The House of Egremont

THE party did not leave Châlons until the sun had come out, which was after midday. Berwick, as usual, rode with Michelle. She trusted and admired him as all discerning women did, and often asked herself if the little Prince of Wales would ever be half the man his tall, taciturn, half-brother was. And Berwick, knowing, as Roger did not, what was before her, felt for her a profound pity and esteem.

“We shall have but a short day’s journey,” she said, when the spires of Châlons had melted from their view and they were riding, a little in advance of the chaise, on a good highroad.

“But,” she added, “I think I do not care how short the day’s journey is, for it makes the time longer that I shall be in France. I never knew how much I loved my country until I made ready to leave it.”

“’Tis the best country in the world to strangers,” cried Berwick, gallantly, “but, mademoiselle, no country is like one’s own. The bread which is given to exiles, albeit the kindest and readiest hand in the world that gives it, has ever a bitter taste. The clothes that are bought with another’s money never have any warmth in them. If it were not for hope all of us at St. Germains would have died long ago.”

“You at St. Germains have not so tiresome a time as the gentlemen and ladies at Marly,” said Michelle, smiling. “At least you have the unchanging favor of your King. At Marly every one wants something and works—how they work!—for it. In winter’s cold and summer’s heat, in illness, in weariness of body and spirit, yet they work, work, work! You are not so worn out at St. Germains.”

“True,” said Berwick, with his grave smile. “The French court calls for ten times the patience and assiduity we ever needed at St. James’s. And some of us—the younger ones—take things joyously at St. Germains, for we all hope to be restored to our own. Even our friend Egremont plumes himself that his estate will be worth more when he gets it back into his hand than when it was torn from him.”

As Berwick spoke Roger’s name, a blush kindled all over the creamy cheeks of Michelle. Berwick was sorry for her at that moment. She shook her bridle-reins and quickened her horse’s pace, and no more was said of Roger.

It was late in the sunny afternoon before they reached Vitry. When they clattered up to the entrance of the courtyard of the Three Roses, Roger was waiting for them. As soon as Michelle drew rein, Roger stepped forward, and without regarding the rights of Berwick, who had the privilege, as the gentleman riding with her, of lifting the Princess Michelle from her horse, swung her to the ground. And again Michelle blushed.

Madame de Beaumanoir and François were close behind. The landlord, bowing to the ground, was at hand, and supper was ordered at once.

There is something in change and movement which makes almost any inn tolerable for a night, and the life they were leading was novel to all of them except Berwick. Their supper, in Madame de Beaumanoir’s room, served by the landlord himself, with the maître d’hôtel to stand between him and the old Duchess, was gay as usual. When it was over, the young moon was high in the sky of night, which was still ineffably blue and clear.

Roger began to urge Madame de Beaumanoir to walk out and see the old castle by moonlight. Madame de Beaumanoir pleaded fatigue, rheumatism, old age. Roger answered these objections by producing from somewhere about the inn, an ancient and moth-eaten sedan chair, in which the old lady, with screams of laughter, ensconced herself.

“And you, mademoiselle, will go too?” he asked of Michelle.

“With pleasure,” she replied.

Roger looked at Berwick, who shook his head, as much as to say, “Manage this campaign by yourself, my fine fellow!”

François had bought a volume of sermons at Châlons, which he had carefully concealed from Madame de Beaumanoir, and was dying to read, so he relieved them of his company; and Madame de Beaumanoir, with two chairmen carrying her, set forth, Roger and Michelle walking by the window of the chair, and pointing out the beauties of the little town, lying still and quiet in the moonlight, which cast its mysterious charm over all the scene. When they reached the point where the castle rose before them, its silvered battlements shining in the light of moon and stars, they rested under a tree in a little open place surrounded by gardens. Madame de Beaumanoir, as soon as her chair was set down, put her head out of the window, and entered into a discourse, lasting half an hour or more, concerning a certain moonlight water party at Hampton Court in which the blessed King Charles figured in the usual manner. When she had finally reached the end of her tale, she looked about her. Both of the chairmen were asleep, and Roger and Michelle were nowhere in sight. Madame de Beaumanoir scolded her chairmen until they were broad-awake, but there was no finding the deserters. Those two renegades had walked off, Michelle scarce knowing what she did, except that the moonlight was sweet, and that Roger’s voice was very seductive when he said,—

“There is a very noble tower which can be seen if you will but come a few yards away.”

The few yards away was a considerable distance; and when they found themselves alone, under a hedge, with the gray mass of the old castle looming up before them in dreamlike beauty, the two poor souls forgot everything but each other. They spoke little, but under all Roger said lurked something that told of the passion within him. She was Mademoiselle the Princess d’Orantia, and he was simply Mr. Egremont, a gentleman who had not so much as a pair of boots, except what he might win with his sword. Obviously love should never so much as be thought of between them; but—perversity governs the world. And this vast inequality between them disappeared when they stood alone together in the moonlight, Michelle’s eyes, the only feature she knew not how to control, looking at poor Roger with a world of meaning in their soft depths. Her eyes were dark and deep and changing, like the Dark Pool at Egremont, in which were mirrored night and day, clouds and sunshine, darkness and light; it was never the same for an hour together.

And sweet moments like these must be many before they reached Orlamunde; and after that—well, a campaign was coming; a soldier with his sword could cut his way through a forest of obstacles. So thought Roger.

They were roused from their dream in Paradise by Madame de Beaumanoir’s voice in the distance, cutting the air like a knife. They ran back, like a couple of school children caught playing truant,—the bold Roger Egremont as meek and apologetic as François Delaunay could have been.

“A pretty cavalier you are!” bawled the old lady to Roger on one side of her chair, “leaving me in the lurch like this. I warrant your father, for all his faults, poor man, and he had a plenty, would never have been so rude. Nor would those worthless Sandhills Egremonts have so used me. Let me tell you, young man, you have a great deal to learn yet, nor do I see any great aptitude in you!”

Roger bore this assault on himself and his family with exemplary and silent patience. It was then Michelle’s turn.

“And you, miss, call you this proper to go off for a couple of hours,”—it had been a scant half-hour—“with a gentleman in this manner? What if at Orlamunde—”

“Madam, madam,” implored Roger, “I alone am to blame; this young lady is perfectly innocent.”

“I know it,” snapped Madame de Beaumanoir. “Everybody is always perfectly innocent in cases like this.”

“If I were Monsieur François Delaunay,” continued Roger, recovering his spirits slightly, “would you so belabor me for being a little too gallant to a charming young lady, like Mademoiselle d’Orantia?”

“Oh, François, he is a sheep of a man, if you please; he has no red blood in him.”

Roger managed, however, to keep Madame de Beaumanoir’s denunciations directed toward himself, and they returned to the inn, the old lady rating him soundly the whole way. When they arrived at the door, Berwick and François were awaiting them.

Michelle escaped to her room, while Madame de Beaumanoir, standing under the swinging lantern in the doorway, gave Roger a new and complete scolding in French, as she had done in English, the chairmen and porters standing around and grinning, Berwick urging her on, and supplying fuel for the fire of her wrath, François mutely sympathetic, and Roger, hat in hand, in speechless humility. When at last she retired, leaving Roger to the tender mercies of Berwick, he registered a vow before high Heaven that never would he give cause for offence to Madame de Beaumanoir again, if he should live to be a thousand years old.

The next day they made Bar-sur-Aube, and in a day or two more they were climbing the rough sides of the mountains of the Vosges.

In the pleasant champagne country it had been spring, with a glint of summer, but in the Vosges they returned to winter. The air was sharp and cold, the inns were far apart and comfortless. The streams, swollen by the melting snow and the spring rains, had in many cases washed the bridges away. The travellers were delayed at many rivers, and sometimes passed days in wretched houses of entertainment, and once even in a charcoal-burner’s hut. They were two weeks in crossing the mountain ranges.

But they were two happy weeks to Egremont and Michelle, in spite of rain and wind and cold and privations.

Roger’s little volume of Ronsard’s poems was a delight to him. He wished the chance to read those passionate, sweet poems to Michelle, and cunningly contrived it, by taking the volume out of his breast when he knew Michelle was observing him, and reading it as he jogged along on Merrylegs. Of course, a woman must know what a man is reading whenever she sees a book in his hand. Roger always replaced his dear Ronsard with an ostentatious show of secrecy, in his breast, as soon as he saw Michelle’s attention openly fixed on him. It was not long before she asked him what book was that he read so often and seemed so anxious to conceal.

“A book, madam, in which you would take no interest. Yet will I show it to you if you really wish to see it.”

This was most vexatious. She really wished to see it, but she really did not wish to acknowledge this. But Roger deliberately putting the book back into his breast, Michelle could not forbear asking to see it. She assumed a careless tone, but that did not deceive Roger. At once her eyes sparkled.

“Dear Ronsard!” she cried; “I ever loved him!” and then she began to read some of his verses, and stopped with a conscious blush.

“Let me read you something that I love,” said Roger; and turning the leaves at random, he found a stanza full of sentiment, which he read so meaningly that the color deepened in Michelle’s usually pale cheeks.

After that, Roger took a mean advantage of her admission that she loved Ronsard, and often, when they were riding alone together, would he read to her from that poet of the heart—and read so well that it was plain Pierre Ronsard was speaking for Roger Egremont. The volume was a kind of talisman. With it Roger could at will bring the blood surging into Michelle’s fair face, make her glance sidewise at him with a tell-tale light in her eyes, and render her blind and deaf to all except the poet’s magical words.

The very happiest time of all was three days of storm they spent in the charcoal-burner’s hut. It was new to them both to see a storm-swept mountain forest, the wind roaring along the rocky gorges, bearing down the sturdy pines and larches in its madness, and wrapping sky and mountains in a shroud of black rain and mist. Roger and Michelle watched it together from the one unglazed window of the hut, and were lost in admiration at the beauty and fury of the tempest. They were safe in the little secluded place where the charcoal-burner had built his rude shelter. The ladies slept in the hut, the gentlemen lodged in the chaise. The servants slept in a hut still poorer and ruder, a short distance off. There was food and a plenty of good wine, thanks to the maître d’hôtel, and the gentlefolks rather liked their strange experience. The servants grumbled much. On the third night, when the dun clouds that almost rested on the tree-tops had drifted sullenly southward, and the angry wind had been soothed, the full moon came out gloriously. Roger was not indiscreet enough to propose to Michelle a prospect of the scene by moonlight; his recollection of the moonlight at Vitry was too recent and too poignant. But going out of the hut, where by the light of a single candle Madame de Beaumanoir with Berwick and François played primero, he cast a sly and meaning glance back at Michelle.

When he had been gone five minutes and the old duchess was deep in her game, Michelle rose, and wrapping her cloak in which she had sat more closely about her, opened the door silently and slipped out. Leaning against the door-post was Roger Egremont.

“Look, mademoiselle,” he said; “the trees are so still—so still, and so white on their tops, and so black under their branches; and listen—you can hear the singing of a dozen waterfalls.”

Michelle listened, and the voices of the falling waters made the night musical.

“You will see many nights like this,” she said, “but I shall not. Remember me sometimes when you are in a lonely mountain place like this, and something recalls this spot.”

“Remember you!” replied Roger, in a low voice, and said no more; but he looked at her hard in the bright moonlight and saw what he wished to see in her melting eyes. He took her little warm hand in his; he needed not to speak, and the hand he held fluttered, but made no effort to escape.

“And will you think of me sometimes at Orlamunde?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, in a strange voice, “I shall; you may depend upon it.”

“And when you hear that I have got a step in promotion, or better still, that we are restored to our own in our own country, then look to hear shortly from Roger Egremont, for not a moment will I lose in writing you first and seeking you afterward.”

Roger had not meant to go so far, but when a gentleman has got this distance there is not much farther for him to travel. But at this moment Michelle withdrew her hand, and suddenly disappeared, so suddenly indeed that Roger looked about him amazed, and could not imagine how quickly and silently she must have opened the door of the hut and gone in; for that was what he thought she had done. He waited five minutes, and then himself opened the door, and entering looked about him, expecting to see Michelle. There was no sign of her, however, although he carefully explored every corner by the dim light of the candle. There was but one room, with no loft or other place of concealment. Madame de Beaumanoir was far too deep in her game to notice any one. François had left off playing and was half asleep, after having been well scolded for his inattention half a dozen times that evening. Berwick flashed an inquiring look at Roger, and Roger shook his head, and disappeared as silently as he had come in.

Outside he saw that it was far easier for Michelle to disappear unseen around the corner of the little hut than to go inside, and wondered at his own stupidity in seeking her there. And he was deeply vexed and his masculine self-love was wounded at the moment she had chosen to leave him.

The place was in the heart of the forest, with only a small spot cleared about it. Bright as the moon shone, all was black under the branches of the solemn larches and firs. Roger walked about, listening intently for the fluttering sound of Michelle’s dress, or her light footstep. He made a circle around the hut, calling softly at intervals, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Where are you?” But there was no response except the dashing of the water over the rocks in the distance, and the occasional lonely cry of an owl that complained to the moon. Roger began to feel annoyed and even a little alarmed. What business had Michelle to go off in that manner, in a forest by night? She might very well be lost for a time, even for the whole night. And there were wolves about—the charcoal-burner had told of seeing them every winter. As this dreadful thought struck him, Michelle’s soft voice, just at his elbow, caught his ear.

“Are you looking for me, Mr. Egremont?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Roger, turning to her. They were in a bright patch of moonlight, and he could see her quite well. He was vexed with her, and he showed it.

“You have alarmed me much by going off alone. I have been searching for you for the last half-hour.”

“Forgive me the trouble I have caused you,” she said, walking toward the hut and looking back at him. Her cloak was around her, but her dark head was bare, and her eyes shone with strange brilliancy.

“I am a very unhappy woman, Mr. Egremont, and, I fear, a guilty one. I came upon this journey to do my duty to my King and to my country, but I am afraid I shall do both more harm than good by my coming, and as for myself and you—ah, I have done infinite harm! We shall both be miserable for the rest of our lives, perhaps.”

Roger, following her, was stupefied by her language. She was usually the most intelligible of women, and although she often spoke playfully, no one made the meaning of words clearer than Mademoiselle d’Orantia—this woman renowned for her wit and address. Miserable and guilty! What inexplicable words for her to use! And to tell him so plainly that he was linked with that guilt and misery of which she spoke! It made his heart pound against his ribs,—the mere thought of it.

He walked rapidly, and catching up with her, cried, “Mademoiselle, I do not understand;” but she walked so fast and turned her head away so persistently that he could not get another word out of her, and presently they came to the door of the hut, and Roger signing to her to enter first, she went in and left him alone.

Roger remained outside in the chilly night for a time, puzzled and troubled and intoxicated by her words. But presently in his man’s mind came the reflection that women were, after all, fanciful and sensitive creatures, of whom the greatest wits among them were likely to be the most fanciful and sensitive. A man would be a fool who would take them quite literally. Unhappy and guilty—yes, they called themselves unhappy when they missed receiving a love-letter, and wept and raved over trifles, while they could bear the loss of fortune, of health, all that makes life endurable, with smiling composure. And Michelle would call herself guilty if she committed a peccadillo which a man would reckon at not a pin’s consequence; and Roger knew women well enough to recall that the very best of them can, under love or hate, commit deeds of which the mere thought would make a man’s hair to rise on his head.

So, having recovered somewhat from his first dismay, he presently entered the hut. The game was over. Madame de Beaumanoir was wigging François for not having brought some extra packs of cards with him. Berwick sat on a settle by the fireside, and Michelle was by his side. He was speaking to her kindly, very kindly, and she listened to him with a smile upon her pale lips, but with an expression of so much misery in her dark eyes that it gave Roger a shock.

Directly they were separating for the night. The three gentlemen had ensconced themselves in the chaise, and muffled themselves in their cloaks. In five minutes François was snoring. Then Roger said in a low voice to Berwick,—

“When a woman says she is miserable and guilty, I take it she has the vapors—or—or—is in love with a man and cannot see her way to marry him directly. Is not that your opinion?”

“With most women, yes. With all women, no. If Mademoiselle d’Orantia said she was miserable and guilty, I should take it seriously.”

With this for a nightcap, Roger Egremont spent the night.

Next morning it was clear and bright, and they began the descent of the mountains. At every stage they came nearer the springtime.

When, after some days’ travel, they reached the valley of the Moselle, it was full spring, with all its glories. They had then been three weeks on their way.

Michelle had been as sweet, as kind to Roger, as ever she was,—nay, sweeter and kinder. But Roger saw that she avoided, with the utmost art, being alone with him for a moment. This made him receive her kindness somewhat sullenly; he thought a lady who had showed him so much favor as Michelle had done that night at the charcoal-burner’s hut contracted a debt to him of more of the same good treatment. Nevertheless, finding in a contest of wit between them that Michelle was his superior in finesse, he concluded to take his defeats good-humoredly. One thing was certain, he could not say any more to her, or to any woman, concerning his love, than what he had already said, for was he not, so far, a mere gentleman adventurer? But he had a campaign before him, under a fighting general, and what might he not accomplish, even in a single campaign? Roger Egremont was of a sanguine nature, which helped him over many of the rough places in life, and he was far too much of a man to think that life was to be spent in Arcady. Rather did he incline to make the most of those bright hours, such as he had known upon that blessed journey, because they were so fleeting—and so fleeting because they were so golden.

They were nearing the end of their travel, and Roger remembered that the principality of Orlamunde lay between the Rhine and the Moselle and they were then in the beautiful Moselle country. They followed a straight course, crossing many times the bright, winding river, that now hides all its loveliness in dark woods, and then reveals it all in fair fields and meadows. The season was far advanced, the vineyards were sprouting. Nature daily and hourly performed miracles of change and beauty before their eyes.

At last, on a heavenly April evening, toward sunset, they caught sight, from a wooded height, of a distant silver thread. It was the Rhine.

They spurred forward. Michelle had carried out her promise, and had made the whole journey from France in her saddle, and was then riding between Roger and Berwick. She looked at Berwick and said in a strange voice, “Yonder is the Rhine.”

“And Orlamunde but five miles away from this spot,” replied Berwick.

Roger turned in his saddle to survey the country they had just passed over. It was one of those moments when he realized that there was something in this expedition known to all but him and it gave him discomfort.

In a little while they reached a small but comfortable inn, with a little wood behind it and a charming garden in front of it, and shielding it from the highroad. They seemed to be expected, for the landlord himself bustled out to receive them, the best rooms in the house were prepared for them, and even dressed with flowers, and the best supper the inn could furnish was awaiting them, together with wines of the best vintages of the Rhine and the Moselle. Roger did not pay great attention to this,—the baggage wagon and servants had arrived some hours in advance, and there had been time to make preparations for so large a party.

After the supper, served by the landlord himself with many smirks and bows, the ladies, with their three cavaliers, went out into the garden sweet and gay, to watch the sunset after a day so fair and bright, and Michelle then said to Roger,—

“Mr. Egremont, will you not sing to us the whole of that song of exile composed by Captain Ogilvie, the Irish gentleman? I think it the very sweetest air and charmingest words I ever heard.”

And Roger, blushing with delight, went to the inn, and borrowing an old Spanish guitar, on which he could thrum a little, returned and sang with much taste, although with no great voice, that song beloved of the exiles,—

Roger put so much feeling into what he sang that it touched every heart, and Michelle’s eyes filled with tears, at which Roger’s grew bright with triumph. And suddenly Madame de Beaumanoir’s voice cut the air,—

“Now that we have reached within five miles of Orlamunde we can talk openly about the affair which brings us all here. I love to talk of things I know, and it has been a mortal trial to me to hold my tongue, especially as we all know the whole thing except Mr. Egremont.”

Roger rose instantly, polite, but a little disconcerted. He supposed that the secret affair was some political measure connected with the relations of France and the little principality of Orlamunde, and the measure the King had confided to the ladies and to Berwick. François Delaunay knew it, but that was natural enough, considering that he was the ostensible protector of his aunt and cousin on their journey.

Roger made a good excuse for leaving the company; he must go and look after Merrylegs. The faithful beast showed some signs of fatigue, and must be attended to by his master, and not by a hireling.

Roger remained away a long time. He wished not to intrude himself until much time for discussion had passed. He walked about the fields, and always in the direction of the Rhine, so that he saw the river quite plainly. The evenings were long, and although the moon did not now rise till past midnight, the sky was bright with opaline light, and a star or two shone beautifully in the western horizon. It was nearly eight o’clock when he turned homeward, and it was an hour before the lights of the inn came in sight.

As he was passing through the little wood which lay behind the garden of the inn, he was surprised to see Michelle standing under the trees. He went up to her, saying,—

“The beauty of the evening tempted me to go afar.”

“And you left us free to discuss the affair which brought us here. Ah, Mr. Egremont, you are not a man to deceive, even when you try.”

“It was very right that I should leave you, mademoiselle,” replied Roger, courteously; and then, catching sight of Michelle’s face, he said,—

“I hope that your errand here will be for your happiness.”

“It will not,” she said calmly, “for my errand is to marry the Prince of Orlamunde.”

Although it was night, and there was no moon, yet could Roger Egremont see the Princess Michelle’s face plainly, and she could see his. At first he was so dazed by her words that he looked like a man suddenly struck a blow from behind, but quickly his countenance changed as his consciousness began to work of itself. The Prince of Orlamunde! Was he old or young? Was he a comely man or a hunchback? Was he marrying her for love, or was she being sold in a market? All these thoughts came roaring and rushing through his mind at once. Was she marrying for love? Ah, no. He knew the answer to that. He remembered that night by the charcoal-burner’s hut; those days together; those times when she recalled to him words that he had spoken, mentioning the very day and hour and place when they had passed his lips. And the thought brought rage quick and strong. All the time she was amusing herself with him,—mere soldier of fortune that he was, with a long sword and a short purse; and he had told her all—all—all,—confessions about his behavior in Newgate gaol, things that he had been ashamed to tell any human being—and she was laughing at him all the while, and going to marry the Prince of Orlamunde, princeling of a territory scarce as big as the estate of Egremont,—living, no doubt, in a kind of sixpenny magnificence, selling his country to the French King for a hundred louis d’or a month, perhaps. Oh, what a wretch must that Prince of Orlamunde be!

Michelle, watching his changing face growing dark with wrath, thought, as she had done more than once, how anger disfigured him. He was a dashing and personable man when the world went well with him, but let him but be crossed, and he was positively ugly.

He turned on her after a while, saying impudently,—

“Let me felicitate you, Mademoiselle d’Orantia. No doubt you are making a very splendid marriage. I understood before leaving France that the Prince of Orlamunde had an army,—a whole regiment, I am told,—which both the King of France and the Prince of Orange are chaffering for. You will live in a palace, have ladies-in-waiting, and a paraphernalia not quite so grand as that of the Queen of France, but something like it. And there will be Maintenons and Montespans, most likely—”

Roger stopped. The devil that had got hold of him in Newgate prison and had made a beast of him was now clawing him, but some spark of the gentleman in him checked his insults to a woman.

“You are quite right in all you say,” replied Michelle, in a thrilling voice. “And I shall hate it all, as you know,—the trumpery state, the small politics. I know of no woman who can bear them more ill than I. But a greater misery than all has befallen me. I go to be the wife of the Prince of Orlamunde when I love you, Roger Egremont, and would rather be your wife with nothing but the clothes upon my back than to be the Queen of France. And I am an ambitious woman too. And until we made this journey together I actually thought with pleasure of being Princess of Orlamunde.”

Roger felt his knees giving way under him. There was a bench near the tree where they stood, and he sat down upon it. Michelle stood up before him, straight and slim in the half-light. The sky was now full of stars, and by their pale splendor he could see every look that passed over her speaking face.

“But if you love me,” he stammered, “it is not yet too late.”

“Yes, it is too late.”

The echo of her words was indescribably melancholy; a night-bird’s sad cry quivering through the trees seemed like its echo.

“Yes, it is too late. To-morrow the Prince sends his people to meet me here, and then next day the marriage takes place. Of course there is a bargain in the matter. The King of France wishes certain things of the Prince of Orlamunde. The Prince demanded not only money, but a wife from France, and I, poor unfortunate that I am, agreed to be the sacrifice. I thought it great and noble to immolate myself for my King, but that was before I loved you. Now it is too late to turn back; even Berwick has gently warned me of this when he saw with what a heart of stone I come to Orlamunde. But after all, what does the happiness or misery of one woman matter? It is only the eternal passing. If I had known happiness, it would have been gone from me; none can keep it. And, at least, I have had some moments of perfect joy with you. They were few and short, but many people live through a long life without ever knowing one moment’s complete joy.”

Roger sat listening eagerly and angrily to every word, and then he burst forth,—

“But why did you bring me upon this devilish journey?”—the evil spirit in him making him think first of his own humiliation. “Berwick, the Duchess, François Delaunay, even the maître d’hôtel,—ha! ha!—must have seen how it was with me.” Roger rose and struck his forehead.

“It is that I am a very bad woman,” replied Michelle. “Berwick suggested you, and I said no word. But, at least, I did not then know all my feelings for you, all of yours for me. I said to myself: ‘This poor English gentleman is the only man who ever pleased my fancy; why not indulge myself with his company?’ You see you are not the only selfish one. You think now only of your pain. I thought only of my pleasure. And then—I know not how—from that morning in the Cathedral at Meaux, or perhaps before—only, I had not spent two full days in your company before I knew how it was with me. And now let there be no more pretence between us. Do not reckon me to be the best woman that lives; you are quite as good a man as I am a woman. It is a continual danger for us to be together. Reckon on your own strength, and know that mine is no greater. We must part. I have done wrong enough both to you and to the Prince of Orlamunde; not that it really distresses me to think of him,—I told you I am not a very good woman; his sufferings would not give me much pain. Yours would drive me to distraction if I saw them. So I must not see them. There are but two more days, as I told you. I am to reach Orlamunde to-morrow and be married the next day, and then you must go. On the day after to-morrow,—do you understand?—we part, never to meet again. Two more sunrises, two more sunsets, two more nights of pain, and everything will be over.”

Roger remained silent. She had ever an eloquent and persuasive tongue, and as she spoke, the searching melancholy of her eyes, the ineffable sadness of her voice cut him to the heart. After a pause she continued,—

“It is very hard for you, but these things are not to men what they are to women. It is much harder for me. I shall have a husband whom I hate and who will hate me, for I foresee it; I have a presentiment at this moment. But I deserve it, having done much to bring this shame and sorrow on us both.”

After having cruelly and selfishly blamed and insulted her, Roger suddenly changed; he thought of her only as a lamb soon to be handed over to the wolf. He rose, and opening his arms wide, cried, “You have brought me to the gates of Paradise, and have shown me the glory of the beauty within, and then have thrust me away. But you have the heavier part, the heavier part!”

And then their lips met and their souls rushed together. Time ceased for them. When they slowly came back to the world about them and saw the pitying stars shining overhead, and heard again the night-bird’s melancholy call, Michelle retreated from him.

“I have, indeed, the heavier part,” she said, bursting into tears. “Besides losing you, I can never see my own country again. I can never be free from a husband I hate already, and I have never seen him. I shall not find here one single friend; that my soul tells me. Truly, am I punished.”

“But, at least,” cried Roger, approaching her as she withdrew herself, weeping, from him, “We have had, as you say, some days of happiness; we have had some moments—that night outside the hut in the mountains, this minute just past,—when we have known ecstasy. Neither the Prince of Orlamunde nor heaven nor hell can rob us of that!”

As he spoke, she turned and fled from him. He took a step forward and then checked himself. He saw her slight figure flitting through the trees, and then she disappeared in the darkness of the night toward the inn.

Soon afterward Berwick, sitting at a table examining a map in the common room, which was on the ground-floor of the little inn, heard the door open behind him, and Michelle, like a ghost, passed noiselessly through the room. As Berwick respectfully rose she halted involuntarily. She was as white as death, and she passed her hand over her face with an unconscious gesture of despair; then going upon her way he heard her mount the stairs. She went quickly half-way up, then stopped.

“Can I assist you, mademoiselle?” asked Berwick from the foot of the stairs.

“No, I thank you; no one at all can be of the least assistance to me,” replied Michelle’s voice from the dark stairway. In pity Berwick left her and returned to his maps.

It was close on to midnight when Roger Egremont returned. Berwick had become so interested in his maps and a memorandum he was writing that he had forgotten all else for the time, and when Roger came forward Berwick began to speak as if all that had been passing in his mind was already known to Roger.

“Look at this,” he cried. “If we can secure these two places and fortify them as we should, we can make the passage of the Rhine at our pleasure, and halt any enemy who comes over on our side within a hundred miles. I shall not, however, trust this Prince of Orlamunde’s word for the work being done, but I shall make the drawings myself, as the King of France authorized me, and send a trusty person in three months to see that all is properly done, and that he does not take our mortars to defend his capital. The whole town could be planted in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.”

Berwick stopped. Roger had come forward naturally enough and seated himself to inspect the map, but his face looked as pale and strange as Michelle’s had looked.

“What ails you, man?” asked Berwick, kindly, laying his hand on Roger’s shoulder.

“I have had a blow,” replied Roger, breathing heavily. “I feel it very much now; but I shall be myself to-morrow, never fear. Now show me the drawings.”

Berwick said not a word, but showed the maps, talked, and explained things far more than was his wont. Roger Egremont, usually the more talkative of the two, spoke not a single word. Occasionally his eyes, commonly so bright and clear, now dull and expressionless, wandered uneasily about the room. When a neighboring church clock struck one, Berwick rose.

“Come,” he said, “a man must sleep sometimes. We shall be awake betimes in the morning. All of Orlamunde will be here to meet the Princess Michelle. She is to marry the Prince, you know.”

Berwick turned his back as he spoke to Roger, and went up the narrow stair.

Roger had a little room over Berwick’s head, and under the sloping roof. All night long Berwick heard him tossing and groaning and muttering. At daylight he became quiet, and Berwick, whose rest he had much disturbed, fell into a deep sleep. From this he was awakened at eight o’clock by the sound of merry music, the clang of horns and trumpets, and the songs of maidens. The peasants around about had made bold to salute the young lady who was to become the bride of their Prince. Berwick saw from his window Michelle, beautifully dressed, standing on a little balcony, bathed in the white light of a lovely morning; she was kissing her hand to a flock of merry peasant girls who were flinging down spring flowers before her—anemones, the sweet narcissus, jonquils and crocus and violets—and singing verses made for the occasion. She was smiling and gracious—for was she not, the very next day, to marry their Prince?