The House of Egremont

NEVER was there a man born who loved better to be revenged on his enemies than Roger Egremont. He was so constituted that he could not feel forgiveness for an enemy until he had that enemy under his heel, which is not forgiveness at all. Therefore, when a few nights after Berwick had told him of the necessary disbandment of the corps, Roger tasted exquisite joy on being selected to compose a letter meant for William of Orange, and likely to give him a bad quarter of an hour.

The determination of the corps of gentlemen-at-arms to enlist as a company of private soldiers in the army of the King of France had been speedily conveyed to London, where everything that happened at St. Germains was known as fast as horses’ legs and the winds of heaven could carry it. The news of this determination made a profound and painful impression in England. The spectacle of the best blood of the three kingdoms serving in the mean capacity of common foot-soldiers in a foreign army was not calculated to foster good-will toward the Dutch Prince who sat at St James’s. William of Orange, one of the wisest, as well as one of the most ruthless men who ever reigned, saw this was no time for ruthlessness. He had seen himself stripped by degrees of the absolute power he once owned, his Dutch guards sent packing, the estates he had so liberally bestowed upon his followers taken away and given to their rightful owners by act of parliament,—that parliament which had ever proved too strong for any sovereign who defied it. It would be well to spare the country the sight of English, Irish, and Scotch gentlemen serving in the ranks, and so a cordial invitation was sent to these men to return to their country, submit peaceably to the existing régime, and let bygones be bygones.

Roger Egremont and all the rest of the corps almost loved Dutch William for giving them the opportunity, in reply to this proposal, to concoct a letter as impudent as they could make it. While not written to William of Orange, it was certain to be seen by his eye; and it was not meant to increase his self-esteem.

Roger Egremont, by reason of his fair handwriting and skill in composition, was selected to draft the letter,—the same Roger Egremont who had been as ignorant as a footman of reading and writing until Dutch William put him in the way of getting an education. Roger hated this usurping Prince as a man of free and haughty temper hates his despoiler, but he made not the mistake of undervaluing the usurper. He knew that, although William of Orange was not troubled with a conscience, or with nice points of honor, and needs must hate the English people who had cut his claws so effectively, he was yet susceptible of shame at his offers of amnesty being derided and his promises disbelieved. So it was with unction that Roger read over the draft of his letter, as he made his way one gloomy winter night to the Hall of Guards.

All of the corps were assembled, with General Buchan, their commander, together with Berwick, the Earl of Perth, and Lord Melfort and other gentlemen of the King’s suite; and in the grand saloon above, a company of the most distinguished of the exiles, chiefly ladies, had collected to applaud the unflinching loyalty of the corps.

Roger was a little late—what young man, singled out for such an honor as to compose the reply to such an offer, would not have been late and would not have relished the shout of welcome his fellows gave him, when he entered, his paper in his hand? Then, bowing modestly to the company, he waited to be invited to read what he had written; and General Buchan, sitting at the head of the great table brought in from the mess-room, around which the corps sat, motioned Roger to take place by him.

Ranged round the wall were the gentlemen of the suite and others; and Roger Egremont, standing up, straight and graceful, his gray body-coat showing off his well-made figure, read out, in a clear, ringing voice, the letter he thought fittest to meet the eye of his arch enemy, William of Orange.

Roger made a little pause before the last word; it was a new one, coined by himself; and when he suddenly roared it out,—all the other insults to William of Orange he had spoken in a soft and dulcet voice,—there was a moment’s pause of surprised delight and rapture; and then broke forth a thundering shout that made the ladies in the saloon above them jump, and even startled King James reading his book of prayers in his closet with the Queen.

Roger stood, his eyes cast down, blushing like a girl, while the applause surged about him like a hurricane, men pounding the table and shouting, “Aye—be Glencoe’d—Glencoe’d; how the damned villain will hate that word!” and General Buchan shook Roger’s hand, and Berwick clasped him in his arms crying, “Glencoe’d! What a glorious word!”

Pity Roger Egremont. That one word, and the platter of beans dashed into the usurper’s face were his sole recompense for a great estate filched from him, three years in Newgate gaol, and poverty and exile.

The story of the bean-platter was known at St. Germains, and when the echoes of the first wild huzza were dying away, another one was started by General Buchan dryly remarking, “Would you not like to add, Mr. Egremont, that the memory of a certain platter of beans—”

He got no further, a storm of shouts and cheers breaking forth, and Roger colored higher than ever.

Then the signature of every man of the corps was signed to the paper, General Buchan’s first, followed by those of the officers, and Roger Egremont was accorded the honor of putting his name next those of the officers. He signed himself, with a great flourish, as “Roger Egremont of Egremont.” That, too, he hoped would be at least a pin-prick to his enemy.

The proceedings being over, every man went about his business, most of them to the grand saloon. Roger was, of course, the hero of the evening. Berwick took the King a copy of the letter, which the poor broken man read, with a kind of dismal pleasure, aloud to the Queen, whose beautiful eyes flashed with gratification. When he entered the saloon, the King and Queen at once sent for him to the top of the room, where they sat on a very low dais,—James and Mary Beatrice chafed under the rigid ceremonial imposed upon them by French etiquette, and much preferred to sit and stand and walk about among their people as they had done at their palace of Whitehall.

“Mr. Egremont,” said the King, “you wield not only a stout arm, but a pen like a sword.”

“And keen pens are scarcer than stout arms,” added Mary Beatrice, with her heavenly smile, at which Roger bowed to the ground, saying,—

“Both my arm and my pen belong to your Majesties and the Prince of Wales, as long as I have a drop of blood in my body.”

Being dismissed with a gracious bow, he turned and saw the Princess Michelle’s soft, glowing eyes fixed upon him with a look which spelled as plain as print, “Come to me.”

He went to her, and thrilled with delight, when she spoke some words of enchanting praise. Then Madame de Beaumanoir’s shrill voice cleft the air, and Roger was obliged to go to where the old lady sat and held court in a great chair by the fire, their Majesties having left the saloon.

“So you’ve made a great success with that impudent letter of yours. Well, I always thought you capable of it, you rogue!” Then, lowering her voice, she continued, “I know about you and Berwick going to Orlamunde with me and my niece. But—’fore God!—” Madame de Beaumanoir occasionally used language not unlike Bess Lukens’s—“will you believe it?—the King of France has not told me one word of what we are going for, except that it will be for the advantage of my family, and I am not to know until the very day we start. But I suspect what is in the wind, and could give as good a guess as one would want. The thing that nettles me is, some of these fools about here say that the King won’t let me be told for fear I’ll blab; as if I had not always been renowned for keeping my own counsel! Well, you don’t know any more than I; but then, you are not Michelle’s uncle, and I am her aunt. Kings and Queens are queer things. I would that every King who reigns were as brave and charming as my own dear Charles the Second of blessed memory!”

It was a heavenly evening to Roger, and he remained after most of the company had gone. The night was cold, and the fire was meagre; and, warming himself at the small blaze, he saw a log lying inside the fender. Roger, softly and slyly, essayed to put the log on the fire, unseen by Lord Melfort, the comptroller of the household, who was standing near, but with his back turned.

But he was checked by the Princess Michelle’s voice at his elbow.

“Put that down, Mr. Egremont,” said she; “all this day has the Queen gone without a fire herself that the gentlemen and ladies might have one in the saloon.”

Roger put the log down at once.

“I wish I had the forests of Egremont to draw upon,” he said, and then followed it up by saying in a quiet voice, but with rapture in his eyes,—

“Do you know, mademoiselle, that I am to have the honor of accompanying you and Madame de Beaumanoir, with the Duke of Berwick, to Orlamunde,—that is, if you will graciously permit me.”

Michelle had been smiling at him across the fireplace, one of her little feet upon the fender and her fan shading her face from the glow of the embers. She wore a rich gown of puce-colored brocade, and the lace of the half-sleeve, falling back, revealed her delicate white arm. Roger saw the hand that held the fan tremble; she suddenly grew pale, and her arm dropped by her side.

“You—you—” she stammered; “Berwick, then, has selected you.”

“Subject, of course, to the approval of yourself, mademoiselle, and Madame de Beaumanoir,” replied Roger, promptly and stiffly. “It will not be necessary for you to make a formal objection,—a word, a look, and I would rather die than go with you to Orlamunde.”

“I did not mean what you think,” said Michelle, after a pause, and in her sweetest voice. “I wish you to go. Remember that the Duke of Berwick takes his orders on this journey, not from me but from the King of France—and so he had not spoken your name to me. But I shall esteem it a favor if you will go.”

Roger’s face assumed a discontented expression. He knew women well, did this young gentleman, and thought when Michelle so freely expressed a wish for him to accompany her that she did not care a fig whether he went or not. So, although wild horses could scarcely have held him back from that coveted journey in her company, he said debonairly,—

“You are very good. I may yet be forced to change my mind. My corps marches straight to the Rhine. It may be that I ought to march with them.”

Michelle had great command over her expressive face,—all except her black eyes. They told their story to Roger Egremont in spite of her. They said, “Come with me on this journey, I want you,” and Roger, answering them both by look and word, said boldly,—

“After all, mademoiselle, I reckon upon being your escort,” and then a lovely smile dimpled all over Michelle’s face; but it was a sad smile, not a merry one.

Near by, was Madame de Beaumanoir, still talking with Berwick, who liked the old lady’s conversation, and was sometimes jovially accused by Roger of wishing to be the successor of the late duke and peer of France. She was saying,—

“So you go to Paris to-morrow, and so do I and my niece and that sober-sided François. I shall never make anything but a milksop out of him. We go by the river, in a boat engaged for the day, with carpets and cushions, and a collation to be served by my maître d’hôtel. Come you with us.”

And seeing Roger talking with Michelle, the old lady screeched out an invitation to him too.

“’Twill be most agreeable to us,—we shall need to go to Paris to prepare for our journey,—and I think, Mr. Egremont, we may accept the kind invitation of Madame de Beaumanoir,” Berwick replied.

To which Roger agreed joyfully, and when he walked back through the cold and dampness of a grim February night, felt as if he were in heaven. He had indeed preparations to make in Paris, and Berwick’s hint of a good supply of money was most agreeable to him. And he had a duty to perform; he must, of course, go to see Bess Lukens and bid her farewell. This, be it observed, he regarded as a duty, and not strictly a pleasure. He always felt inexpressibly mean when in her company, he knew not why, and it would have been far easier for him to have kept only her memory. But being, with all his faults, of a loyal nature, he could not so ill requite her. In truth, Roger Egremont was better formed for love than friendship with women.

He was no laggard next morning, and he had been fully dressed for an hour when he met Berwick by appointment at the foot of the terrace below the hillside. They walked together briskly toward the river shining in the white light of morning. The fresh meadows were already green, although it was still February, and the air was full of that mysterious resurrection called springtime.

They reached the river, and at the water’s edge lay a boat with rowers, and Madame de Beaumanoir’s maître d’hôtel and other servants,—the ladies were to remain some days in Paris,—and a huge basket containing the collation. And presently the old lady herself was seen coming down the valley, supported by François Delaunay’s arm, and walking demurely behind her was Mademoiselle d’Orantia.

Michelle wore a crimson satin hood and a long furred mantle, for the morning air was sharp. Roger saw welcome in her eyes.

The ladies were assisted into the boat; the rowers took their places; and they began to glide along the winding, steel-blue river. In the boat’s stern, amid cushions and rugs, sat Madame de Beaumanoir. The old lady was in high spirits, and laughed and joked incessantly. Berwick listened gravely, and occasionally delighted Madame de Beaumanoir by his sage observations. Roger would have esteemed himself less than a man if he had not possessed wit enough to place himself close to Michelle. They sat with their backs to the rest of the party, hearing every word, and occasionally joining in the conversation; but, under cover of that incessant stream of chatter from Madame de Beaumanoir, they exchanged words not heard by any but themselves. They passed through the rich, flat valley of the Seine rapidly for their mode of travel; the rowers were many and strong and steady. The country people were at work in the fields, where the freshly turned earth filled the air with its odor,—the promise of fruitfulness to come. The hedges were showing faintly green amid their brown, and the trees, though still bare, were full of swelling buds. The sun shone dazzling bright, and bird-songs filled the air as the singers rioted in the trees and bushes; it was nest-building time.

Roger Egremont, who could never be anything but a countryman, a gentleman of the soil, revelled in all these sights and sounds; he relished them more than all the splendors of Versailles. He looked eagerly to see how they appealed to Michelle, and saw in her dreamy eyes and quiet observation that she, too, heard the sweet language which Nature, the mighty mother, speaks to her own true children. They talked a little; but their words and thoughts were in harmony with the scene before them. It seemed as if both of them had tacitly agreed that time and circumstance were to stand still for them on that day, just as it had for the little time, that August evening, half a year before, when they had walked hand in hand as a shepherd and shepherdess through the woods and fields of St. Germains,—that day they had waked up to the fact that Corydon was Mr. Roger Egremont, a gentleman minus an estate, and living scantily upon the bounty of his exiled master; and Amaryllis was Mademoiselle, the Princess d’Orantia, a person accustomed to courts and likely to have her destiny fixed there. Because they knew this day together was but a dream, it was the sweeter.

“I am glad our journey to Orlamunde is to be in the springtime,” said Michelle, softly. “It will be along country roads, unlike the paved highways I have been used to; for, I tell you, I have never been thirty miles from Paris in my life, and I only know the real country,—the deep forests, and stretches of plains, and the misty mountains, by what I have read of them in books, and the little patches of homely solitude I have seen near this place. I am convinced that Nature is affronted when Art seeks too close acquaintance with her. I do not believe the ancient silent trees like the company of fauns and nymphs, such as they have at Marly and Versailles and all these royal places. It frightens away the real fauns and nymphs.”

“Do you believe in those divinities?” asked Roger, smiling. “I thought I was the only Christian pagan in the world.”

“There you are wrong,” gravely answered Michelle. “All who love the earth as it stands, believe in those divinities. What else mean those strange superstitions of the peasants? Why do they plant their grain on St. Martin’s day, and trim their vines on St. John’s day? Only they give it a Christian significance. They never heard of the great god Pan. We—you and I and our like—hold on to these beautiful shadowy dryads and naiads, as we held on, when we were children, to gnomes and fairies. It is a joyous and sweet deception.”

“I never thought of it in that manner. I grew up so unlettered that I never heard of the great god Pan, nor nymphs, nor dryads. It took another shape with me; I felt as if the solemn trees, and the still, silent fields, and the restless, talkative streams had souls and a meaning; that I could speak to them, and they could speak to me. I often fled far into the solitudes, even when I was a very little lad, to talk with the trees and streams. When I stood under any one of the ancient oaks at Egremont,—for I have fine oaks there, I promise you,—it told me a story of the winters and summers it had seen; that it had known my father when he was a curly headed urchin like myself, nay, that it had seen all those painted people in the hall at Egremont born, grow up, and die, and would see and know as much after I were dead as before I was born. I was ashamed to speak of these things to any one but to my cousin Dicky—Mr. Richard Egremont, now studying at Clermont to be a Jesuit. He lived at the edge of the park when he was a lad, and afterward in the house with me. I wish you knew my cousin Dicky; he is the merriest, honestest fellow—afraid of nothing.”

“If he be so daring, why does he not become a soldier instead of a priest?” asked Michelle.

“Oh, a priest in our England needs to have as much or more courage than a soldier. ’Tis death to a Jesuit to be seen in England; but Dicky will go back, never fear; the Egremonts have their failings, but they are not faint of heart.”

“He will go back with you to Egremont,” said Michelle, with a lovely smile. And Roger answered bravely,—

“Yes, mademoiselle, some day I shall go back, and shall be in better case than most of the gentlemen whose estates have been sequestrated, for mine is in the hands of my bastard brother, as I told you that day in December on the terrace, and he is thrifty,—a bastard needs to be; and I shall find Egremont in good order and prosperous. Then shall I reap the fruits of my brother’s industry.”

As he stopped speaking, they heard a cackle of laughter behind them, and Madame de Beaumanoir was saying to Berwick:—

“Ah, you have something of your uncle Charles about you, and will yet have your fling—like him, the dear rascal! I would not give one such King as he for all your pious, praying, God-forgive-his-enemies Kings in the universe.”

And Berwick laughed at this, to Roger’s amazement, as always; for he never could understand how Berwick, a man without fear and without reproach, should either feel no shame at his origin, or should conceal it so stoically that no man, or woman either, saw the least glimmer of it. Michelle, too, was surprised at Berwick’s cool smile at this wicked pleasantry of the old Duchess, and exchanged a look full of meaning with Roger.

“And as for this journey to Orlamunde,” continued the old lady, “I should not fear in the least to make it with only my servants and François; for although François is nothing more than a lump of clay where good liquor and pretty women are concerned—”

Here François feebly smiled, and Berwick said, with a grin, “Madame, I am informed that Monsieur Delaunay is reckoned a most desperate rake, and that the King and Queen therefore desire him to be removed from their virtuous court.”

“Ah,” sighed Madame de Beaumanoir, “I wish it were true; there is not a man in my family fit to keep up the reputation of it. However, as I told you, I should not be afraid to make this journey alone, having neither youth nor beauty; but I like pleasant company. King Louis, you understand, is mightily obliged to us for going, although he has not seen fit to give me his reasons, and will not until we are fairly on the move for Orlamunde. He palavered much about this, did his Most Christian Majesty, the day I went with my niece to Marly. We saw the King in his cabinet,—old Maintenon, of course, listening with both ears; so I said to him that I hoped he would not send us so far without some good company with us; and when he mentioned you and Roger Egremont, I replied, ‘There are not two pleasanter rogues at St. Germains: Berwick, for all his lantern jaws and solemn ways, has a spice of his blessed uncle in him.’ You should have seen old Maintenon cast up her eyes to heaven; but the King knew; he was not always so prayerful as he is now—” and the old lady gave so unconscionable a wink that neither Berwick nor Roger could refrain from laughing.

At midday, they were half-way to Paris, and stopping for an hour to have dinner, and to stretch their cramped limbs on land, they left the boat. The maître d’hôtel, and the two men-servants with him, laid the cloth upon the grass, under some cedar trees, for the sun was strangely warm for the season, and spreading rugs and cushions on the ground, a sylvan dining-room was made. There was a good dinner and wine, and Roger, after he had done justice to both, rose, and, inviting Michelle by a look, she rose too.

“We will meet you at the bend in the river two miles ahead,” he said, bowing low to Madame de Beaumanoir, as if it had been a preconceived arrangement with Michelle.

“Go on,” she replied, flourishing the wing of a cold fowl at him, “but do not lose your way and find yourself at Verneuil instead of Paris. Young people used to lose their way in my day.”

Roger was glad to note that day in Madame de Beaumanoir a kindness of heart he had not before credited her with. He saw her send some wine and dainty provender to the rowers, who were munching their black bread and cheese; and she gave them time to rest from their arduous toil. The boat was still moored, and the rowers resting, some sleeping, when Roger and Michelle started upon their walk along the river’s brink. The path was very open; scarce a tree or a bush hid them from view along the turning of the bank. Once or twice, they stopped and loitered behind a friendly thicket, and had a delicious sense of being alone, and far from the every-day world. Roger’s heart danced within his breast when he thought that, in the coming journey, he would have many walks like that with Michelle, only more solitary. He did not dream of making open love to her. Apart from the fact that he was, in plain language, a penniless adventurer, there was that hateful, ridiculous, odious, and senseless obstacle,—he was simply a private gentleman, and she a Princess, with some faint and shadowy tinsel of rank which placed her above any private gentleman in Europe. Yet he did not believe that any man, no matter what his rank or title might be, had talked with her on such a footing of equality as he had done.

They walked along leisurely, in the bright sunshine, sometimes talking and sometimes silent; but in those eloquent pauses their eyes met and exchanged thoughts. Roger saw a change in her since that night they had met on the road toward Verneuil. Then she seemed at first sad and desolate of heart, and then wildly gay and excited. Now there was a quiet composure about her. It seemed to Roger Egremont as if this journey involved some resolution,—something which would change her life, and which she accepted with courage and patience, rather than gayety of heart. He thought it involved a long residence out of her own country,—she passionately loved it, as he knew; but that she was sustained by the hope of a return. That it would be long before she would see France again, he knew by what she said as they passed along by the shining river.

“I said a little while ago, in the boat, that I looked forward with sharpest pleasure to those days of travel that are before me. If only the road led into France instead of out of it! Sometimes—oftenest in the night-time—the thought strikes me that I am leaving my own country, and it is like a sword through my heart.”

“I know that grief,” said Roger; “but no one leaves his country without the hope of return—” and then it occurred to him that when he found himself once more at Egremont, Michelle might be very far away. He cast out this rude, interloping thought, however, saying, smiling,—

“When we are in our own land, our King restored to his own, then must all those who have been kind to us in our exile, come to visit us in England. Then will we requite you; and you, mademoiselle, will be among the number; for I am sure Madame de Beaumanoir will land in England along with the King, if she can.”

At which they both laughed, and Michelle said,—

“I think I should like to see my mother’s country—and some day—some day I shall see it.”

And so, in sweet idle talk and sweeter silences, they went along, and, far too soon, they came to the bend in the river where they were to await the boat. It was already near, and then they stepped in it, and were borne steadily on toward Paris.

It grew dusk before they reached Paris. The solemn twilight, falling like magic over land and river and villages, the stars, coming out one by one in the dark blue heavens, as the opaline light died away in the west, subdued them all. It even stopped the clack of Madame de Beaumanoir’s tongue. There was no sound but the regular dip of the oars, the occasional faint cry of a night-bird, or the echo of a dog’s friendly bark as they glided past the quiet villages, now dim in the evening shadows. The silver river turned to a purple blackness; a young moon was delicately and fleetingly reflected in the dark water. It was quite dark when they came upon the streets and quays of Paris. The towers of Notre Dame loomed large in the gloom of night. There were other boats passing them, or going along with them,—some bearing a crowd of roysterers, others returning empty to the villages whence in the morning they had brought supplies for the town; others still, loaded with merchandise, were making their way, slowly and mysteriously along, bound for some distant place, far beyond St. Germains. The streets were still full of people, going from work, and the swinging lanterns, hanging on ropes at the crossings, cast weird and flickering shadows upon the water. They went quite into the heart of the town, landing at the quay on which the Louvre fronted. The vast, unlighted pile looked superhumanly large in the half-light. Berwick, friendly as ever to Roger, assisted Madame de Beaumanoir; while Roger Egremont, in the darkness, held Michelle’s little hand in his while he helped her out, and for a moment after. A coach was in waiting for the ladies, into which they stepped, and rolled off, Madame de Beaumanoir commanding her two young friends to visit her as soon as she returned to St. Germains; they were both to go back the following day.

Roger remained standing in the street until the coach turned the next corner; he caught one more glimpse of Michelle’s fair face and dark eyes before she was lost to his sight.

He sighed heavily. Berwick, without saying anything, clapped him on the shoulder, saying,—

“Come—to our inn—and note how different life will look to thee before a bright fire, with a good supper and honest wine to follow!”

Roger answered him with a dull, forced smile.

They went to a good inn, and had supper, and Roger Egremont, being a very human man after all, recovered his spirits immediately, and laughed and sang, and joined heartily in the toast to the ladies. But he did not mention Michelle’s name, nor any subject of their talk during that long, sweet day. And Berwick, wise gentleman that he was, asked no questions.

Next morning early, they sallied forth, to make the necessary purchases for their journey. Roger, in the rashness of youth, bought a suit of delicate green and gold, with a waistcoat of rose-colored satin; this was for the benefit of the ladies. And he also bought himself a brace of horse-pistols, and a furred body-coat and mantle of black cloth, and a little worn volume of Ronsard’s verses, hiding the book in his breast and saying nothing of it.

In the afternoon he was to go to see Bess Lukens, and at five o’clock he was to meet Berwick at the Porte St. Martin. He wished it were already five o’clock, as he made his way on Merrylegs through the dark and narrow streets toward Papa Mazet’s house. Roger Egremont was a bold man, full of daring; but some of your greatest poltroons where women are concerned are made of these swashbucklers.

As he turned the corner of the street, he came upon Papa Mazet, pottering along with his cane and snuff-box. Roger dismounted to greet him.

“Happy am I to see you, Monsieur Egremont,” cried old Mazet, delighted, “and thank you for bringing that song-bird, Mees Lukens, to Madame Michot’s. She sings all day, ever better and better. Next week, she is to sing at a little concert given for the King by Monseigneur the Dauphin, with the accompaniment of his Majesty’s own band of twenty-four violins. But—” here old Mazet rubbed his nose dubiously, “she has her drawbacks—she has her drawbacks. When she is not singing, she is eternally sweeping, cleaning, brushing, scrubbing, and washing. Between us, I may say to you, my sister and I should be rather better pleased if she would let a few cobwebs and a little dust remain. We are cleaned and dusted until we are half dead sometimes. But Mees Bess has a temper. My God! She has learned to swear in French, and it is truly terrible when she is angry.”

Roger laughed at this.

“She was ever the most tireless worker imaginable. I go now to see her, and I have the honor to bid you farewell, monsieur. In a few days I go on a journey, and then to join the army of the Maréchal de Luxembourg.”

Even as he spoke, the air was flooded with melody from Monsieur Mazet’s house. Trills, like the full-throated song of birds, and roulades like the fall of fountains, echoed musically through the narrow old street, and the sun coming out strong just then, it was as if the darksome place were flooded with light and song. Bess was practising. Roger listened at the door until a pause came, and then knocked loudly.

Bess herself opened the door, and when her eyes lighted upon him, they danced with pleasure.

“Come in, Roger,—I thought you were never coming to see me again,” she cried; and Roger, following her, entered and sat down in the long, low room, full of musical instruments, and with bare, polished floor, where Bess practised her singing. He did not need Monsieur Mazet to tell him of the change that had taken place. The floor shone with wax, and was so slippery that Roger thought his life in jeopardy when he crossed it. The chairs were rubbed bright; there was not a speck on window-pane or woodwork; and every piece of music was in exact order. Dusting and scrubbing were essentials of Bess Lukens’s existence.

“I have good news of you—great news, Bess,” said Roger, kindly.

“Yes,” replied Bess, her face dimpling into smiles, “singing is the easiest work in the world. Next week I am to sing before the King. Papa Mazet is scared out of his five wits; but I a’n’t. Somehow I never can be afraid of these here French. Now if it was before our own blessed King and Queen, there’d be something to be scared about.”

While Bess was speaking, Roger was studying her by comparison. Without doubt, she was one of the handsomest creatures he had ever seen. Hard work had not disfigured her, but had nobly developed her. The life she was now leading had refined her beauty. It was of that rich and luscious sort that appeals frankly to all, like a gorgeous full-blown rose. But Roger remembered a woman whose beauty was elusive, and of whom he could not say, as of Bess Lukens, that all the world could see all her beauty. Bess had a deep, deep dimple in either cheek, which showed beautifully when she laughed. Michelle had only a very faint one in her delicate, pale face, and when she laughed, it was more with her eyes than her mouth. However, Bess knew nothing of what was passing in Roger’s mind. She only saw him kind, interested, not ashamed of his friendship with her. She talked on gayly,—

“And you see how I have cleaned up,” she said, pointing around proudly; “and I look after the butcher and the green-grocer too; and you ought to hear me scold ’em! My voice always was pretty loud; but ’tis louder than ever now, and when I give ’em the rough side of my tongue, you’d think it was a Dutch trooper. I make the monsieurs shake in their shoes. On the whole, I think no girl of my condition is as fortunate as me; for Papa and Mamma Mazet never speak a hard word to me; and I am doing what I like best in the world,—to sing; and nobody but yourself and your cousin, Mr. Richard Egremont, know that I am Red Bess, the niece of Lukens, the turnkey; and I know neither one of you will ever betray me. By the way, would not Mr. Richard come to see me sometimes, if he be in Paris?”

“No doubt, with pleasure,” replied Roger; “but Dicky, you know, is a seminarist yet, and does not often leave Clermont; although, he being English, and having relations and friends at St. Germains, they sometimes let him go there.”

“I know,” replied Bess, with something like a sniff, “I know he is to be a popish priest; and he, a good-looking young chap as might have his own way with the ladies.”

Roger laughed.

“Come now, Roger,” cried Bess, “you can’t deny ’tis a monstrous queer thing to do. I’ve seen some of them Jesuits in Newgate, and I never saw one that I didn’t think had sense and learning enough to have kept out, if he had wanted to. But I like Mr. Dicky, for all his popery; and as I have no friends but French friends, except yourself, I’d like to have another English friend in Mr. Richard Egremont.”

“I’ll tell him all you say,” said Roger, laughing; and then growing serious, he continued,—

“It would make me easier at heart if you had Dicky for a friend; because I go away shortly for a soldier, with my corps, and some of us will not come back.”

The blood dropped suddenly out of Bess’s rosy face: but she said quite steadily,—

“You go to England?”

“Alas, no! I go first upon a journey to the Rhine, and then join the army of the Maréchal de Luxembourg.”

“And with whom go you upon this journey?”

“With the Duke of Berwick,” replied Roger; and then, knowing she must soon find out all the particulars in a place where all the world gossiped, he added desperately, “We accompany the Duchess de Beaumanoir and her niece, Mademoiselle d’Orantia, to Orlamunde, in the Rhine land.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes as he spoke, and saw in them fear and reproach. Yet she only said,—

“Mademoiselle d’Orantia was the lady you made hay with in the meadow?”

And Roger answered readily,—

“Yes, the Princess Michelle d’Orantia; she will make hay with a private gentleman for amusement, but she thinks him not her equal; so I go humbly in her suite to Orlamunde.”

Bess’s face did not clear. Her nimble wit told her that Roger meant to convey that Michelle was too highly placed for him to aspire to her hand; but that did not mean in the least that he might not love her desperately. Bess knew that it was quite possible to love beyond one’s station. She said nothing; but the rippling stream of her talk and laughter were stopped. And Roger, to carry the war into the enemy’s camp, said,—

“Perhaps, when I return, I shall find you married; that would not seem strange to the rest of the world, but it would seem strange to me.”

Roger could not part from any pretty woman without infusing a dash of sentiment into the parting.

“La!” cried Bess, suddenly recovering herself, “I wouldn’t marry a monsieur, unless he was to let me wash him all over, every day; for if he promised me he’d do it, as like as not he’d lie about it. I like a clean man, and ’tis the great fault of these French folks that they a’n’t in love with soap and water. You haven’t told me to keep honest; well, that mark I gave you on your forehead speaks for itself.”

“Truly it does, my dear. I never thought of telling you to keep honest.”

“And you will let me hear from you sometimes?”

“I will without fail. Go you to St. Germains, when occasion serves, and when you are a great singer, pay your respects to our King and Queen and little Prince.”

“That I will. The King, I take it, is a mighty foolish old person. First, he ran away from England without cause, and has been trying to get back ever since. But he is my King and yours, and nobody is a better Jacobite than Bess Lukens, and I hate the Whigs worse and worse.”

“Keep on hating them; ’tis very wholesome.”

Then, it was time for him to go, and rising, he said to her,—

“Good-bye, Bess. I pray you to remember me, and reckon me first among your friends.”

Then, holding each other’s hands, they parted solemnly and affectionately, Bess saying,—

“Roger, of all the people in the world, you are the best friend I have, and I love you honestly, as you love me; so good-bye, and God keep you.”

She tiptoed and kissed his forehead near the scar she had given him, and Roger, lifting her shapely but coarse hand to his lips, kissed it as if it were the hand of a duchess; and that was their parting.