The House of Egremont

THE inn of Michot was almost as well known at St. Germains as the palace itself—and Madame Michot and her lame son, Jacques, were as well known as the inn. For this inn was the rendezvous for all the gay blades, young and old, among the fifteen or twenty thousand English, Scotch, and Irish Jacobites, who crowded the little town of St. Germains. And especially was it the resort of the body of guards, known as the gentlemen-at-arms, who attended the poor, broken-down old King James Stuart, at the palace. Sad dogs some of these were, and great was the score chalked up against them—and oftentimes generously rubbed out by Madame Michot. For, as the good woman said, some of the worst debtors she had were among her pleasantest customers, and kept the old place lively; and Madame Michot took as much pride in having her common room a jovial place as any duchess in Paris gloried in the brilliance of her salon. These merry gentlemen from over the sea made many promises to their hostess of what they would do for her when the King came into his own again,—for, like most men ill-treated of fortune, they had great confidence in her future favors. In truth, if Madame Michot were granted a royal audience for every favor she had done an exiled Jacobite, she would have spent her whole time in the King’s company. She was a handsome, stout woman, gifted with a good heart and a true genius for inn-keeping, and cherished but one folly in the world. Her otherwise sound brain had been a little turned by the laughing promises made by these devil-may-care, rollicking exiles,—for that was the sort which most frequented the inn of Michot. In her inmost heart Madame Michot fancied herself going to court at the palace of Vitall, as she called it, escorted by noblemen and gentlemen whom she had supplied with meat and drink, never asking for payment. And the object of her visit would be to get something handsome for poor Jacques—Jacques, the only son the King had left her at home; who, but for his lame foot, would be with his brothers under Marshal Villeroy. Madame Michot had never been able to decide exactly what she would ask for Jacques, but it would be “something handsome,” and Jacques should be able to sit at table with gentlemen.

The inn was a stone building of only one story, with a half-story, in the shape of a great bare attic, over one part of it. Originally it had been a huge granary, but being pleasantly situated on the sloping ground between the forest of St. Germains and the rich low-lying meadows through which the silver Seine runs laughing, Madame Michot had seen its good points, and buying it, had turned it into an inn. It had no courtyard, but opened directly upon a grassy space with trees. Behind it, toward the river, was an ancient orchard, and all around it were sweet fields and vineyards. Afar off could be seen the stately châteaux of the nobility, proudly secluded in their pleasure grounds. Looking upward to the right, was that glorious terrace of St. Germains, made by Louis le Grand, and which he could not surpass even when he wished to make Versailles the wonder of Europe. This terrace, a full two miles long, and as straight as line and rule could make it, four hundred feet broad, with the formal clipped trees, as straight as soldiers on parade, lining the side toward the town and forest; the stone parapet with its iron balustrade on the other side, overlooking a sheer descent of two hundred feet into the valley of the Seine; the stately old palace of Francis the First, with the pavilion at the very edge of the terrace, built by the great Henry for his “Charmante Gabrielle;” the gigantic flights of stone steps, down which twenty men-at-arms could march abreast; and in the blue distance, the slender spire of St. Denis shining,—St. Denis, where all the French kings are buried, and of which that slender spire was such a bugaboo to the Grand Monarque that he utterly deserted the palace at St. Germains, and gave it over to his poor relations, the exiled King and Queen of England,—all this beauty, poetry, and romance was in full sight of the inn of Michot.

The public room of the inn opened directly from the roadway. It was long and low, with narrow slits of windows, and a great fireplace in one end. The only fault Madame Michot had to find with her foreign patrons, who had, as it were, taken possession of the house, was that they knew no moderation in feeding the fire. On mild nights, when a few fagots would have been a plenty, thought Madame Michot, these wasteful English and Irish and Scotch would throw on great armfuls of wood, making the blaze from the fire to light up the whole place, and to dim the candles placed in sockets along the walls. Madame Michot protested, sighed, charged for wood, and charged high; there was no breaking up the custom short of turning the exiles away, and she had no heart for that.

At the other end of the room, opposite the fireplace, was a broad, low stairway of oak, blackened with time and smoke, which led to the upper story. This was on one side of the great outer door. On the other was a raised platform, with a chair and a table for Madame Michot, and behind it a cupboard for her choice liquors. An iron grille screened this platform off from the main room, and presented a fiction that Madame Michot did not know everything that went on around the huge fireplace and at the long table. Madame Michot, however, had no illusions on this point. It was the custom for the frequenters of the inn—gentlemen all—to make a profound bow in passing the excellent woman, who, having grown very stout on her own good fare, did not rise, but returned these salaams by a polite inclination of her head. Dukes, marquises, and barons thus paid homage to her; for the inn of Michot was distinctively an aristocratic institution, although entirely different from most aristocratic institutions in being very jolly. The fact was, however, that the palace of St. Germains was exceedingly dull, and the inn was a city of refuge to gentlemen who loyally supported King James, but who had no mind for the austerities he practised. The royal table was stinted, and the wine was poor; the Queen went with shabby gowns and equipages, that the money might be given to penniless gentlemen and ladies, who eked out a living in lodgings in the town. Much of this money went to the inn, but all who spent there had full value received; and it was a place where a man could laugh and sing, after having done his duty by the great gloomy palace. And there was always laughing and singing going on of evenings, and sometimes all night long, in that quaint old common room, to say nothing of dancing and playing. The cards and dice were flying every night; the violins and viols da gamba were forever thrilling and making melody; some voice was ever being lifted up in song, proclaiming the joys that awaited all good Jacobites in England; and rattling choruses in praise of war and love and wine, and dispraise of William of Orange, were perpetually rolling and reverberating among the black rafters of the ceiling. And the Scotch gentlemen liked a loup and a fling when the fiddles played a Scotch reel, and the Irish gentlemen commonly jigged it when the fiddles spoke Irish, and the Englishmen footed it nimbly when “Kiss me sweetly,” was played.

On the whole, the inn of Michot was about the most cheerful place in the town of St. Germains. It was not, however, the most peaceable, although in general good feeling prevailed. Madame Michot could never recall without a shudder the night that the Irish gentleman, Mr. O’Mahoney, and Sir Thomas Chesbrough had it out with musquetoons in the orchard behind the house, by the light of a couple of stable lanterns, each gentleman protesting he could not wait until morning or for better weapons. And the look on the Irish gentleman’s gray face, when he was brought in shot through both lungs, haunted Madame Michot for long. Then, there was that affair between Colonel Macgregor, and Sandy Murray, Lord Tullibardine’s nephew, in which both were pretty nearly sawed to pieces with each other’s rapiers. Decidedly, the inn of Michot was like the Comédie Française—it had its tragedies as well as its comedies.

Like all truly aristocratic institutions, this inn was on a democratic basis. It was “First come, first served.” Nothing was reserved for anybody, and the poorest gentleman, who had not got a penny from England for a year, was as well served as he who had got a remittance yesterday. And so great was Madame Michot’s talent for inn-keeping that she prospered even under this system.

And of this pleasant inn was Roger Egremont to make acquaintance, about ten days after he had last seen Egremont. The evening was cold and chill for mid April, and a small, dismal rain was falling. The river was muddy, and the town, lighted only by the faint gleam from candle-lit windows, looked uninviting as Roger approached it in the misty gloom. Roger had with him, to make his way in a difficult world, a pair of pistols, some changes of linen, and less than fifty pounds in money. His soul was as gloomy as the evening. He ached, and was wearied with many days of riding, after three years of imprisonment. He had grown conscious, day by day, in seeing people at inns, and along the highroad, that he was poorly dressed, his horse was a scrub, his accoutrements ridiculous. As for poor Merrylegs, he was literally on his last legs, although Roger had been tender with him, and had often walked rather than burden the creature’s feeble back. At last, just as the highroad turned from the river, the horse suddenly sank upon his knees. Roger leaped off, and one look at the poor beast’s glazing eyes showed him that the end of journeys had come for the ploughman’s nag. Roger quickly unstrapped the saddle, and sat down on the ground patting the horse’s head. It came to him that the dumb creature felt the strangeness of his surroundings; used to the sweet fields of Egremont, and knowing only the air of Devon, he felt lonely in this strange land; and then Roger smiled at the conceit, but smiled very sadly.

After a while the horse scrambled to his feet, and just as he got upon his trembling legs with Roger’s help, a horseman, with a servant riding behind him, galloped out of the dusk. A clear, resonant voice rang out in the misty twilight, saying in French,—

“Hold! It is impossible you should mount that poor beast. The horse is dying.”

Roger deigned no answer to this, but gently led the poor tottering horse to the river’s brink.

When Merrylegs felt the cool water about his legs, he stooped down, and drank a little, and then lifted his head with an almost human look of resignation in his eyes. Roger, standing knee deep in the water, patted his head, saying kindly,—

“Good-bye; good-bye, old Merrylegs. You have been a faithful friend, and you shall have no more work nor pain in this world.”

Then, trying to help the horse along, Roger led him to the side of the road. This brought him nearer to the horseman, and quite close to the serving-man, who was watching with a grin the proceedings. Roger primed his pistol, put it to Merrylegs’ head, and fired. The poor beast dropped in his tracks, and the next instant, the servant, to his horror, found himself looking down the muzzle of the other pistol, and heard Roger Egremont, in a passion of rage, crying, “Laugh once at that poor horse, and you are a dead man!”

The man’s face changed as quickly as Punchinello’s in the show.

His master uttered no word of resentment; Roger had spoken in English, and the horseman responded in the same tongue, which was plainly his native language.

“Sir,” he said, “if you are subject to these gusts of rage, you will often find yourself in trouble. Nevertheless, I think you excusable just now. I had no mind to laugh, I assure you.”

At the first word Roger Egremont recognized that no ordinary man was speaking. The music of the stranger’s voice, his tall and graceful figure were obvious; his face was long and pale. Roger could see no more. But to hear once again the English tongue was sweet, and to know that here was a man who understood grief for the loss of a dumb creature was grateful. Roger recovered himself, and replied calmly:

“He was the gift of a very humble man, who could ill spare him, and he bore me faithfully until his strength gave out,—and he was the last living thing I owned from my country.”

“England?”

“Yes. He was not really worth bringing across the water, but I could not leave him behind.”

“If you will do me the honor,” said the stranger, “to accept of my servant’s horse, it is entirely at your service; and my man can take your saddle where you wish in the town, as I presume you are bound there. Permit me to introduce myself. I am the Duke of Berwick.”

Instead of warmly reaching out to take the hand that Berwick extended, Roger hesitated a moment. He hated bastards so—having good cause—that he hated the King’s bastard. However, he did offer his hand and replied,—

“And I am Mr. Egremont, of Egremont, but late from Newgate prison.”

“I know you,” replied Berwick, eagerly; “have you news for us?”

Roger shook his head.

“Truly,” he replied, “I was so taken up with my private wrongs and sorrows that I did not take the trouble I should to bring news to his Majesty. But when a man has been shut up three years in prison, and when he is turned out, as I was, and finds himself beholding his estate in the hands of his father’s bastard—”

“Come, my friend,” said Berwick, with a bright flush on his handsome face, “let not that word be used before me. Remember your manners.”

“’Tis hard to remember anything when a man has been so buffeted as I,” cried poor Roger, throwing his arms about. “I only know that I could not get to France fast enough, for there only could I find arms in my hands to drive this Dutch usurper out!”

To this Berwick replied dryly, “I fear it will be a little time yet before we shall find arms in our hands. But meanwhile mount, and let us be going.”

Roger mounted the servant’s horse, and with his portmanteau behind him made for the town with Berwick. Each scanned the other closely. Roger knew little of Berwick, beyond that he was the son of King James and Arabella Churchill, and Berwick knew nothing of Roger beyond his name and condition; but in some way they knew each other well before they reached the inn of Michot, where Berwick advised Roger to put up. The episode of the dead horse had well served to throw light upon the character of each.

Not since the day he had last sat at meat in his own house had life seemed so bright to Roger Egremont as it did when the cheerful glow from the windows of the inn came before him, and the sound of a rollicking chorus floated out. Berwick had explained the character of the place to him.

“And many of us, graceless dogs that we are, prefer this homely, cheerful inn to the palace,” he said, half smiling. “We have not the front to be gay in the presence of the King and Queen; we are cowards about spending our money when we see their Majesties practising all sorts of privations that their followers may eat. But here we can at least sing,—not that I do much as a singer, for my voice is like a crow with the quinsy,—and play for what loose coin we have, and talk about the merry days ahead of us in England; and they are the chief joys of those who have followed the King.”

By that time they had dismounted, their horses had been led away, and Berwick pulled open the great nail studded door of the common room. The light, although ruddy, was not dazzling. The chilly evening made good excuse for a fire,—so thought the guests of the inn; Madame Michot was of a different mind, but sighed and said nothing. Along one side of the room was a long table, around which half a dozen gentlemen were seated; the savory dishes thereon, and the delicious odor of spiced wine were like gales of Araby to Roger Egremont. About the fire sat several gentlemen, and there was a twanging of fiddle-strings among them and a fresh young voice soaring in a song.

Roger did not immediately recognize the voice, but it thrilled him to his heart; and the next minute a short, boyish figure leaped over the chairs in the way, and began dancing an English jig like mad.

“Dicky! Dicky!” shouted Roger, joyfully, but his voice could not be heard over the sharp music of the violin, the gay clattering of Dicky’s heels, and the laughing and the singing of many voices, the rhythmic clapping of hands, and the merry stamping of feet. It was honest, noisy mirth, in which English, Scotch, and Irish bore their part.

Roger watched and listened with a quivering of joy and hope; he had almost forgotten that people could laugh and dance and sing. Dicky, at last, with three great thumps of his heels upon the floor, and throwing his hat in the air, ran toward the gentleman playing the fiddle, and choked him until the fiddle fell from his hand; and then Roger dashed through the door and down the long room, and catching Dicky in his arms, cried,—

“My lad, how glad I am to see thee, and see thee well and hearty!”

Dicky, half smothered, gripped Roger around the neck.

“Old boy, you cannot be as glad to see me as I am to see you; for, look you, these three years past, every day have I said to myself, ‘I wish I could see Roger this day!’”

The Duke of Berwick had followed Roger in, and walked along, hat in hand, and bowing right and left, not forgetting Madame Michot at the door. His greetings were respectfully returned, but no man rose at his approach; the code of the common room at Madame Michot’s inn put duke and commoner on the same footing.

“Gentlemen,” cried Berwick, warming his hands at the fire, “this is Mr. Roger Egremont, of whom we have all heard, who hurled a plate of beans in Dutch William’s face. By what hair-breadth escapes he has made his way from Newgate here, I know not, but he must tell us, after he is filled with some of the best wine Madame Michot has. Here, Jacques, a quart of the best, mind you.”

“Indeed, sirs,” replied Roger, coloring and trying to disengage himself from Dicky, “I am ashamed of much in my escape. I was taken blindfolded out of prison, this Monday a fortnight, and carried south to my own place,—not mine at present, however,—and there, being much vexed and tried, and knowing little of affairs in England, I had but one thought, to get my carcass to France. For I tell you, after three years in prison, a man must be on the move. I have no particular news to bring from England, but rather do I ask for news here.”

Immediately all rose and crowded around him. It was enough that he had just come from England. Such news as he had was stale enough, and the frequent and easy communication between St. Germains and the islands made the refugees very much acquainted with what was going on across the channels. But they would by no means be satisfied.

“Is it a dry or a wet season, I pray?” asked one gentleman, anxiously, who owned not an acre of land, while another desired very earnestly to know how the fish were biting in the Ouse. Berwick, laughing, came to Roger’s rescue.

“Some of you may have had a taste of prison, but our friend hath had a full dose; so give him leave to eat and drink. Come with me, Mr. Egremont, and let me make you known to the hostess of this inn.”

Roger followed him back toward the door, and to the other side of the grille, where Madame Michot, stout and placid, checked off the slips the serving-men brought her for liquor.

“Madame,” said Berwick, bowing low, “this is Mr. Roger Egremont, an English gentleman, late out of Newgate prison. I will stand godfather for him at this place, and beg you will give him no inferior liquor.”

Madame Michot, after considerable effort, managed to rise and curtsey in return for a profound salute from Roger, and then he and Berwick returned, and all gathered around the table and began to make an English brew of liquor. Dicky was head man at this, and Roger, inwardly laughing, wondered what had become of Dicky’s piety.

They sat next each other, and every now and then Dicky would give Roger an affectionate shove, to which Roger would respond by a whack on Dicky’s back, and it was as if they had never been parted. Dicky was quite unchanged,—his homely, round, bright face sparkling with good humor and good sense,—and Roger had seen for himself that Dicky was as handy with the violin, as sweet-throated with his songs, and as light of heel as ever. Roger, however, was completely changed, and yet Dicky loved him not the less, but admired him the more. Before, he had been a taciturn man, knowing little to say, and having sense enough to hold his tongue. Now he bore his part in talk, and spoke well and plainly, and always to the point. His very countenance, formerly somewhat gloomy and vigilant in spite of a laughing sprite in his black eyes, was grown open, frank, and animated. Imprisonment had made him pale and spare, but his looks were thereby improved. Dicky thought him the finest fellow in the world.

“And tell us, Roger, how you passed your time in prison,” cried Dicky. “In your letters you said you had grown mighty bookish, and your writing was like the town clerk’s.”

Roger blushed a little; he wished Dicky had not let on that his writing and his bookishness was a thing of yesterday.

“I would have gone mad but for books. There were not many Jacobite gentlemen in the prison, scarce one when I left, for the Prince of Orange has a long head, damn him, and seeing that the people have but taken him on his good behavior, he conciliates all parties. But what of the King’s return?” he asked eagerly.

There was a silence, which was broken by Berwick saying,—

“We drink to the King’s return every night; let us do it now, with a hip, hip, hurrah!” which was done in a bowlful of hard liquor, and to a roaring chorus trolled out, with Dicky’s high, clear, flute-like voice soaring above the rest,—

The chorus echoed and re-echoed among the black rafters of the roof; the King on his knees in his dreary palace afar off might have heard that resounding cry of hope and triumph.

Roger, standing up and waving his glass with the rest, felt a glow of good cheer and companionship; so would he sing and shout for the King some day in the hall at Egremont. The thought of poor Bess came into his mind as he was bawling for the King, but man-like he made himself comfortable thinking, “Doubtless it is best that we should part, but God bless her wherever she is;” and then he joined in the chorus and sang as loud as any.

Not many gayer evenings were spent at the inn than the first night there of Roger Egremont. When the bats and owls in the forest of St. Germains were crying aloud in the midnight, the fiddle was again singing, and the rafters trembling with the carolling. There was a song with the fiddling,—a very tender song,—and Dicky was the singer. Some Scotch gentlemen did the manly sword dance very nobly, but one did it better, and that was Dicky. There was play, and a good deal of money changed hands, and poor Dicky lost all he had—about seven livres—and laughed rather ruefully at his own ill luck. And at last, when the black sky was turning a ghostly gray, and in the heart of the forest there was a rustling of wings and a chirping, and a small wind stirred the budding twigs, Roger and Dicky went up together to the great, bare attic room, and throwing themselves down on a pallet, slept with Dicky’s arm around Roger’s neck, as they had often slept when they were lads together at Egremont. And under their pillow was the little bag of earth without which Roger had not slept a single night since leaving his native land.

It was near noon before Roger waked. When he first stirred he thought he was in Newgate, as he had thought on waking every morning since he left it. But when he opened his eyes he quickly recognized the large attic room, with little in it. But through the open window came cheerful sounds of the common things of life,—the creaking of a bucket from the well, the sound of voices in the cherry orchard; and the spring sun was streaming in the one great window. Beside the window sat Dicky, fully dressed, and deeply absorbed in a little book, which Roger knew to be a book of devotion. Roger laughed to himself; he knew Dicky of old. The book of devotion always appeared after a particularly merry night in the old days at Egremont.

“Well, my lad,” cried Roger, sitting up on his pallet. “At penance again?”

“Roger,” replied Dicky, turning on him a round, rosy, solemn face, “you should not be so light-minded—though why should I reprove you? Am not I myself more given to idle pleasure than you?”

“And oh, I am a wicked fellow, and but little adapted to the priestly calling I covet, more through pride than piety I fear,” replied Roger, mimicking Dicky exactly; at which Dicky laughed and blushed and threw a cushion at him.

“Oh, Dicky,” continued Roger, still smiling, “how good it is to meet a thing as fresh as the daisies of the field, like you! You will forever be sinning and repenting like a boy. Let me see; you are now two and twenty, and I am four and twenty—heigh ho! ’Tis time to be rising and dressing, and then we will take a long walk in the forest I saw last night,—all our talks at Egremont were out-of-doors. Each of us has much to say and hear, and I think we understand one another better in the woods and fields.”

And into the woods and fields they went, deep and far; for St. Germains was seething like a pot with human beings, and it was hard to escape them, especially, if one was late from across the narrow seas.

Dicky, as usual, poured out his soul. He had studied hard at Clermont, where there were many English youths of the best families, until, his eyes giving out, he had been obliged to give up his books for a season. The fathers at Clermont had sent him to St. Germains, partly that he might be within reach of the Paris eye-surgeons, and partly for rest and recreation.

“I am still minded to be of the Society of Jesus. But I am afraid I am leading a sad life,” said Dicky. “I can’t get over my love of fiddling and dancing and playing; and this town does little else, it seems to me, but fiddle, and dance, and play. At the palace, ’tis different, but, it seems to me, the farther hope flies away of our return to dear England, the more the people frolic, and dance, and drink. And I tell you, Roger, my chief hope now is in the Duke of Berwick,—the Pike, they call him, because he is so tall, and thin, and straight; and I think the name suits him, because he does not bend to flattery, nor to anything ignoble. He is the only man who has the confidence of all, and is the favorite of the French King too. Now tell me, Roger, something of thyself.”

Roger told him all, not omitting Red Bess, and the way she had made his acquaintance, and the attack with the broom she had made on him.

“And you would not think, my lad, that any woman could wallop me,” he said, laughing and coloring a little. “But what with the surprise and the not knowing how to defend myself against a woman, and the girl’s amazing strength and spirit, I acknowledge I was handsomely drubbed; and it drove the devil out of me, and made me once more a gentleman. I will write to her this very day, for I have no better friend on earth than that poor girl.”

“And are you sure, Roger,” asked Dicky, anxiously, “that—that—you do not love this girl?”

“Love her? I know that I do love her. As for marrying her, I own that I have no mind to put a gaoler’s niece in my mother’s honored place, or to give my children, old Lukens, the turnkey, for an uncle. But I tell you on my word that this woman would no more stoop to be less than my wife than the Queen’s Majesty herself. Bess Lukens came into the world—a rough and briery place for her, poor girl—with a natural virtue that nothing can impugn. And ’tis a very robust virtue too; I make no doubt she has clipped many a rude fellow over the head as she clipped me. But in general, men are afraid of her, and in spite of her beauty, I fancy she has but little trouble in making them keep their distance.”

“And Hugo? Tell me all of him.”

Roger’s face darkened, but he told all he knew of Hugo, and likewise all he designed to do to his half-brother when God gave him the chance.

It was late in the afternoon before they returned to the inn. There they found a letter from Berwick.

“But I am not dressed like a gentleman,” cried Roger. “I do not mind that I have not a laced coat and hat, but I cannot present myself unseemly before my King!”

The resources of Madame Michot’s inn were ample, however, to fit Roger out for one night; and in a velvet coat not his own, and faded satin knee-breeches, and a pair of Dicky’s black silk stockings, he presented himself at the château of St. Germains on the stroke of seven.

He was met by Berwick, who conducted him to the King’s closet. On this their second meeting Berwick and Roger greeted each other like friends of long standing. The King’s closet, like most things about the palace, was gloomy. King James, lean, wrinkled, broken, but still wearing something royal in his aspect and manner, received Roger graciously. The Queen, poor Mary Beatrice, still young, still beautiful, her dark Italian eyes still beaming with light, was more gracious yet. Berwick remained and the King desiring to know all that had happened to Roger, he began and told his story from the day the troopers of William of Orange had surrounded Egremont, and its master had said farewell to it. His tale was pitiful enough, and it lost nothing in the telling. Roger had the natural gift of the story teller; his hardships seemed the harder from his relation of them. He told all that had befallen him, except one thing—the story of Red Bess, the gaoler’s daughter. He was guarded in his allusions to his half-brother, on Berwick’s account; yet he could not forbear, out of the stress and storm within him, speaking of Hugo as “my half-brother, Hugo Stein, the son of my father’s sin.”

King James winced at that. Berwick suddenly turned his face the other way, and the red blood dyed his face and neck; but he showed no abatement of good-will toward Roger.

When the King spoke, it was not without dignity. James Stuart knew not how to govern, but he knew how to bear misfortunes calmly and even majestically; and he was far more kingly in his dreary court of St. Germains than he had ever been at his palace of Whitehall.

“I shall be glad to have you enrolled, Mr. Egremont, in the corps of gentlemen-at-arms. ’Tis not much to offer you,” he said with a faint smile, “but it marks, at least, my appreciation of the loyal gentlemen who have abandoned so much to follow their King. No doubt, at this moment the Prince of Orange would be glad if he could see you once more in the enjoyment of your estate, but I know of no Egremont, so far, who has accepted a bribe.”

“True, your Majesty, and I thank you for the honor you have done me in permitting me to be of that corps especially attached to your Majesty, to the Queen, and the Prince of Wales. And I look one day to have my own restored to me, when your Majesty’s is restored to you.”

Roger Egremont had never spoken with a royal personage until then; but he bore himself so as to win favor, and backed out of the room without tumbling over his own heels. Once outside, Berwick clapped him on the back, and whispered,—

“We must pay our respects to the gentlemen and ladies in waiting, and then for Madame Michot’s; for I tell you that is the best place in St. Germains after the King’s bed-time!”

To this Roger responded with a wink. Three years’ imprisonment and the loss of his estate had not taken all the savor out of life for him.

Berwick led him to a handsome saloon, but poorly lighted and indifferently heated, and half full of ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman usher announced in a loud voice, flinging open the door,—

“The Duke of Berwick and Mr. Roger Egremont.”

Berwick entered, smiling and bowing right and left, and introducing Roger. The scene, which was really dull, seemed dazzling to Roger, long unused to assemblies of any kind. All the women seemed beautiful to his unaccustomed eyes, and his glance, wandering admiringly among them, fell upon a little weazened old lady, sitting in a great gilt chair at the top of the room. She was much painted and bewigged, and must once have been handsome; she still had a pair of black eyes, soft and flashing in spite of years. Behind her chair stood a small, cadaverous young man, very well dressed and extremely subdued in manner. And the old lady, catching sight of Berwick, screamed to him, in a voice and accent unmistakably English,—

“Come here, Berwick, and introduce that pretty fellow you have with you!”

Berwick bowed low, and whispered in Roger’s ear as they advanced,—

“Take care not to offend, for there is the loveliest girl of a niece;” and the next minute he was presenting Roger to Madame la Duchesse de Beaumanoir.

“Egremont?” repeated the old lady, giving him a small withered hand to kiss. “Are you the son of John Egremont, whom my Lady Castlemaine hated like poison?”—which she called pi’son.

“Yes, madam,” replied Roger. “My father ever hated Lady Castlemaine like the devil, and I presume it was returned in kind.”

“Hum,” she reflected; “your father was a sad dog. So are some of the other Egremonts here. Mr. Egremont of Sandhills and his sons are, I understand, no better than common touts and gamesters.”

“Madam,” replied Roger, with great respect, “I did not come here to have my name abused. I sometimes take that liberty myself, but I can by no means allow it to any one else. So, if you wish me to stay, say not one word against the very worst of my family.”

“I like your spirit, young man,” replied Madame de Beaumanoir, “and, God knows, few young men have any spirit now. They are not as they were in the time of King Charles of blessed memory. That was a court for you,—no nonsense, like this one, about going to chapel, and every man tied to his wife’s apron strings, and virtue and morality and fiddle-faddle. I was young then, and a fool, and married out of my own country, but sorry enough I was for it,—not that my husband was not a good man; oh, yes, too good. He was what they call a duke and peer of France; the people here of every condition think the world of ’em, and they think a good deal of themselves, God knows. However, I rank a French duke no better than an English duke—nor half so good. There’s nothing in France half so good as it is in England, not even the court of the Grand Monarque, as he is called,—a little man he is too, after he has taken his great periwig and hat and feathers off. The French court is mighty different from Whitehall in the days of that angel Charles the Second.”

“In what way, may I ask, madam?” inquired Roger, with an air of the deepest interest.

“In this way,” replied Madame de Beaumanoir, whipping out a gold snuff-box, which she offered Roger. “’Tis more serious at the French court. No one dares contradict the King; and there is a way they have of putting people in prison,—lettres de cachet they call it,—which shuts their mouths pretty effectually. But with blessed King Charles, we could be as impudent as we pleased, we freeborn Britons, and even this poor old King James, in his gay days,—for I can tell you, he was once as gay as you please, for all his pious long face and tiresome prayers,—he never revenged himself on a lady, nor a gentleman neither. I think from your looks you would have shone at the court of King Charles,” the old lady suddenly added.

“A million thanks, madam,” cried Roger, bowing to the ground.

“I have not seen my country for thirty-nine years,” continued Madame de Beaumanoir, “but I thank God I am as English as the day I left it. I was preparing to return,—my husband, poor man, was dead and buried, and I had my affairs in order, and a good sum of money, and nothing to keep me here, being minded to take my niece Michelle with me,—when this cursed revolution came about; and the court came to me, instead of my going to the court. ’Tis a monstrous dull court, forever praying and forgiving their enemies, and too moral by half. There’s Berwick—a pretty fellow, with a good wit, but I assure you he is not half the man Sir Charles Sedley was, or Rochester, or any of King Charles’s men. I hope you may enliven us a bit.”

“I will do my endeavors, madam,” answered Roger, “but remember, I have had no king like King Charles of blessed memory to model myself upon.”

“I know it,” sighed the old lady, “but you’ll do your best. Now, here is my grand-nephew, François Delaunay; when I sent for him from Languedoc, to live with me and perhaps be my heir, he was the most strait-laced little rascal you ever saw. He was perpetually going to church and I verily believe the creature had never been drunk in his life. When I would send for him to come and tell me some merry tales, he would be reading his Bible or his meditations, or some fol-de-rol. And when we had a little innocent lansquenet, the fellow actually had the impudence to tell me he had scruples about venturing money on cards! ‘Scruples!’ said I very loud, for I talk loud when I’m vexed, ‘I know what you mean. I have ’em too. I have scruples about leaving a livre of my money to a white-livered little lady of a man, who has not the spirit of a chicken nor anything about him that marks a man of quality.’ You should have seen the change it made in my little man; the hope of money is a great reformer. I made him learn English so he could speak it drunk or sober; and I have driven him now, until he can drink and swear and play like other gentlemen.”

Every word of this was heard by the luckless François, and he turned, with a good-natured, sheepish grin on his face, toward Roger.

“Madam,” said Roger, impudently taking Madame de Beaumanoir’s small hand, and holding it while he again helped himself to snuff out of her box, “I envy Mr. François Delaunay, and I will do what I can toward completing the education you have so auspiciously begun. I will take him, this very night, to the inn of Michot—a monstrous pleasant place, as you know.”

“Yes, I know,” cackled the old lady. “You are a comely, saucy fellow, not unworthy the company of my ever dear and blessed King Charles. I must make you known to my niece. She is a taking baggage. No great beauty, although they say she is, but with all the life in her that her cousin François lacks. She is not here to-night.”

And then Roger, who was amused by the old lady, felt a strange and strong dislike to this niece of whom both Berwick and Madame de Beaumanoir had spoken, and made up his mind that he would hate her.

Presently Berwick came after him, and he talked with many ladies and gentlemen, and midnight found them at the inn of Michot. They had a rollicking night. Dicky was there, and he sang and fiddled with gayety of heart. And François was there, brought by Roger, in conformity with his promise to Madame de Beaumanoir. At first, François affected the swashbuckler, the rake, and the wine-bibber, but when the wine was in the truth was out, with poor François, and leaning his head on his hand he complained bitterly, to the ungodly merriment of the rest.

“Shentlemen, you ought to pity me—tha’sh you ought. I am by nature a pioush man, shentlemen; I don’t like caroushin’ an’ drinkin’. I wanted to be a Calvinist minishter, an’ read golly books,”—François meant godly books,—“but tha’ devilish old woman saysh she don’t like golly men—likesh ’em rakish—won’t leave me a crown if I lead a golly life, an’ acshilly forcesh me to drink an’ swear an’ play. But I’ll dishappoint her yet. As soon as I’m my own man, I’ll be a Calvinist minishter and lead a golly life; no more drinkin’ an’ shwearin’,—all golliness.”

Roger and Berwick put him on horseback and sent him home at daylight very drunk still, according to their promise to Madame de Beaumanoir.