ROGER EGREMONT HAS HIS LAST FIGHT WITH THE DEVIL
THE Château de la Rivière near Pont-à-Mousson, as Madame de Beaumanoir
had said, was but a rookery, so aged and decayed it was. But it was
so exquisitely placed, it was so quaint, so remote, so peaceful; the
roses, red and white, which climbed all over the gray walls were so
fragrant, the purple woods were so darkly beautiful, what wonder that
Roger Egremont and Michelle thought it a paradise? For they were there
together and alone in the sweetest days of the year, the time of May
and roses.
On leaving Orlamunde, Roger had driven straight toward the French
frontier. He did not draw rein, and scarcely drew breath until they
were beyond Orlamunde, for two men are but two men after all, and
Prince Karl could have sent five hundred after them. Arrived at the
frontier town, though, and on French soil, they for the first time had
leisure to think, to plan, to eat, and to sleep.
Roger left everything to Berwick, and so did Michelle. Berwick, then,
promptly decided that the cumbersome coach must be left behind, four
out of the six horses sold, and a travelling-chaise purchased. A woman
attendant was secured in the little town for Michelle, and it was
arranged that Roger should escort her as far as Pont-à-Mousson, where
she knew of a religious house she could enter and remain in until she
could communicate with her friends at St. Germains. There was no doubt
François Delaunay would be sent after her. Roger Egremont, on leaving
Michelle at Pont-à-Mousson, was to rejoin Berwick at Strasburg, Berwick
meaning not to go too far from Orlamunde until the guns were replaced
at Mondberg and Arnheim, and he had got further instructions from the
King of France.
And how had Roger Egremont carried out this plan? As basely as Hugo
Stein could have done.
Of course, Roger tried to lay it all on fate, on opportunity, on
everything except that tendency to evil which dwells in every man’s
breast. It fell out so, he argued miserably and senselessly to himself.
At the very first stage, the woman attendant had repented of her
bargain to go to Pont-à-Mousson, and had slipped off secretly in the
night. So Roger and Michelle were left without any travelling companion.
There was, however, no time to stop, as Berwick and Roger had agreed
that Michelle should be got as far from Orlamunde and as quickly as
possible. Michelle suggested that they should make for this old château
of la Rivière, only two days’ hard travel off, where they could rest
a night, get an attendant for her, and press on to Pont-à-Mousson.
This seemed the only feasible thing to do; so they set forth from the
village where the treacherous attendant had deserted them, and made
haste to reach la Rivière. Roger rode Merrylegs, and the post-boys
drove Michelle in the chaise.
They reached la Rivière late on the second evening from the frontier.
They found an old man and his wife in charge, whom they knocked up
at ten o’clock at night. The post-boys were dismissed, old Pierre
cared for the tired horses, and old Marianne made Roger and Michelle
decently comfortable in the tumble-down old château. At last they had
a breathing spell, and Roger slept in a bed, instead of sitting in
a chair in the corridor near Michelle’s door, with his hand on his
pistol, as he had done for two nights before.
The next morning both of them slept late; the last three days were
calculated to try the soul of either man or woman. What wonder was
it, then, that when Roger saw how weary and languid Michelle was, he
should say to her that she was not fit to travel to Pont-à-Mousson that
day, and should rest at la Rivière? So much with a good conscience;
but he did not go farther, as a gentleman should, and take horse to
Pont-à-Mousson, and fetch her back an attendant on a pillion behind
him, so that Michelle should not be without the constant company of a
woman. No. The Devil did not need to take him up upon a high mountain,
and show him the kingdoms of the earth in order to seduce him from
his duty; all the fiend had to do was to picture forth to Roger’s
imagination the fond delight of a day in May, at that lovely secluded
spot, alone with Michelle. Of course, the favorite argument of Satan
was used with good effect: it would never be known. And Michelle,
who should have asked him to go to Pont-à-Mousson, if he had not so
offered, listened to the same argument from the same source. Nay,
she was even more casuistical than Roger, and tried to silence her
conscience by saying to herself that it was the good God who had given
her this one day with the man she loved, as a recompense for five years
of torment.
They would certainly go on to Pont-à-Mousson the next day; of that
there was no doubt whatever,--so each one declared in secret.
Old Marianne gave them some breakfast, and then Michelle, this wearied
lady, who was not able to travel in a chaise a day’s ride, suddenly
recovered her strength and spirits. When Roger said that it was not
prudent for her health for her to go farther until the next day, her
face became so illumined, she smiled so radiantly, the faint dimple
showing in her cheek, that Roger was dazed with joy, and thought the
six years since they had made hay in the meadows of St. Germains must
be a bad dream. And when he remained silent on the subject of his going
to Pont-à-Mousson, Michelle did not so much as once remind him of his
duty. She acted as if two or three days of travel could fatigue him
completely as it did her--him, Captain Roger Egremont, a campaigner in
the Irish Brigade.
After it was tacitly settled between their two pairs of eyes, their
tongues taking no part in the debate, that they should spend that day,
the loveliest May day ever seen, together and alone at la Rivière, each
saw rapture in the face of the other. Roger lay back in his chair on
one side of the table where they had been breakfasting, and Michelle
lay back in her chair on the other side, and they could no more have
helped smiling than they could have stopped breathing.
“’Tis a heavenly day,” said Roger. “We must see this sweet spot,--this
quaint house, the park; we shall have one whole day together.” And
there was a note of triumph in his voice.
After breakfast, they started out on their exploring expedition. In
the night, Roger had heard the rippling of water over stones; and to
their delight they found a beautiful, shallow, clear, little river,
tinkling under the windows of an old saloon with its moth-eaten yellow
satin furniture. And, oh, surprise of surprises! there was a stone
bridge across the water,--a bridge which some dead and gone Beaumanoir
had built for defence; and some other dead and gone Beaumanoir had
conceived the notion of building a quaint octagon room on this bridge;
and the cushioned window-seats of this room looked down upon the
crystal flood of the little river, with its mossy banks. On either side
were willows, dipping almost into the water, making dark places where
the silver scales of fish glinted.
Michelle--the weary Michelle--walked about this room with the quickest
and lightest step imaginable, crying,--
“Look, Roger, look! was ever anything so lovely, so quaint, so
delicious? Oh, this place was meant for happiness!”
When she called him Roger, a look of victory came into his eyes, and
he took her hand; he drew her to a window-seat, where they sat down
together and looked into each other’s eyes as they had often longed
and never dared to before. And presently they averted their eyes and
gazed down upon the bright, unquiet water. The roses, which rioted
over everything, had dared to cross the bridge from either side, and
a great bold red one audaciously climbed into the very window where
they sat, and smiled into the two happy faces there. The birds were
singing rapturously; the old place had been so quiet and deserted that
the birds felt they owned it, but they did not resent the intrusion
of another pair of lovers,--it was the mating time of all. The old
room itself was charming. Roger called Michelle’s attention to a
shelf full of old books; and recognizing a dear friend from whom he
had long been parted, he rose and fetched the volume to her. It was
Ronsard,--Ronsard, whose poems Roger had recited to her in that
never-to-be-forgotten journey,--Ronsard, whose songs he had sung to
his guitar. They turned the old, yellow leaves, in quaint black-letter
print and antique French, reading a little to each other now and then.
There was one little poem about love, and youth, and a sunny sky being
all that one could ask in this life. Roger read this to Michelle, and
saw her eyes grow dark, and a flush mount to her pale cheek, just as
he had seen five years before; and then, suddenly, he burst out with
the story of that other volume of Ronsard, which he had thrown on the
campfire in the Low Countries.
“I burnt it trying to forget you,” he said.
“But you did not forget me,” Michelle replied softly.
It was very wrong. They had begun to have a suspicion that God had
nothing in particular to do with their determination to spend that day
together,--but it was only a single day. There could be no great harm
in one day of each other’s society,--so they argued to themselves.
Never had they had one whole day of each other’s society, and Fate
would not soon again be so kind to them. Fate had by that time taken
the place of God in the affair. Truly, it was neither God nor Fate, but
the devil.
At noonday Marianne gave them a dinner of herbs, which both of them
relished as the most delicious meal they had ever eaten, for the
same reason that Solomon gave on a similar occasion--there was love
therewith. In the afternoon they walked about the small, overgrown,
and deserted park and gardens. The place was at all times lonely and
secluded, but it had likewise been deserted for many years, and so it
gave them a heavenly sense of aloneness. They watched from a moss-grown
bench under a great clump of myrtle trees the sun set and the moon
rise, and a wind like velvet softly moved the tender leaves. There
were roses all about them, and a nightingale sang in the hedge close
by. It was late before they returned; but there was no one to question
them or make them afraid. They had both dreamed continuously, during
five years past, of the bliss of being together. One day of it had far
surpassed all their expectations.
The next morning a soft and silvery rain was falling upon the grateful
earth. It was impossible to start in such weather,--so said Roger;
and Michelle, averting her eyes, said, Yes; it was impossible.
Nevertheless, when the sun flickered out, turning the silver rain to
gold, they must both go out in the park to see the lovely, dreamlike
beauty of the raining and the shining. Toward afternoon a storm came
up, and there was heavy thunder and sharp lightning. Michelle was
frightened, and cowered on a moth-eaten sofa in one of the remote
saloons. Roger sat by her, comforting her, and gently laughing at her
terror. The storm continued until evening, when it settled into a
steady downpour. It grew cold, and old Pierre made them a morsel of
fire in the fireplace of the little room over the bridge, and brought
them a couple of candles, and laid their supper on a round table close
to the fire.
The little river was now roaring, swollen by the rain, under their feet.
“There will be no travelling to-morrow,” Roger ventured. “The roads
will be very heavy. The horses are scarce rested enough to take the
road, and, no doubt, all the bridges are washed away.”
Most of this was a lie, and Roger remembered the old saying: “Sin has
many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all.” Yes, he was
lying, and he knew it--and Michelle knew it; but she wished to hear
just such lies as that.
If the day was sweet and intimate, what was the evening, spent with no
company but their own and that of their dear Pierre Ronsard? They were
as far separated from the rest of the universe as if they were on a
planet of their own. There were no words to express their deep delight.
It was late before they parted, and early next morning when they
met; and neither on that morning nor any other morning did Roger
Egremont--this gentleman who prided himself upon his virgin honor, his
life open as day, his reverence for a woman’s name and fame--propose
to the Princess of Orlamunde, a wife fugitive from her husband
and intrusted to his care, to proceed one step upon her way. And
Michelle--this woman whose path had been like that of a star--trembled
every day, when the sun rose, lest Roger should say, “Come, we must be
going.”
As if it were not enough that they had long felt themselves born for
each other, they discovered in this daily companionship a multitude
and variety of intellectual gifts in common, and their tastes seemed
to coincide to a miracle. All the things which Roger Egremont had
loved during his whole life, and had never expected to find any human
being to sympathize fully with, he discovered Michelle also loved
and understood. Neither one of them, in their wildest dreaming, had
imagined how entirely each would suffice for the other. They never
had a weary or dull moment. There was nothing, from politics and
campaigning to the harvesting of wheat, in which Michelle did not prove
an intelligent companion. In some things, in the politics of Europe,
for example, she was better informed than Roger was; but she used her
knowledge so gracefully and discreetly that it did not ever offend
his masculine self-love. She was, by far, the most intellectual woman
he had ever known; and besides all her gifts and graces, she had, in
perfection, all those delicate reserves which a woman should have, the
want of which had always shocked Roger in poor Bess Lukens. Although
every hour she remained at la Rivière Michelle risked her name and
fame, yet did she as scrupulously observe etiquette as if she had been
living in the palace of Versailles, with two thousand pairs of critical
eyes fixed on her. When Roger, one day, tried to converse with her as
she stood at her bedroom window, she shut the window in his face, and
sharply rated him afterward for his impropriety. On the night of their
arrival, old Marianne had given him a bed in a dark closet of a room,
next her own, and he could only reach it either by going outside or
going through old Marianne’s room. He would have dearly liked one of
the pleasant rooms in the upper part of the building, but he never had
the courage to suggest changing his wretched quarters, well knowing
that he would not be allowed to. Never did two people more strictly
observe all the outward canons of decorum than these two lovers, shut
up together in that lonely, sweet place; and never did two people place
themselves in a position where this decorum would be more incredulously
received if they should assert it.
Every day they spent together the devil provided them with some new
source of pleasure. In a dark cupboard Roger found an old viol de
gamba. He glued it together, restrung it, and found in it endless
pleasure. To it he sang those love songs which made Michelle’s eyes
shine like stars. And then--oh, joy, discovering that Michelle had some
knowledge of the viol, he taught her the accompaniments. She was quick
to learn, but she ever seemed to need more teaching, and then--their
hands and eyes met. And Roger, giving poignant meaning to all those
burning words, sang as she played, watching the color come and go in
her cheek. Then there were long afternoons spent in the woods, hunting
the wild roses, which bloomed late in those ferny depths. And there
were long, sweet moonlit evenings, when the nightingales sang to them
as they walked up and down the terrace, under the quivering aspen
leaves, which made black shadows on the white earth. Oh, how keen was
their joy!
Even their homeliest wants brought with them charm and amusement and
pleasure. Roger gave old Pierre a long string of names, such as Chief
Steward, Master of the Horse, Groom of the Chambers, and Cellarer.
Michelle called Marianne her Lady-in-Waiting, Mistress of the Robes,
and femme de chambre.
There was some antiquated table furniture found in the cupboards and
closets of the old château, but there was only one porcelain teacup.
Over this teacup Roger and Michelle made merry, squabbled like
children, and had endless amusement. They even had that luxury of
luxuries--a lovers’ quarrel. Roger, setting a trap in the woods, as he
had often done when a lad at Egremont, caught a hare. Michelle insisted
that he should set it free; Roger declared it would make excellent
soup. He released the little creature at last, but he showed some
temper and crossness in the doing; Michelle grew cold to him, and they
had the pleasure of quarrelling and the rapture of reconciliation.
Their quiet, intimate talk, day by day, covered many subjects, and
avoided others. Neither spoke of the past except in connection with
the other. Especially did they wish that the memory of the last five
unhappy years should be lost in oblivion, as a prisoner would drop his
manacles into the ocean, never to be seen or heard of again. And into
that same ocean, they felt, as every day they spent together passed,
that a pearl had been dropped.
They did not speak of the future at all, nor indeed suffer themselves
so much as to think of it. For them there was neither past nor
future,--only the present hour; and the golden glow of each hour
together eclipsed all that had gone before, and made them careless as
to what was to come afterward.
But in the midst of this deep delight, were they happy? No! a thousand
times no! They were not guilty, but before them always yawned an
abyss,--an abyss into which each might plunge the other. And already,
as far as the verdict of the world might go, they were lost in this
abyss. Roger had agreed to take upon himself the charge of Michelle,
from an honorable man like Berwick. How could he meet Berwick’s eye
again? He positively trembled and broke out in a cold sweat when he
thought of it; and that was but a part of what he had to fear. And
Michelle--for her husband’s sins against her might be shed the blood
of honest men; her King and benefactor might take vengeance for her
wrongs; and what would be his position in the eyes of the world, when
it came out, where and how and with whom she had passed her time since
leaving Orlamunde? Many nights this thought drove her from her bed, and
Roger, awake too, and fighting with his conscience, would hear above
him her light step, as she walked the floor in her anguish.
Neither of them had ever tried living without the approval of the
conscience; for, whatever wrong and folly Michelle had committed at
Orlamunde, she was just enough to herself to know she had not committed
it wilfully, or willingly, or wantonly; she had been driven to it by
the gang of miscreants who had surrounded her. But no one forced her to
remain at la Rivière; she stayed because she had neither the wish nor
the will to leave it--and she dared not think much on this; that way,
madness lay.
And so it was with Roger Egremont. His honor was as his life, and he
was now living in defiance of it. In many ways this new conduct of his,
new because it was base, affected him strangely. He had been wont to
ride abroad, to see and speak with his fellow-men. Now he would not go
near the highway, albeit there was no danger of his being recognized;
he did not want to see the face of any of his kind except Michelle.
Even the occasional presence of old Pierre and Marianne was often
distasteful to him.
There were no houses nor even a peasant’s hut in sight from the
windows, but on a neighboring hill was a little old church. It could
not be seen, but the sound of the church bell could be heard; a
singularly rich and sonorous bell, which some echo of the neighboring
hillsides repeated with beautiful effect. When, at morning and evening,
this bell set up its melodious clangor, Michelle always turned
pale,--it seemed to be an accusing voice. Roger, on those occasions,
would snatch up the viol and sing to it some merry chansonette--perhaps
that gay song which so often rang out at the inn of Michot.
“Amis, passons-le gaîment!”
But it made a discord, a horrid discord, with that deep and serene
music--that clear, angelic call to prayer and repentance of the bell.
It may, in short, be judged how happy they were in the Paradise of
their own seeking, when it is told that Roger, after a while, began
to be haunted by a dreadful apprehension about Michelle; he lived in
terror that she might, some delicious day, or some wretched night,
throw herself into the river. Something in her eyes, when she heard the
sound of the church bell, frightened him. And on those nights when she
walked the floor all night, he came, after a time, to rise, and open
his outer door, which looked on to the little brawling stream, so that
if he should see a white figure fluttering down, he could save it. And
something of the same idea came to Michelle.
One day, sitting in the bridge-room, she inadvertently spoke of Berwick.
They had tacitly avoided talking of persons, because if these persons
were good, Roger Egremont and the Princess of Orlamunde would be
scorned by them; and if bad, this gentleman and lady would be reckoned
fit company for them. But on this day Michelle, for once forgetting
where she stood, talked of Berwick. She glanced at Roger, and saw
that his face had turned pale under his tan and sunburn. She stopped
at once, and a painful silence came between them, broken by Roger’s
saying, in a tremulous voice,--
“Some day, I shall have to meet Berwick--and then--”
He rose and literally fled from the room. Presently she heard a noise
below, and looking out of the window, saw Roger, in the doorway of his
wretched chamber, hammering at his horse-pistol. She too ran out of the
room, but when she came within his sight as she turned the corner of
the building, she walked sedately enough. Going straight up to him,
and looking him full in the eye, she said to him calmly,--
“Roger, give me this pistol,” and took it out of his hand.
Roger gazed at her stupidly.
“I--I--was but putting it in order,” he stammered. “I was not thinking
of--of--killing myself. How ridiculous! But I don’t know why I should
have thought of the pistol at this moment. Only, when I thought of
meeting Berwick, the notion of seeing if my pistol were in good
condition, came to me in the strangest, strangest way!”
All that day, they were constrained in each other’s company--for the
first time. In the afternoon Roger went out alone. He did not come
back until toward sunset, and as it was then June, the sun was late in
setting. He came up to Michelle, as she sat on the window-seat of the
bridge-room, trifling with some embroidery. He looked wearied, as if he
had walked far and fast. “Here,” he said, throwing himself in a chair,
and holding out one of his strong, brown hands to her, “I have got a
thorn in my hand; will you get it out?”
Michelle, to see the better in the waning light, got upon one knee, and
took his hand in her two small, soft ones. She trembled, and was so
agitated that she could not see the thorn. As she bent her head over,
her rich dark hair escaped from the golden net which had confined it,
and fell over her like a veil. A faint, wandering, vagrant breeze swept
it also over Roger Egremont’s shoulder. He caught it in his free hand
and kissed passionately the silky tresses, and Michelle suddenly found
the two hands, which were trying to get the thorn out, imprisoned in a
grasp like fate. She felt the thorn then; it cut into her hand as into
Roger’s; but neither drew apart, or flinched from the pain. They looked
into each other’s eyes and actually smiled; the pangs of the thorn
they bore with joy, as a type of the joy with which they would bear
the pangs of love such as theirs must bring. But in the midst of their
exaltation came, from afar, through the open window, over the woods
and fields and rocks, the chiming of the church bell. It smote the air
with music, the sweet sound of it delicately overbore the murmur of the
river, and faint and soft as it was, it seemed to fill the heavens and
the earth as did the grand diapason of the great cathedral bells at
Meaux.
Instinctively, and at the same moment, they remembered Meaux. They had
listened with joy to the mighty clanging of those noble bells on that
spring morning, more than five years before, because then both were
innocent, high-minded, serene in the consciousness of right living. But
now--but now-- Michelle rose, as pale as a ghost. Roger did not detain
her a moment. She went slowly from the room, and when she reached the
door, turned, and looked back a full minute at Roger. Her glance was
not one of reproach; her eyes said as plainly as her lips could have
said,--
“I love you--I love you--I love you.”
He did not see her again that night. She sent word to him at supper
time that she felt ill and would remain in her room. He asked no
questions, but ate his solitary supper in sullen silence. He felt ill
too--very ill in mind--so ill, in fact, that he was driven forth, as in
most of the crises of his life, to spend the whole night out-of-doors,
under the solemn stars.
He walked about in the park, through the whole night, an angel and
a devil wrestling within him. Should he let Michelle go away,--for
after that last meeting, he felt sure she would make some sort of a
struggle to leave him,--or should he make her stay? He was torn with
agony between these two thoughts. He had always found some comfort
before in the silent companionship of his mother, Nature, but she had
no consolation for him in this. He saw the moon rise and sink, and the
faint glory of the dawn, and he was farther away from a resolve than he
had been when he had first wrestled with himself. Suddenly, it was just
at five o’clock on a June morning, he heard the church bell again. It
was like a voice from Heaven. It cast him upon his knees on the green
earth, in the forest, to ask for light and help, and instantly light
and help came to him. He would spare the woman he loved. He had loved
her with a true and honorable love, and true and honorable should his
love remain. He adored God and thanked Him for His mercy in bringing
His unworthy servant to a knowledge of sin. For the first time since
his boyhood he wept, wept tears of penitence and of thankfulness, and
those burning drops washed his soul and made it clean again. The bell
continued its sweet chiming; it sounded to Roger Egremont like the
pæans of angels rejoicing over one sinner doing penance.
He rose presently to his feet, and walked rapidly back to the château.
He was once more Roger Egremont, a gentleman. He was humbled when he
reflected that twice in his life he had come within a frightful chance
of utterly losing himself,--the miserable time when he was first cast
into Newgate, and the delicious hours he had spent at la Rivière. He
promised that, having been so great a sinner himself, he would never
look with anything but pity on the greatest sinner that walked the
earth.
As he made his way toward the château, his acute and practical mind
began to work out the actual solution of the entanglements he had
brought on Michelle and himself. He would see her as soon as she arose.
He would take, as he deserved, all the blame upon himself for the cruel
position in which he had placed her, and humbly beg her pardon as he
had begged that of his Maker. He felt sure of her forgiveness and of
her love. They might never be united, but neither could ever doubt the
other. They would, of course, devise an immediate plan for leaving
la Rivière. He would probably go straight to Pont-à-Mousson, to the
religious house of which she had spoken before they had reached la
Rivière; she had never so much as mentioned it to him since. He would
make a frank confession to the Mother Superior, who was sure to be a
discreet woman and kindly. So much was due her, and with her help it
would be easy enough to keep quiet the time--thirty-seven days; he knew
the exact number--which Michelle had spent at la Rivière. After taking
Michelle to Pont-à-Mousson, he would join Berwick. He divined that
Michelle would exact that he should confess all to Berwick, and that,
as a man of honor, he was prepared to do.
When he reached the château, he thought he had never seen the old
gray pile so lovely, so inviting, as in the dewy freshness of the
morning. He stopped under Michelle’s window, and his aspiration was
like a prayer. It was still so early that he thought he would snatch
an hour’s sleep; he began to feel the fatigue which follows upon many
hours of exhausting emotions, and going to his dingy little room,
he threw himself, dressed, upon his bed and instantly fell into a
delicious slumber. He thought he had slept but an hour, when he waked
and tumbled out of bed. As he opened the door leading outward, sunshine
flooded the room, and he saw that it was near noon. Cursing himself
for a sluggard, he glanced involuntarily at Michelle’s window. It was
closed, nor was the window in the bridge-room open.
A deadly presentiment struck his heart. Instead of going into the
château and calling softly for Michelle, as he usually did when he did
not see her, he called loudly for Marianne. The old woman was long in
coming, but presently she appeared.
“Where is the Princess Michelle?” he asked.
“Gone,” coolly replied the old Marianne. “She left a letter for you,
which, however, I am not to give you until to-night.”
Roger seized her roughly.
“Give me that letter instantly,” he shouted in her ear.
Old Marianne was obstinate.
“You may strike me if you like, but I will not give you the letter an
hour before my lady told me,” she answered, doggedly.
And Roger Egremont, this honorable gentleman, whose creed was
gentleness to women, who had gone to sleep a penitent man, resolving
to do right even if it required the crucifixion of the soul, fell into
the most unseemly passion imaginable. The devil in a man dies hard, and
even after he is conquered he can give much trouble. Roger Egremont,
this strong, weather-beaten man, was unnerved and unstrung by the
strain of furious emotions from which he had suffered the whole night,
and these words of Marianne’s seemed altogether unbearable to him. He
began to storm and swear frightfully at her; he did everything, this
chivalrous Captain Egremont, but strike the poor old woman. Nay, in
his eagerness to find the letter, he rushed into her poverty-stricken
room; he turned her poor belongings upside down, threw her few wretched
sticks of furniture about, and behaved like a ruffian and a madman.
Such is human nature at its worst, even in an honest man, when he is
cruelly balked. But he could not find the letter. He then condescended
to beg. He offered the old woman half the money he had, all of it,
if only she would give him the letter. But his previous conduct had
aroused all the doggedness in an obstinate nature. Marianne would not
give him the letter.
And Pierre had gone, and the chaise and the post-horses. He easily
tracked them to the front of the château. Yes, there was the very
imprint of Michelle’s delicate feet in the mossy earth. She had got
into the chaise at the foot of the terrace, and the wheel tracks passed
through the park, and into the highroad, half a mile away. Then they
were lost.
He had some wild idea of mounting his horse and pursuing Michelle--but
where? He knew nothing of the country, and could have no inkling of the
direction she had taken. No. In the midst of his wildness he realized
that the only thing to do was to wait for the letter.
He returned to the château as nearly mad as a sane man could be.
To desert him in that manner! Had she, then, ever truly loved him?
Yesterday--last night--this morning--what answer would his heart have
given him? But now-- He struck his forehead and swore to himself that
she had never, never loved him.
He had a dreadful conviction that the thing was final with her; and
going all over the château, and wandering amid the grounds was like
going to the old familiar places the day that the one who made them
bright has been laid in the earth. Yes,--this was the very spot in
the bridge-room where they had sat the evening before. Not even the
chair had been moved in which he had sat when she knelt before him,
and her hair had fallen upon his shoulder. On the window-seat lay her
embroidery, just as her hand had dropped it. Close to it lay the volume
of Ronsard. The place they had last read was marked with some rose
leaves; she had gathered them from the bold marauder whose lovely face
had laughed in at the window--and those leaves were not yet withered.
In the old saloon was the viol. Roger had thrown it down carelessly on
a table. Michelle, with a woman’s orderly instinct, had put it in its
case, and carefully closed it. That had been only twenty-hours before.
These things almost broke his heart. As sunset approached he went back
to the bridge-room and sullenly threw himself into the same chair in
which he had sat when last he saw Michelle vanish through the door. It
came to him that there was something like farewell in that last long
look, and the memory of it softened him. Love was in her eyes; the mere
recollection of that look was convincing. Dwelling upon it, he fell
into a better frame of mind, and gradually he came to his other self.
And when the evening shadows lay upon the land, and the dying light
wrapped all the earth in its soft, mysterious splendor, and the unseen
bell echoed sweetly from the hill, Roger Egremont, changed and melted,
cried out aloud in his agitation, “Michelle, Michelle, forgive me!
Forgive me, Michelle!”
As if in answer to this, her letter was thrown in to him at the window.
This is it,--
“You will know why I went secretly, and why I have caused you to
spend this day of misery. If I had once seen you, I never could have
left you. I go to Pont-à-Mousson. I shall be there when you receive
this letter. Forgive me, dearest. But for me, we should not have
remained a single day at la Rivière. It is I, and I alone who am
to blame; and the greatest blame of all is that I should have made
you, the soul of honor, act dishonorably. For that I implore your
forgiveness. I ask you to confess all to the Duke of Berwick. I feel
sure that he can save you from the consequences of my wrong-doing. I
shall confess to the Mother Superior where I am going. This is not to
save myself, but you--for I assure you I care not what becomes of me.
“We can never meet again--that much is certain.”
Here some illegible words followed, and then her name.
* * * * *
Five weeks afterward, as Berwick was sitting in the garden of the Swan
Inn at Strasburg one evening, he saw Roger Egremont approaching on
Merrylegs. Roger dismounted, and Berwick went forward to greet him. He
looked worn and tired,--so much so that Berwick asked him if he had
been ill. No, he had not been ill; he would tell all as soon as he had
had some supper,--he had ridden hard that day.
After supper he proposed to Berwick to walk into the country. Berwick
knew then that the story of his mysterious absence and silence would be
told.
He told it all, without reservation; only, he tried to give out the
idea that he had detained Michelle against her will at la Rivière. But
he was truly penitent and had obtained her forgiveness. Through the
Mother Superior at Pont-à-Mousson, everything would appear quite right
for Michelle, and Roger merely told Berwick because he felt he had
behaved extremely ill, and had miserably betrayed the trust reposed in
him.
Berwick was a shrewd man. He did not believe any man could have
detained Michelle at la Rivière. She had gone away in the post-chaise
as soon as she was ready. He suspected the exact state of the case, and
while he blamed them justly, he pitied the two poor unhappy souls. He
said nothing, but after a while held out his hand in a friendly grasp
to Roger,--they were standing still by the roadside then. Roger had
never expected Berwick to take his hand again. That hand-clasp was the
gratefullest one he had ever known in his life.
On returning to the inn Berwick produced two letters which he had been
holding for Roger. One was from Dicky,--a mere line saying he was well,
and hoped to be soon ordered to England. It was two months old. The
second was only three weeks old, and was from Bess Lukens. Something
in the letter itself,--hurried and giving no signs of that elaborate
care which half-educated persons like poor Bess bestow upon their rare
letters--alarmed Roger. It was written from Paris the first of July,
and said briefly,--
I have just had news that Mr. Richard is taken in England, and is
in Newgate prison under sentence of death. I don’t know what his
superiors, as he calls them, were thinking about to let the poor lad
go. I got the news at St. Germains last night, through Mr. François
Delaunay. He came with me to Paris at daylight and we are now taking
coach for Calais; for I am going to England to try and save the
lad. I have a plenty of money with me, and I know Newgate prison
better than the man that built it; and I have an old friend there
besides,--Diggory Hutchinson, as you may remember. I will write you
as soon as I get to London. There mightn’t be any trouble in getting
Mr. Richard’s sentence commuted, if he was not a Jesuit; but they
hanged the others, Sir John Fenwick and the rest of them, and ’tis
not likely they will spare a Jesuit. But there are ways of cheating
the gallows, that I know, and you may yet see Mr. Richard’s merry
face and hear him play his fiddle. So good-bye and no more at present.
From your faithful friend,
BESS LUKENS.