of the mountains, Roger determined
to go by the charcoal-burner’s hut. Berwick asked no questions; he knew
well enough why Roger Egremont should go over every step of that former
journey. The hut was gone, the place desolate. Roger dismounted, while
Berwick, with his two servants, rode on. In half an hour Roger rejoined
him, and spoke not a word until they reached their lodging for the
night.
So much was the same; and yet they, Roger Egremont and the Duke of
Berwick, were changed inexpressibly. Each had known a grief which marks
an epoch in every life; one of those sorrows which wring the heart and
leave a blood stain on the book of life. They spoke little of this,
being both of them valiant men, not given to mouthing their misery; but
this sad, sad change was ever present with them.
They made their journey, as if by some tacit arrangement, exactly as
they had made it, day by day, five years before; and the very day,
five years before, that they had entered Orlamunde, on the eve of the
anniversary of Michelle’s marriage, they reached the little capital and
put up at an inn.
“For I would not accept even a lodging from the rascal Prince,” said
Berwick, and Roger heartily agreed with him.
In the evening, though, having given notice of their arrival to the
Prince, they must appear at Monplaisir at eight o’clock. All, all was
the same. The straight, broad avenue of clipped trees, the fountains of
the dolphins ever playing, the statues, the marble terrace, the white
palace, beautiful in the evening glow; a deep blue sky, with a young
moon and a single blazing star beside her; and the same mob of powdered
lackeys, and the same miniature state as of five years before.
The Prince received them in that noble hall where the wedding
banquet had been held. He was yellower, sicklier, wickeder, more
dissipated-looking than before, which is saying much. He was attended
by his old chum, Count Bernstein, and a new one, Baron Reichenbach, who
seemed a bird of quite the same feather; and there were other gentlemen
present, and among them,--oh, iniquity of iniquities!--was Hugo Stein,
under the name and title of Sir Hugo Egremont of Egremont, in the
County of Devon, England.
He had ever been a more strictly handsome man than his half-brother;
and as the time that Roger had spent in camps Hugo had spent at
courts, so was Hugo more delicately skinned, more soft and supple,
than Roger. And he was magnificently dressed, wearing a superbly
jewelled dress-sword, on the hilt of which sparkled an emerald set with
diamonds, which Roger recognized as having once belonged to his own
mother, and he also knew nearly every other jewel in the hilt.
It was the bitterest moment in Roger Egremont’s life when his eye,
travelling around the company, fixed itself on Hugo; and when Hugo,
ever adopting an attitude of conciliation, advanced, saying, “Welcome,
brother!” Roger stood like a statue for one moment, and then advancing,
with arms outstretched wide, cried,--
“Welcome, Hugo Stein. Never was I so glad to see you before. A great, a
glorious thing has happened. We have come here to notify you that you
have spent your own and your master’s money in vain. And likewise to
make it so hot for you that you will be compelled to leave Orlamunde.
I cannot forbear embracing you in my joy.” And seizing Hugo suddenly
about the waist, Roger lifted him bodily off the floor, and flung
him headlong through the open window. And as Hugo went tumbling
out, head-foremost, Roger caught him by the leg, and wrenched the
dress-sword from about him, then dropped him on to the flower-bed below
the palace window.
Instantly there was an uproar. The Prince, white with rage, turned to
Roger as he stood smiling and examining the hilt of Hugo’s sword.
“Sir, you forget yourself amazingly. This conduct cannot be tolerated.”
Roger bowed low, still smiling. The Prince, then turning to Berwick,
said in a voice which trembled with excitement,--
“I say, my Lord Duke, this conduct cannot be tolerated in my presence.”
“Yes, your Highness,” replied Berwick, also smiling. “And may I ask, in
all respect, what are you going to do about it?”
Roger, all this time, was breaking off the hilt of the sword, which he
afterwards threw out of the window after its late master.
The Prince hesitated and moved uneasily in his seat. Berwick stood,
calmly regarding him; Roger continued to examine the sword-hilt. Count
Bernstein stooped and whispered something in the ear of the Prince, who
spoke after a moment.
“Count Bernstein tells me that these gentlemen are half-brothers and
there is feud between them. Some allowance can be made for Captain
Egremont’s feelings, if he will apologize for his unbecoming conduct.”
“To whom shall he apologize, your Highness?” asked Berwick.
“To myself, of course.”
“Then, your Highness,” replied Berwick, with much readiness, “I ask,
in Captain Egremont’s behalf, a week to consider your proposition.
Meanwhile, I am the bearer of an autograph letter from His Most
Christian Majesty, which I shall be pleased to deliver at your
Highness’s pleasure.”
No man who ever looked into the eye of James Fitzjames, Duke of
Berwick, felt like defying him, certainly not this miserable creature
of Orlamunde. So the Prince passed over the circumstance, resolving, as
such beings do, to take secret and private vengeance on Roger Egremont
before he left Orlamunde.
“We will now attend the ladies in the saloon,” said the Prince; and
rising, the whole company marched into the Saloon of the Swans. The
great saloon was blazing with wax lights, and over the mirrored walls
were the silver swans still sailing, sailing nowhere. And on the
dais at the upper end sat Michelle--sat the poor, unhappy Princess,
her cheeks wan and painted, her glorious eyes full of mischief and
melancholy, her slender figure slenderer than ever,--a picture of what
misery may do for a woman.
Roger advanced with Berwick to pay her his respects, and the sight
of her, and the touch of that cold little hand put all thought of
Hugo Stein out of his mind. She received them with perfect composure;
she had had time and opportunity to learn composure under disquieting
circumstances in the last five years. When she spoke, her voice was
unchanged in its thrilling sweetness; that and her winning smile had
survived five years of marriage with the Prince of Orlamunde.
“It is a pleasure to see you again,” she said, looking into Roger’s
eyes; “I have not seen a friend for five years past.”
All around her heard this speech, which Roger could not but think
imprudent.
“And,” she continued, laughing--oh, how sad it was to hear her
laugh!--“you are unchanged, a violent and turbulent man when you are
angered, but as gentle as a dove when you are pleased. I thought you
would not sit quiet when Hugo Stein was at hand.”
So, already the news had flown about of his pitching Hugo out of the
window. Hugo had thought it wise to depart, particularly as he had lost
his sword, without which, he could not, according to etiquette, appear
at the levee.
“Madam,” asked Roger, “is not that the way with most men in the
presence of a sworn enemy?”
“No, no,” cried the Princess, looking at the Prince who was standing on
the dais close by her. “In Orlamunde, for example, when a man is angry
with his enemy, be it man or woman, he watches his chance stealthily,
and when he thinks he is quite safe, he deals a poisoned thrust.”
Roger was not only surprised at this ill-timed frankness, but even
secretly shocked. Having never exercised the slightest forbearance in
his life toward those he conceived to have injured him, and having
not half an hour before wreaked his vengeance on his bastard brother
without the least regard to time or place, he was confounded that a
woman should do likewise. But Michelle, being quick-witted, saw that
she had not pleased him, and changed her manner to that of the most
caressing softness. And listening to every word were Madame Marochetti,
and the Countess Bertha von Kohler, who still reigned at Orlamunde,
and who was first lady-in-waiting to the Princess, much to Madame
Marochetti’s annoyance.
There was to be a concert presently, and in a little while the
musicians were ordered to appear, and the company seated themselves.
A tabouret was provided for Berwick, and a small chair for Roger
Egremont; but Roger, seeing that he had carried things with a high hand
in the beginning, concluded to adopt it as a regular policy while at
Orlamunde. Therefore, saying to the Princess, “By your leave, madam,”
and receiving a nod in return, he seated himself quietly on the edge
of the dais. Something like a shiver went round. The ladies were all
secretly delighted with his impudence, especially his old acquaintance
Countess von Roda, who was quite out of favor and had turned pious.
The music began. Every man has it in him to do something good, even
Karl, Prince of Orlamunde. What was good in him was the capacity for
art. His palace was exquisite, his orchestra was perfect. When the
violins and violoncello and flutes breathed forth the divine music of
Gluck, it was as if the Saloon of the Swans palpitated with delight, so
delicious, so searching, so heavenly was the harmony. Roger listened,
thinking it was like the music of Paradise; and when the rapture
of melody had lasted some time, he turned to look into Michelle’s
eyes and saw the saddest sight. She was leaning back in her stately
chair, her head resting on one thin hand sparkling with jewels, her
long lashes on her cheek. She had fallen asleep out of pure weakness
and weariness, in the midst of the enchanting music, with all those
hostile eyes upon her. Bertha von Kohler was smiling maliciously;
Madame Marochetti laughed outright. The Prince, turning to her, rudely
awakened her. Michelle started, looked at him with hatred in her face,
then catching sight of Berwick’s kind and pitying eyes fixed on her,
smiled softly. Roger’s heart swelled within him. To this sad pass had
ambition brought a woman born to love and to be loved.