The House of Egremont

ROGER EGREMONT had by 1698 acquired a presentiment that by the sword alone should he prosper. At the peace, in 1697, he was more fortunate than those deserving men who found themselves shut out of the reduced military establishment, and forced to accept that dole of five, ten, or twenty pistoles which poor James Stuart, with tears in his eyes, gave to them wrapped in small pieces of paper, as he sat in his closet at St. Germains. Under the reorganization, Berwick was given a regiment of foot, made out of the Irish brigade, and in this regiment was Roger Egremont, reduced, however, from major, in the war establishment, to captain again. In two years he had not once seen Berwick. Roger had been with his regiment in Flanders, not caring again to revisit France. He had heard, however, several times from Berwick, now a sober married man; brief, naive letters, earnest in friendship, and unconsciously betraying, what his world already knew, that in the society of the beautiful, kind, graceful, and charming Honora de Burgh, Berwick’s noble and tender heart had found perfect happiness. He had a son,—a boy, beautiful like his mother. Then Roger heard, through others, that this sweet wife of Berwick’s was fading away in consumption; and in the winter of 1698 she breathed her last.

Within a month Roger received a letter from Berwick. It read:—

Roger was at Compiègne when he got this letter. He replied at once, agreeing to it. His leave was arranged without trouble, and in March he found himself at St. Germains, to meet Berwick, and to pay his respects to his King and Queen.

St. Germains was always a haunted place to him. He had not heard one word direct from Michelle since the day, five years before, that he had parted from her. He dared not ask. But not for one day in those five years had she been absent wholly from his mind. The beauty of her eyes, the faint perfume of her hair, was ever present to him. He had not one single memorial of her—he needed none. He had however, his little bag of earth from Egremont; and still slept with it under his pillow.

He found Berwick but little changed outwardly. He had ever been a sedate man, but with a quiet fund of bonhomie. Now, however, under that calm and composed exterior, Roger saw in him a grief so deep, so unspoken, that it must have changed the whole man. Berwick’s brief and fleeting time of happiness had been overclouded by the apprehension that Honora de Burgh’s sweet spirit was not long for this world; and when she was called away, in the springtime of her youth, he felt as if so sweet and delicate a flower was not fitted to withstand the chilling blasts of this life. He spoke of her occasionally to Roger, and often of the beautiful boy, like—too like—herself, which she had left him; and Roger came to love and respect Berwick the more, from the deep and manly Christianity with which he bore this dreadful sorrow. This time Roger was lodged in the palace close to Berwick’s apartments. The glory of the inn of Michot had departed. The crowd of brave and merry gentlemen who had thronged the little town five and six years before, and who had regarded St. Germains as a place of temporary retirement, were gone—many of them to the country from which there is no return. The others were chiefly, like Roger Egremont, grown hardy soldiers, living honorably upon scanty pay.

Roger had three things to do: first, to provide himself with a horse, for Merrylegs, after having carried him through five campaigns, was now to be honorably retired. Roger bestowed him upon Madame Michot, to draw the weekly cart to and from Paris, he being yet fitted for such light work. The second was, to see Dicky; and the third, to see Bess Lukens.

He heard of Bess at St. Germains before he saw her. Bess was making a great noise in the world in more ways than one. As a regular singer in the King’s Opera, she was supposed to be under the tutelage of the Abbé d’Albret, conductor of the music. Bess, however, who was as hard to govern as most prime donne, refused to submit as absolutely as she should have done to the Abbé, and still clung to the methods of Papa Mazet, whose house she declined to leave. The Abbé and herself had words, and Bess in a rage, called him “a popish liar and meddler.” There was but one thing to do for this: Mademoiselle Luccheni was retired from the Opera until she should learn to acquiesce in discipline. The King, however, noting her absence, sent for the Abbé, and desired that Mademoiselle Luccheni be at once reinstated. His Majesty went so far as to say there was not in Paris such another voice as Mademoiselle Luccheni’s. The Abbé, raging but helpless, went to Bess and proposed an armistice. Bess, to whom it had been conveyed that the King desired her return, coolly declined any terms short of absolute surrender. The Abbé was forced to capitulate. Things went on harmoniously for about a fortnight. Then the Abbé, giving a musical party at his house, at which Monseigneur deigned to signify he would attend, rashly promised, without consulting Bess, that she would sing. Bess, on hearing this, betook herself to St. Germains, alleging that she had been asked to sing at the château, and the commands of her own King and Queen must ever take precedence. This producing a great commotion, the English Queen felt herself called upon to write a letter to Monseigneur, saying that Miss Luccheni had misunderstood things. Her invitation turned out to have come from the ten-year-old Prince of Wales, who, meeting her in the forest, recognized her, and asked her to sing to him then and there. Bess was delighted to sing for him, and so charmed the lad that he invited her to come to the château the next Sunday, and sing for his father and mother. This, Bess stoutly declared, she considered a command, as coming from her Prince. Several dozens of eminent persons, including the Kings of France and England, the Dauphin and the Archbishop of Paris, became mixed up in the affair. It was very exciting, and eclipsed in interest the news from Spain. Bess Lukens was the only person involved in the matter who thoroughly enjoyed it. All this, Roger had heard at St. Germains, and it lost nothing in the telling when Bess, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes, recounted it again to him at Paris. A born comic actress, she brought out all the absurdities in the matter, mimicking the furious little Abbé to the life, and even repeating the King’s own words, and the King’s own walk as he strutted up and down the Orangerie at the Petit Trianon, and Madame de Maintenon’s pious exhortations.

“Of course,” said Bess, coolly, in conclusion, as she plumped herself down in a chair, “that old ape of a popish Abbé is right,—excuse me, Roger; I forgot for the moment you were a papist yourself. Papa Mazet is too old, and his methods are not those of this age, and he can’t teach as well as the people the Abbé employs. But an’t that the more reason why I should swear that Papa Mazet is just as capable as ever he was, and is to-day the best teacher in Paris? Didn’t I tell that old monkey of an Abbé that Papa Mazet could walk ten miles, ride twenty, and go thirty in a coach, just as well as ever he could, when the poor, dear man can barely go twice round the garden, with his stick and my arm to help him? I hope I am an honest woman,” declared Bess, with an air of extreme virtue, “and I mean to stand by Papa Mazet if I lose my place in the Opera for it.”

Roger laughed as he had not done for years, so heartily; and then, both of them growing sober, they studied each other furtively, to see such marks as Time might leave. Roger Egremont was now thirty-two years old. His complexion had grown dark and weather-beaten during his years of campaigning. He had lost, as men do, that gayety of heart which shines through the eyes, and his curling brown hair, which he still wore upon his shoulders, now more from habit than vanity, had some silver threads in it. But he looked a soldier, straight of figure and direct of glance. Bess thought him more nearly handsome than ever in his life. His tender friendship to her showed no abatement. As for that other woman, some woman’s instinct as true as truth told Bess Lukens that Roger Egremont had loved Michelle well, and could never forget her. Bess would rather have had it so. She shrank from the thought that he should be any woman’s successful lover. As for Roger, he never saw Bess without an increase of admiration for her. She improved year by year, in a certain dignity of appearance and manners. She would never dream now of putting on man’s apparel to disguise herself for travelling. She was now fully able to command respect for herself in her own proper person. Her beauty seemed to grow in perfection, for in place of that rosy flush of girlhood her features had acquired greater delicacy, which comported well with her softer manners. She was now in her twenty-eighth year, but she showed the flight of time less than Roger.

“And so you took care of my cousin Dicky when he was so ill on his return from England two years ago. Truly, we must stop calling him Dicky, and say Father Egremont,” said Roger.

“He will be Dicky Egremont as long as he lives,” replied Bess, smiling; “he never can be rid of that boyishness which makes us all love him. Have you seen him yet?”

“I go to see him from here. He is not free to see visitors until the afternoon.”

“Oh, yes. Those everlasting superiors of his! They would have fetched him away before he was half well, but I went out to St. Germains and got some gentlemen there to persuade them to let him stay with us until he got his strength back—as the apothecary too said he should. Just as he was able to play the violin and we could have some sweet music, a couple of old black gowns—popish priests, I mean—came and took him off. He pretended he was glad to go, but he always wants to go where he thinks it is most likely to be disagreeable for him.”

“That is not much the way of the Egremonts,” said Roger, laughing; “but Dicky is a soldier under orders, and he does well not to shirk them.”

When he was rising to go, Roger asked a question which brought a deep blush to Bess’s cheek.

“Well, Bess, when shall I be called upon to give you away at your wedding?—for I will by no means allow Papa Mazet that privilege.”

“Never, Mr. Roger. I am well enough off as I am. I have no taste for marrying in my own class, and no ambition to marry above me, and be flouted by the man I marry. Besides, I have to take care of the Mazets, who made me, such as I am; and when they are gone I shall hope to find some other old people or orphan children to take care of; so, Bess Lukens was I born, and Bess Lukens will I die.”

And, strange to say, Roger believed her, although it is difficult for any man to persuade himself that any woman can really live and die happy and unmarried.

Then he went to the Jesuits to see Dicky. Dicky had not changed in the least, and the two cousins walked up and down the garden of the Jesuits’ house, and talked as if they had never been parted a day since they left Egremont. Dicky had much to tell of that brief and tragic visit to England. “And I saw Egremont, Roger; I went by night. It looked prosperous,—the farms well tilled, the park in good order, the dun deer more abundant than I had ever known them. But—but every oak tree on the place is cut down. I was told that Hugo made near eight thousand pounds by the sale of this timber alone.”

Roger ground his teeth. Those oaks, every one of which was fit to be the mainmast of a man-of-war! It had been his dream to make his King a present, worthy of a king to give, as well as receive, of those miles of sturdy oaks, that were indeed too noble for any use but that of the masts and spars of fighting-ships. Dicky, seeing Roger was troubled by this, continued:

“I heard that Hugo tried to turn such of the estate as he could into ready money; he acts as if he doubted that it would always be his. But he could find no one to take the land, and for very shame he cannot sell the jewels and pictures. His foreign blood comes out more and more every day, the people told me; and he is now seeking a foreign appointment, as minister of William of Orange, and as he has been steadfast in the Orange interest, ’tis very likely he will get what he wants.”

“God reward him!” was Roger’s comment; and the kind of reward this might reasonably be expected to be was easily inferred.

“And, Roger,” said Dicky again, after a moment, “it will not be long before I see Egremont again. I have had the promise, ever since I came back, that at the next vacancy for England, I am to be sent. For there are so many young men, of the best blood of England, whose heart’s desire it is to lead the forlorn hope of the Society of Jesus in our native country, that we have to make applications far in advance. I have been waiting to go ever since I recovered from my illness. When one of our fathers is imprisoned, or sent out of the country, or there is a request for one, there are ten men, each begging that he may be sent; but the next call it is my turn to answer,—and I am the envy of all my English brethren here, and at Louvain, and St. Omer’s, and Clermont.”

“And you under sentence of death if you set foot in England!” cried Roger, excitedly. “It is not right; it is not right—and I shall protest to your superiors—nay, I will go to the King himself.”

“Tush, Roger. What did I join the Society for? To sit here, safe at Paris, while better men risk their lives and liberty in England, in North America, all over the world? No, I too am a soldier and I claim the post of danger. Would you have an Egremont do otherwise?”

“Yes, but you are under the death sentence—”

“You should hear of the sufferings of our fathers in North America. A plain English hanging would be merciful to many of them. Besides, when every English Jesuit is on record as applying for duty in England, would you have had me, Richard Egremont, hold back?”

Roger hesitated a moment, then, throwing his arms around Dicky as when they were little boys, he cried:

“No, my lad. I would not have thee to hold back. God guard thee well—for a brave youngster.”

The sun was near setting, and the yellowing light shone on the solemn yews and clipped cedars of the garden. A bell began to toll inside; it was time to part. The two young men walked hurriedly to the solid iron gate in the wall, and stood for a moment, with their hands clasped, and each with a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Good-bye, dear Roger,” said Dicky. “If we should never meet on this side of Death, know that I ever loved you better than anybody in the world, and esteemed you more than any man I ever knew. And if you should hear of me as dying on the scaffold in England, remember, my last thought, my last prayer will be for you.”

Roger stood silent. Some inner voice spoke with the clearness and certainty of the bell which continued its melancholy tolling through the mild spring air. And the bell was saying, “Farewell, farewell.” Roger’s eyes were moist, but Dicky’s sparkling blue ones were filled with a calm and happy light; the warrior soul of him was not to be alarmed at the scaffold, the executioner, the knife. He pressed Roger in his arms.

“Good-bye, dear Roger, good-bye,” he cried again, and then turning ran back through the garden toward the house. Roger walked along the dark, narrow street in the spring twilight. The bell was still tolling solemnly. It was still saying “Farewell.”

He went to his inn, got his horse, the third Merrylegs, and rode back to St. Germains at a sharp gait. He roused himself somewhat from his depression, but a conviction settled upon his soul that he should never again see Dicky Egremont.

Next morning he got a message early from Berwick: “Be prepared to start within twenty-four hours.”

There was, then, but a day before him. He had not yet been to see Madame de Beaumanoir, Roger meaning every day to go, but putting it off as men do unpleasant things. But that was his last chance. Moreover, François Delaunay, who had been absent for a time, returned and came to the castle to see him, and to bring him a reproachful message from the old Duchess.

François was the same François—good-hearted, timid, and still unsuccessfully attempting a rakish air and swashbuckler manner.

“The Duchess is still the same,” he confided plaintively to Roger, as the two walked up and down the terrace in the March sunshine. “God never made but one such woman, I think.”

“At least she has not a bad heart,” replied Roger, consolingly, but laughing at the same time.

“N—n—no,” dubiously assented François; “but—think of a woman who has spent ten years trying to make a swashbuckler out of me!”

And as François tapped himself gloomily on the breast, Roger was obliged to confess to himself that Madame de Beaumanoir had set herself an impossible task.

In the afternoon he took his way along the familiar road to the avenue of the château. He knew every step he trod. Here was the entrance into the forest, where the French King’s messenger had brought the letter to Michelle on that spring morning, just five years ago almost to the day. There was that woodland path from the meadow, where he and Michelle had walked hand in hand, a shepherd and his shepherdess, on that August evening, after the hay-making. He could scarcely believe, as he stepped upon the marble terrace and entered the great hall of the château, that her graceful figure would not presently appear, and that he should not hear her charming voice. And he dared not let his mind dwell on her state at that moment.

The old Duchess received him in her large salon. She was scarcely changed at all. She had been withered and weazened and bright-eyed six years before, and she was still withered and weazened and bright-eyed, and she still wore the green brocade gown.

“At last!” was her greeting; “you have not been near me in five years. Such is the way of men though,—a little love when we are young; no woman can hope for more.”

“Madam,” replied Roger, “I have been at St. Germains but one week in five years, until I came four days ago. And when I was here before you were absent.”

“True enough. But why have you so avoided the place?”

“Ask a soldier, madam, why he is here, or why he is not there?”

“Tut, tut. You had some reason for not coming. Well, I can hardly blame you. Since the peace, the poor old praying King has, I think, given up hope of ever getting back to England, and I suppose he must have asked himself every day since ’88 what he ran away for. And I, too, have well-nigh abandoned all hope of going back, and shall have to end my days in a foreign country. If my husband had died but a year before he did, I should have been back and settled in England, and I’d like to see any Orange prince or princess that would have turned me out!”

“I wish, madam, from the very bottom of my heart, that your spirit had animated the King. But I ever thought there was some temporary weakness of the mind that drove him to act so strangely. He, one of our bravest admirals,—whom Maréchal Turenne and the Prince of Condé declared to be more insensible of fear than any man they had ever known—absolutely ran away when he was implored but to remain, and assured that all the fighting should be done for him! Well, that is all over. We shall have our chance, though, with James III.”

“You will, my dear, not I. Now tell me of your adventures, for I hear that Berwick praises you extremely, and you have won promotion.”

The old lady, being very pressing, Roger told her such of his adventures as he thought would please her, but he had signal unsuccess.

“All about war, in which, according to your own account, for everything you did, your men or your superior officers deserved the credit; and not a single love-affair! Not even a little scrape with a married woman! Look here, Captain Roger Egremont, I once thought you fit company for his glorious Majesty, King Charles the Second; but know you, I now esteem you fitter for this snivelling, forgiving, pious old figure of a King we have at the palace yonder. I shall not let François Delaunay associate with you; he will be sure to learn some goodness or godliness of you that will make him more prudish than he is. I am very much disappointed in you, Roger Egremont.”

“Truly, madam, you grieve me. But if I have had no love affairs, consider, I have had but little money. So long as my father’s bastard enjoys my estate, so long shall I be a poor man. I am like some of the other poor and virtuous in this world,—virtuous because I am poor.”

“François has not even that excuse. But you have not asked me one word about my niece, the Princess of Orlamunde.”

Roger felt himself grow pale, but he answered readily:

“I was about then to inquire of her Highness.”

“Highness fiddlestick! Dearly has she paid for that ridiculous title and that semi-royal coronet she wears. Did I not tell you and Berwick that one look at my cousin of Orlamunde convinced me that he was a scoundrel? And I do not think my niece a woman to submit humbly to a scoundrel. She made some spirited attempts to drive out the men and women rascals and harpies whom the Prince had collected around him; but, of course, she failed. Then, instead of taking to lap-dogs or devotion, as most women do, my lady defiantly leads her own life; has clever men about her, when she can get them; has learned the lesson of despising what the world says,—a dangerous, dangerous lesson for any woman to learn; drives her husband wild by her defiance of him, and then laughs at him; in short, acts just as one could foresee a proud, injured, fearless woman would. I fancy, too, her health is breaking down under the strain of misery. In one thing alone has she been judicious; she kept the French King informed of exactly how Orlamunde was standing to his engagements—which is very poorly indeed—as long as she could; and but for her Orlamunde would have sold those two fortified places to the allies, within a year from the time he guaranteed them to Louis. Even now it is not certain that the French guns have not been sold to William of Orange,—twenty-four bronze cannon, so I have heard. Of course, this only makes Orlamunde hate her the more, and he has found means to stop her correspondence with France. And who, think you, is the precious gentleman through whom Orlamunde has been transacting this vile business with Dutch William? Your bastard brother, Hugo Stein—who is the English diplomatic agent at Orlamunde.”

Roger had been getting paler and paler as the old lady spoke, her dark eyes sparkling. Now he flushed deeply.

“Yes, Hugo Egremont, as he calls himself, is Orlamunde’s alter ego, and has been, almost since that unfortunate marriage. It was he who was after the Prince to give up the fortified places,—and it is he who has been trying to persuade the Prince to sell the bronze guns, and he may have succeeded. He seems to have plenty of money, so I hear—got from his estates in England—”

“My oak timber!” burst in Roger, thinking of the eight thousand pounds of which Dicky had told him.

“And has the entire confidence of his government.”

“He was ever an astute scoundrel,” again broke in Roger, growing a deeper and darker red.

“And he hates Michelle, and she hates him. And he provides the Prince with money—scamps need a deal more than honest gentlemen. And it is not likely that the English and Dutch are giving him money for nothing; so I am mightily afraid the twenty-four guns are gone.”

The old lady talked on vivaciously, and Roger heard every word, but as in a dream. And presently he rose to go, and made Madame de Beaumanoir a handsome compliment, and kissed her little withered, jewelled hand, and walked back to the palace, by way of the terrace, still like a man in a dream.

Michelle ill, wretched, defiant, badly used,—poor, poor unfortunate! The knowledge of her misery, however it pierced his heart, did not make him forget that he should give Berwick the information Madame de Beaumanoir had given him—and so he went straight to Berwick’s apartments in the Palace and told him.

Berwick’s comment on the Prince of Orlamunde was simple: “The Scoundrel!” Then he added: “I was going to Marly to-night to say farewell to the King of France, and I will go at once. It is important that he should know of Orlamunde’s treachery, if it has really occurred.”

And in ten minutes Roger saw him start off, in his black riding-suit, for Marly.

Before night he returned. Roger was walking up and down the courtyard with the little Prince of Wales, telling him stories about England, while the boy’s governor, Lord Middleton, walked on the other side of the lad. Berwick rode into the courtyard, dismounted, threw off his black riding-cloak, and after ceremoniously greeting the little Prince and his governor, said to Roger,—

“We ride for Orlamunde to-morrow, at sunrise, by order of the King of France. All, and more, is true, of what Madame de Beaumanoir told us. And the man who is working against us, the man who is the agent of William of Orange at Orlamunde, the man we are ordered to have flung out of that wicked place, wicked as its rascal Prince, the man we are to take the vengeance of the King of France on,—is Hugo Stein, sometime known as Sir Hugo Egremont, of Egremont.”

“And I shall take my private vengeance on him,” said Roger, in a quiet voice, but his comely countenance growing ugly, in the way Michelle had often noticed when wrath possessed him.

And at sunrise next morning they took the road to Meaux, to Épernay, to Châlons, to Vitry, to Bar, and through the country of the Vosges, just as they had done five years before. It was at the same season of the year, and the face of the country was so little changed that Roger had the strange feeling of having made the journey, not once, but a myriad of times before. He could see, as they passed along the highways, through fields and forests, and past towns and villages, Michelle’s airy figure on her horse; he could hear her voice as plainly as if she were speaking then. He went into the great cathedral of Meaux and knelt in the same spot where he had knelt with her, and the merry birds sang with glee under the eaves, just as they had done on that morning when he had been with her in the church. He saw the old castle of Vitry, bathed in the spring sunshine, so like—so like what it had been before. When they entered the passes of the mountains, Roger determined to go by the charcoal-burner’s hut. Berwick asked no questions; he knew well enough why Roger Egremont should go over every step of that former journey. The hut was gone, the place desolate. Roger dismounted, while Berwick, with his two servants, rode on. In half an hour Roger rejoined him, and spoke not a word until they reached their lodging for the night.

So much was the same; and yet they, Roger Egremont and the Duke of Berwick, were changed inexpressibly. Each had known a grief which marks an epoch in every life; one of those sorrows which wring the heart and leave a blood stain on the book of life. They spoke little of this, being both of them valiant men, not given to mouthing their misery; but this sad, sad change was ever present with them.

They made their journey, as if by some tacit arrangement, exactly as they had made it, day by day, five years before; and the very day, five years before, that they had entered Orlamunde, on the eve of the anniversary of Michelle’s marriage, they reached the little capital and put up at an inn.

“For I would not accept even a lodging from the rascal Prince,” said Berwick, and Roger heartily agreed with him.

In the evening, though, having given notice of their arrival to the Prince, they must appear at Monplaisir at eight o’clock. All, all was the same. The straight, broad avenue of clipped trees, the fountains of the dolphins ever playing, the statues, the marble terrace, the white palace, beautiful in the evening glow; a deep blue sky, with a young moon and a single blazing star beside her; and the same mob of powdered lackeys, and the same miniature state as of five years before.

The Prince received them in that noble hall where the wedding banquet had been held. He was yellower, sicklier, wickeder, more dissipated-looking than before, which is saying much. He was attended by his old chum, Count Bernstein, and a new one, Baron Reichenbach, who seemed a bird of quite the same feather; and there were other gentlemen present, and among them,—oh, iniquity of iniquities!—was Hugo Stein, under the name and title of Sir Hugo Egremont of Egremont, in the County of Devon, England.

He had ever been a more strictly handsome man than his half-brother; and as the time that Roger had spent in camps Hugo had spent at courts, so was Hugo more delicately skinned, more soft and supple, than Roger. And he was magnificently dressed, wearing a superbly jewelled dress-sword, on the hilt of which sparkled an emerald set with diamonds, which Roger recognized as having once belonged to his own mother, and he also knew nearly every other jewel in the hilt.

It was the bitterest moment in Roger Egremont’s life when his eye, travelling around the company, fixed itself on Hugo; and when Hugo, ever adopting an attitude of conciliation, advanced, saying, “Welcome, brother!” Roger stood like a statue for one moment, and then advancing, with arms outstretched wide, cried,—

“Welcome, Hugo Stein. Never was I so glad to see you before. A great, a glorious thing has happened. We have come here to notify you that you have spent your own and your master’s money in vain. And likewise to make it so hot for you that you will be compelled to leave Orlamunde. I cannot forbear embracing you in my joy.” And seizing Hugo suddenly about the waist, Roger lifted him bodily off the floor, and flung him headlong through the open window. And as Hugo went tumbling out, head-foremost, Roger caught him by the leg, and wrenched the dress-sword from about him, then dropped him on to the flower-bed below the palace window.

Instantly there was an uproar. The Prince, white with rage, turned to Roger as he stood smiling and examining the hilt of Hugo’s sword.

“Sir, you forget yourself amazingly. This conduct cannot be tolerated.”

Roger bowed low, still smiling. The Prince, then turning to Berwick, said in a voice which trembled with excitement,—

“I say, my Lord Duke, this conduct cannot be tolerated in my presence.”

“Yes, your Highness,” replied Berwick, also smiling. “And may I ask, in all respect, what are you going to do about it?”

Roger, all this time, was breaking off the hilt of the sword, which he afterwards threw out of the window after its late master.

The Prince hesitated and moved uneasily in his seat. Berwick stood, calmly regarding him; Roger continued to examine the sword-hilt. Count Bernstein stooped and whispered something in the ear of the Prince, who spoke after a moment.

“Count Bernstein tells me that these gentlemen are half-brothers and there is feud between them. Some allowance can be made for Captain Egremont’s feelings, if he will apologize for his unbecoming conduct.”

“To whom shall he apologize, your Highness?” asked Berwick.

“To myself, of course.”

“Then, your Highness,” replied Berwick, with much readiness, “I ask, in Captain Egremont’s behalf, a week to consider your proposition. Meanwhile, I am the bearer of an autograph letter from His Most Christian Majesty, which I shall be pleased to deliver at your Highness’s pleasure.”

No man who ever looked into the eye of James Fitzjames, Duke of Berwick, felt like defying him, certainly not this miserable creature of Orlamunde. So the Prince passed over the circumstance, resolving, as such beings do, to take secret and private vengeance on Roger Egremont before he left Orlamunde.

“We will now attend the ladies in the saloon,” said the Prince; and rising, the whole company marched into the Saloon of the Swans. The great saloon was blazing with wax lights, and over the mirrored walls were the silver swans still sailing, sailing nowhere. And on the dais at the upper end sat Michelle—sat the poor, unhappy Princess, her cheeks wan and painted, her glorious eyes full of mischief and melancholy, her slender figure slenderer than ever,—a picture of what misery may do for a woman.

Roger advanced with Berwick to pay her his respects, and the sight of her, and the touch of that cold little hand put all thought of Hugo Stein out of his mind. She received them with perfect composure; she had had time and opportunity to learn composure under disquieting circumstances in the last five years. When she spoke, her voice was unchanged in its thrilling sweetness; that and her winning smile had survived five years of marriage with the Prince of Orlamunde.

“It is a pleasure to see you again,” she said, looking into Roger’s eyes; “I have not seen a friend for five years past.”

All around her heard this speech, which Roger could not but think imprudent.

“And,” she continued, laughing—oh, how sad it was to hear her laugh!—“you are unchanged, a violent and turbulent man when you are angered, but as gentle as a dove when you are pleased. I thought you would not sit quiet when Hugo Stein was at hand.”

So, already the news had flown about of his pitching Hugo out of the window. Hugo had thought it wise to depart, particularly as he had lost his sword, without which, he could not, according to etiquette, appear at the levee.

“Madam,” asked Roger, “is not that the way with most men in the presence of a sworn enemy?”

“No, no,” cried the Princess, looking at the Prince who was standing on the dais close by her. “In Orlamunde, for example, when a man is angry with his enemy, be it man or woman, he watches his chance stealthily, and when he thinks he is quite safe, he deals a poisoned thrust.”

Roger was not only surprised at this ill-timed frankness, but even secretly shocked. Having never exercised the slightest forbearance in his life toward those he conceived to have injured him, and having not half an hour before wreaked his vengeance on his bastard brother without the least regard to time or place, he was confounded that a woman should do likewise. But Michelle, being quick-witted, saw that she had not pleased him, and changed her manner to that of the most caressing softness. And listening to every word were Madame Marochetti, and the Countess Bertha von Kohler, who still reigned at Orlamunde, and who was first lady-in-waiting to the Princess, much to Madame Marochetti’s annoyance.

There was to be a concert presently, and in a little while the musicians were ordered to appear, and the company seated themselves. A tabouret was provided for Berwick, and a small chair for Roger Egremont; but Roger, seeing that he had carried things with a high hand in the beginning, concluded to adopt it as a regular policy while at Orlamunde. Therefore, saying to the Princess, “By your leave, madam,” and receiving a nod in return, he seated himself quietly on the edge of the dais. Something like a shiver went round. The ladies were all secretly delighted with his impudence, especially his old acquaintance Countess von Roda, who was quite out of favor and had turned pious.

The music began. Every man has it in him to do something good, even Karl, Prince of Orlamunde. What was good in him was the capacity for art. His palace was exquisite, his orchestra was perfect. When the violins and violoncello and flutes breathed forth the divine music of Gluck, it was as if the Saloon of the Swans palpitated with delight, so delicious, so searching, so heavenly was the harmony. Roger listened, thinking it was like the music of Paradise; and when the rapture of melody had lasted some time, he turned to look into Michelle’s eyes and saw the saddest sight. She was leaning back in her stately chair, her head resting on one thin hand sparkling with jewels, her long lashes on her cheek. She had fallen asleep out of pure weakness and weariness, in the midst of the enchanting music, with all those hostile eyes upon her. Bertha von Kohler was smiling maliciously; Madame Marochetti laughed outright. The Prince, turning to her, rudely awakened her. Michelle started, looked at him with hatred in her face, then catching sight of Berwick’s kind and pitying eyes fixed on her, smiled softly. Roger’s heart swelled within him. To this sad pass had ambition brought a woman born to love and to be loved.