The House of Egremont

WHAT is reckoned ill luck at one time is counted the best of good luck at another. Roger Egremont, who had fretted continually in his heart about being tied to the King’s writing-table, now was secretly rejoiced that he had ample duty to do, because of one of his fellow-secretaries falling ill just about the time of Bess Lukens’s arrival at St. Germains. Therefore he could see but little of that brave and honest creature. The reflection gave him a strange sense of relief, and also of remorse. In his prison days he scarcely knew how he should have existed without her. And now—oh, inconstant heart of man!—he could do very well without poor Bess. Never did he falter in his friendship to her, and often congratulated himself that Bess saw no change or shadow of turning in him. But Bess had more penetration than even Roger gave her credit for.

“’Tis what I expected,” she thought, sadly. “He is good and kind and thoughtful, and I believe would give me his last shilling, or die in my defence; but I am no more necessary to him. The prison life is an unnatural life; now he has got back to the open, free life, and instead of one companion, he has many. Well, I ever wished him free, and I will not be so base as to grudge him his freedom.”

The first month that Bess spent at the inn of Michot was by far the hardest worked of her whole life. She had been used, in the days at Newgate gaol, to carry water and wood and other heavy burdens, to sweep, to wash, to dust, to bake, to brew, to go on foot long distances, in cold, in heat, in wet, in drought, but she had never wrestled with learning a language. She made frantic attempts to learn French out of an ancient grammar provided her by Monsieur Mazet, but as she was not expert with printed words in English, she was still less so in French, and progressed but little in that way. She did make, however, considerable headway in learning words and sentences from Madame Michot and Jacques, whose accent was so frightfully provincial that it would have put a Parisian’s teeth on edge.

In the middle of the month Monsieur Mazet came on another visit to St. Germains, and went straight to the inn. Bess ran to meet him, and swelling with pride, greeted him with her Michot French, and rattled out all she knew.

Poor Monsieur Mazet almost wept. “Oh, my God!” he cried. “Such an accent as that, to be said and sung before his Majesty! I shall be sent to the Bastille for life, and I shall deserve it, if I present you at the Opera with that combination of alehouse English and road-inn French. No, no, no, mademoiselle, you must speak better.” At which Bess grew sulky, and relapsed into English, and shortly after, meeting Roger on the stairs, she abused roundly the French language, adding: “And Madame Michot and Jacques and Papa Mazet are all good to me, but they are not like English folk. I think the queer things they have to eat in France make the people queer,—that’s my solemn belief, Master Roger. I have not seen a bit of what I call butcher’s meat since I came to the country,” she cried. “A ha’p’orth of beef, as dry as my shoe, and a mess of nettles and such that they call a salad, is what they live on! Never mind; when I get to Paris I’ll cook that poor half-starved Papa Mazet something fit for a Christian to eat!”

Nevertheless Bess persevered, and in a few weeks learned enough to be glib and intelligible in conversation, although Papa Mazet still tore his hair at the continuing vileness of her grammar and pronunciation. Bess naturally felt great curiosity to know whether, among the many beautiful and charming women at St. Germains any had won Roger’s heart. But she had no means of satisfying her curiosity. So she drudged and sang, and picked up such French as she could, smiled when Roger sought her out, and on the whole took life bravely and cheerfully, as was her wont. The time would soon come when she would go to Paris, to study with Papa Mazet, as she had come to call him. She was to live in his house with an ancient sister of his; and Bess shrewdly suspected that Roger would be more anxious to see her when she was some hours’ journey away than when he could, if he chose, see her any hour in the day.

Dicky had returned to the seminary after his holiday of a day or two was over, but he came back once again for a day, and voice and violin made music together in the cherry orchard.

The Princess Michelle, spending her time reading and writing, or riding far and fast about the country with François for a cavalier, and seeing but little of the gayeties of St. Germains, could not get the thought of the bold Englishman, Mr. Egremont, out of her mind. Of course, she soon found out all about him,—trust a woman for that,—and by scarcely asking a question. He seemed to her cavalier and martyr in one. Three years in Newgate! A gentleman, a man of education,—how sad a fate! Michelle heard much of Roger’s acquirements and naturally supposed him to have been a learned young man when he slapped the plate of beans into Dutch William’s face. And the half-brother whom he had fostered and generously maintained, to oust him from his inheritance! Surely, no man at St. Germains had been so hardly dealt with; and the knowledge that William of Orange wished to conciliate him, and that there was little doubt he could have recovered most if not all of his estate, by simply staying at Egremont when he was flung down there, and that he refused the bounty of a usurper, and chose rather to share honorable poverty and exile with his fellow loyalists,—all this appealed powerfully to this dark-eyed child of France.

She did not meet him often,—he was kept close to the château then, and she did not much frequent the levees there,—and so only saw him two or three times at a distance for some weeks after the haying. Roger’s eyes, it is true, were always seeking Michelle whenever he walked abroad, but he went not after her bodily. She had not given him permission to visit her, and while it was true that Madame de Beaumanoir was forever urging him to come to see her, the old lady stayed at home so seldom that there was small chance of seeing her except upon those formal occasions when she held handsome routs and balls. And, most of all, Roger was instinctively learned in the hearts of women, and he divined that if he did not go often to the château of Beaumanoir, the haughty daughter of the Holy Roman Empire would wonder why he stayed away when he might have come. As for daughters of the Holy Roman Empire and widows of dukes and peers of France, Roger Egremont reckoned that an English gentleman of ancient and honorable lineage was in every way their equal—and proposed to act up to his belief.

His inward prophecy was fulfilled in one way. Mademoiselle d’Orantia wondered extremely why Mr. Egremont did not try to see and speak with her—wondered every day, and more than once a day; and one lovely September morning, walking with only an attendant through the forest of St. Germains, with this vexatious thought of Roger in her mind, she suddenly came upon what she thought was the reason of his want of zeal for the prosecution of her acquaintance. She saw him ahead of her, at a turning in the forest, talking with a handsome young creature, in the coarse skirt and bodice and linen cap of a woman of the humbler class; and he held his hat in his hand, and bowed with so much deference when he left her that she might have been the Queen herself.

Roger Egremont passed on without seeing Michelle, and his companion turning on her way, the two women came face to face in the narrow path. Michelle, wearing a large hat and feathers, holding her silken skirts up daintily, her servant following her with her book, was at once recognized by Bess as the young lady she had seen with Roger the day of the hay-making in the meadow. They both colored high, and Michelle, haughtily turned away her eyes as she passed. Bess, so far from doing likewise, craned her neck as she went on, and watched Michelle until an elbow in the road hid her from view.

Let it not be supposed that any woman, in her heart, disparages her rival. Bess Lukens did not, for one moment, recognize the far greater beauty that was hers; she only saw the grace and elegance of Michelle, her delicate figure and slim hands and feet, and her heart cried aloud, “How coarse and common must I seem to Roger, when he sees these dainty ladies!”

And Michelle, acutely sensitive to the brightness and splendor of Bess’s beauty, to her ravishing coloring and glorious physical perfections, said to herself with a bitterness, for which she could not account,—

“No wonder Mr. Egremont takes off his hat to that sumptuous creature. Pity some of her betters had not her beauty; we are but pale and bloodless shadows alongside of that brilliant comeliness.”

And as it always happens, Roger was called to account by both Bess and Michelle. Bess, with an armful of clean linen, meeting Roger that evening on the stairs, said tartly,—

“I saw to-day the young lady that you made hay with. She is not so handsome.”

Bess, observe, was speaking not to herself, but to Roger Egremont, of the woman she thought he favored.

Roger, with a poltroon’s readiness, answered,—

“I think she is not considered a great beauty, though very charming. She is not half so handsome as you. How come you on in French?”

“Pretty well,” replied Bess, seeing that Roger slid away from the subject of the Princess Michelle—whose name and quality she had found out promptly. “I know enough French now to make the impudent French devils behave themselves.” And she passed on to her work.

Roger went up to his attic congratulating himself that Michelle had not seen him with Bess in the forest that morning,—a purely accidental meeting, as he was on his way to do an errand for the King, though it might well have looked like an appointment. The first thing he saw on his rickety table was a note from Madame de Beaumanoir. She would be at home that evening. Would Mr. Egremont come? It was always a pleasure to see one of those devil-may-care Egremonts.

Roger immediately began dressing himself in his gray and silver suit, and afterward went to a barber in the town to shave him and give a curl to his long fair hair. The Princess Michelle did not wear powder; he had ever loathed it, and would scarcely have put a dust of it on his hair then for a thousand pounds, and swore frightfully at the innocent barber when he suggested it.

The château de Beaumanoir was all ablaze with lights. Servants were in plenty, and a supper which would have commanded even Bess Lukens’s respect was set out,—an English custom which Madame de Beaumanoir had retained, as she retained all her other English customs. Crowds attended her levees, as crowds always will when there is meat and drink and amusement free.

Roger entered the grand saloon to speak to Madame de Beaumanoir meanwhile, looking out with a beating heart for Michelle. Yes, there she stood, in her usual place near the old duchess. She was looking unusually charming. She was singular, not only in eschewing powder, but in not wearing the gigantic head-dress of the age,—a head-dress much disliked by Louis the Fourteenth, but which the power of one of the most absolute monarchs in the world was unable to abolish. As Roger drew near Michelle, some gentlemen and ladies were complimenting her upon the favor shown her by the King on her late visit to Marly-le-Roi.

“’Tis said that the King not only spoke of you after you left, but complimented you the next day,” said one.

“’Twas very kind of his Majesty,” said Michelle; and the old Duchess, turning to Roger who was nearby, cried out,—

“’Twas all because she wore her own hair and no head-dress. By such things is the favor of kings won!”

“And is it true, mademoiselle, that his Majesty walked with you by the side of the canal for half an hour, and then, to have more private talk, went with you toward the dairy in the wood?” some one asked.

“The King walked a little with me,” replied Michelle, coolly—she had by no means that overpowering subservience to royalty which was the prevailing fashion. Yet, Roger Egremont, keen of wit, saw that she was rather more pleased than she would admit. What young girl would not be, singled out for conversation by the greatest monarch in the world?

“I think, mademoiselle,” Roger ventured, “the dressing of your hair was a master stroke. I hear the King has labored incessantly, but vainly, against those monstrous head-dresses for years; and when his Majesty saw a woman of taste like yourself, mademoiselle, why should he not favor you?”

Michelle, instead of keeping to the safe and steady ground of Louis the Fourteenth and head-dresses, asked very softly and sweetly a question she thought would be most embarrassing to Roger.

“Who was that handsome creature I saw you speaking with in the forest this morning?”

Roger started and colored guiltily. He at once remembered Bess, but he could not recall seeing Michelle.

“This morning?” he stammered. “Well, ’twas— I—I—I did not see you in the forest then, mademoiselle?”

“No,” replied Michelle, “I happened to be behind you, and I was struck with the beauty of the girl.”

And then, suddenly, some sense of how rash her question might be dyed Michelle’s face scarlet. Roger, however, recovering his self-possession, replied,—

“It was Bess Lukens, a very honest English girl, of humble condition, who was kind to me when I was in prison, and for whom I have a profound respect. Like many of our English, she drifted to St. Germains, but she has been luckier than most. She has a fine natural voice, and Monsieur Mazet, of the King’s Opera, has offered to teach her singing. She is living with Madame Michot at the inn and working there for her living, until she learns something of the French language, then she goes to Monsieur Mazet’s house in Paris, to live with his old sister and to learn to sing and act.”

An “honest English girl of humble condition.” Michelle had no idea of how very humble Bess’s condition was. The whole story had a pretty and romantic sound to Michelle’s ears. She knew the English were very much less conventional than the French, and far more sentimental in their feelings, though not overflowing with it in words. Instantly the thought flashed through her mind that Bess Lukens was really going to Paris to be educated, and when that was done Roger would marry her.

Michelle said nothing more, but, the music striking up in the dancing saloon, permitted Roger to lead her out to dance. And as she danced she was saying to herself,—

“What a pity it is!—he a gentleman, so graceful, courtly, and polished, and she a common girl, whose beauty will go to seed like a coarse hollyhock. Well, these poor exiles must often find it hard to remember their quality.”

And every time she looked at Roger, when he made her the sweeping bow the dance required, he seemed to her more elegant, more of a courtier. Remember, she had not known him when he could barely write his name, and when Molly the housemaid and the stablemen and game-keepers were his best friends.

That night, as every time he saw Michelle, Roger felt more and more her power over him, and it began to come home to him, in the most painful way, that he was poor and likely for the present to remain so,—that he was but a commoner, while Michelle was Mademoiselle the Princess d’Orantia—and a dozen other drawbacks, miseries, discomforts, and disadvantages, all of which were to him like the sharp points in the iron girdle which poor King James wore secretly for his sins, one day in the week. Not that these things impaired Roger Egremont’s courage,—he continued to fear God and take his own part, according to the motto of the Egremonts,—but they were not pleasant. He still made no effort to see much of Michelle,—his lore in feminine human nature taught him that much,—and besides, he had honor enough left not to plead business with the King as an excuse for not seeing Bess Lukens often, and then find time to haunt the presence of Mademoiselle d’Orantia; and the King had especial need of his services then, and would not let him off; so he practised virtue, discretion, and industry under compulsion, which is better than not practising them at all.

The golden September wore on, and brown October came, and on a glorious morning, early in the month, Monsieur Mazet appeared, by appointment, to take Bess Lukens to Paris. Her few belongings were packed up; Madame Michot had paid her liberally for her two months’ work, and in good, hard, round, solid gold-pieces. The good woman still disapproved of so excellent a cook and laundress trying the uncertain future of an artist, but her experience with Bess for two months had convinced her that there was no danger in Paris or anywhere else for that robust young woman. Jacques, an honest fellow, who would have been in love with Bess had he not been so mortally afraid of her, presented her with a handsome set of ribbons; and Roger Egremont, taking her off privately, gave her two gold louis d’or.

“’Tis all I have to give thee, Bess, except my love and respect, but I give it with a good will.”

“Thank you, Roger,” replied Bess, returning once more to their old familiar way of speaking. “You have given me that which is worth more to me than money. But for you, I should have been still in England, with the words ‘gaoler’s girl’ hanging to me like the ball and chain they put to a felon. But thanks to you, I am beginning a new life in a new country, with all that ugly past behind me; no one but you knows what that past is—but you and Mr. Dicky, and he, good soul, will never tell it any more than you will.”

It did not need Bess’s inadvertent admission for Roger to know that he had been the cause of her coming to France.

Madame Michot was then heard calling excitedly from the orchard, and Bess and Roger appeared. There was a gate at the bottom of the orchard, opening into a lane which led to the highroad, and by that way Bess was to start. She had looked for a saddle with a pillion to take Papa Mazet and herself to Paris, but oh, glory!—there, at the open gate, stood a coach, a great lumbering house of a thing, with a pair of post-horses to it, and a tall, rawboned saddle-horse besides. And there was not only Papa Mazet and Madame Michot and Jacques, but several of the inn servants and five small boys to see Bess get into the imposing equipage provided for her.

Papa Mazet advanced as Bess followed by Roger came running down the orchard.

“This is for you, mademoiselle,” said Papa Mazet. “I go a-horseback to Paris, but I would not have it said that one with so lovely a voice as yours should enter Paris except in a coach.”

Bess was nearly wild with delight.

“A coach!” she cried. “Me going to Paris in a coach! Bess Lukens a-riding in a coach! I never was in one before” (Poor Bess, in her excitement, said “afore,” but quickly corrected herself); and her eyes shone like stars and she almost wept with joy.

“Come, Bess,” cried Roger, happy in the good soul’s happiness, “let me assist you into the coach, so that you may say with truth that you knew how to get in and out of a coach before ever you saw Paris.”

Bess stepped forward with the greatest alacrity, and Roger handed her in with much ceremony, she holding her head very high, and the warm color mantling her cheeks. And then she sat back and fanned herself with her hand,—a fan was not yet among Bess’s possessions. And having tasted this part of the pleasure, she rose and descended with all the majesty in the world, Roger still ceremoniously assisting, with Monsieur Mazet and Madame Michot admiring and ejaculating, and all the inn servants grinning behind them.

But it was now time to start, if they would make Paris before dark, for the roads were heavy, and the coach made but slow progress at best. Bess therefore kissed Madame Michot, saying to her solemnly,—

“I swear to you I will so act in Paris that you will never be ashamed to say you know me. And I thank you a thousand, thousand times for your goodness to me.”

“’Tis nothing,” graciously replied Madame Michot. “You earned all I did for you and more.”

Then Jacques shuffled forward and said,—

“I go to Paris twice in the week in the cart, and any time you like to come out, why, there’s plenty of room in the cart.”

“I know it—and I’ll come,” cried Bess, shaking Jacques’s hand vigorously.

Madame Michot watched narrowly for any lover-like symptoms on the part of either Roger or Bess at parting. But they parted with the openness and warmth of friendship only, Bess saying,—

“And give my duty and love to Mr. Dicky, and put it in the right words; for though I know exactly how to treat him when I talk with him, yet I don’t know how to send a message to a popish priest that is to be.”

“I will—I will,” cried Roger, and helped her in the coach for the second time. Papa Mazet mounted his tall charger, and they set forth, Bess putting her head out of the window to instruct the post-boys to be sure and drive through the principal streets as they left the town.

In truth, dear as Roger was to Bess, the parting, borne so calmly on her part, was robbed of much of its sting. The coach was the outward and visible sign that she had been raised from her ignoble estate, and the thought comforted her simple soul. And St. Germains was but fourteen miles from Paris, and the semi-weekly cart was a great comfort to her mind. So she set forth on her momentous journey with a light heart, and little anticipated a trifling though noisy misadventure which was to befall her before she had been an hour upon the road.

It was a crisp, bright morning, and they had jogged along steadily on the highway, Bess sitting majestically on the back seat of the coach, enjoying herself hugely. It is true that the dazzling color of her cheeks was somewhat paled, and she had certain qualms which the jerky motion of a coach is wont to impart to one unused to it. But Bess had a soul above such trifles, and would have endured the agonies of martyrdom with a high spirit, if only so she could have enjoyed her new and delicious splendors. She was saying to herself for the hundredth time, “To think that I, Red Bess, be riding to Paris in a coach,” when there was a violent shock of collision, and Bess found herself almost pitched through the coach window on the highroad. She recovered her lost balance quickly, and then found that a wheel had come off, and her imposing equipage lay ignominiously tip-tilted in the road. Papa Mazet had dismounted from his tall charger, but found himself quite unequal to cope with such a catastrophe; nor could the postilions repair the injury. They had, however, passed the shop of a blacksmith only half a mile back, and Papa Mazet, putting spurs to his tall horse, trotted back to fetch the blacksmith.

Bess chose rather to remain in the coach, tip-tilted as it was; for the equipage was invested with a kind of superstitious reverence in her mind, and she was seriously afraid of bad luck if she once put her foot to the ground before dismounting at Paris. So sitting at an uncomfortable angle, and barricaded with cushions, she prepared to await with patience Papa Mazet’s return with help.

Presently there was a great clattering on the road, and a chariot and four, very splendidly equipped, came thundering along, and drew up directly by the side of Bess’s disabled equipage; and peering out of the window directly upon Bess was a little, bright-eyed old woman, gorgeously dressed, and powdered. She occupied the whole of the back seat. On the front seat was the dark-eyed, elegant girl that Bess had seen in the meadow first with Roger, and had afterward met in the park, and who was, as Roger said, the Princess Michelle.

“What have we here?” cried Madame de Beaumanoir, in French.

“An accident, madam,” replied Bess, in such French as she could muster.

“Why don’t you get out of the coach, girl?” asked Madame de Beaumanoir.

“Because I don’t choose to,” coolly replied Bess.

The presence of Michelle, the calm unconcern with which she surveyed the scene, had in it something irritating to Bess. This was the girl of whom she tried to make Roger Egremont speak and he would not, beyond a few colorless phrases. Bess’s own imagination supplied enough to make her dislike Michelle and it lighted a fire in her eyes, and brought the blood to her cheek, at this chance meeting.

Madame de Beaumanoir was quite indignant at Bess’s debonair reply, and turning to Michelle, cried in English,—

“Did ever you hear such impudence? Who, think you, the creature is?”

“Miss Lukens!” almost shouted Bess, also in English, and sitting up very straight and putting her head through the window so that she and her adversary, Madame de Beaumanoir, were scarce a foot apart. “That’s who I am; who are you?”

“I,” replied Madame de Beaumanoir, very tartly, “am Madame the Duchess of Beaumanoir.”

“Well, Madame the Duchess of Beaumanoir,” replied Bess, whose warm temper was thoroughly aroused by this time, “I would advise you to waste no more time in affairs not your own, but to go about your business.”

“Hold!” said Madame de Beaumanoir, light breaking in upon her; “are not you the English girl who came to St. Germains after young Egremont? Sure,” said the old lady, turning to Michelle, “this is that hussy!”

Bess glared at her adversary for a whole minute. Her face was alternately flushing and paling, and her eyes, although defiant, were brimming over. And suddenly, instead of bursting into a storm of wrath, she fell, quite unexpectedly to herself, into a passion of tears, that flowed like a fountain and drenched her face, and shook her figure with sobs. Bess Lukens was not a woman of many tears; few persons or things could make her weep; but this unlooked-for encounter, this harsh accusation, the feeling that perhaps her coming to St. Germains had cast discredit on the man she loved so deeply and disinterestedly, overpowered her. And there was the woman whom she unconsciously put in the place of a rival, a witness to her distress and humiliation! The world looked very black to Bess Lukens then.

Madame de Beaumanoir, however, was not a woman of evil heart, though of unbridled tongue, and she was sorry at the sight of the pain she had given. Like most persons of her condition and of her time, she thought the common people provided with a set of feelings entirely different from their betters, and did not suppose that Bess would object to being called a hussy, or to be accused of following Roger Egremont anywhere. Seeing her mistake in this case, she was willing to make amends. But before she could speak, Michelle leaned forward and said, in a very kind voice, to Bess,—

“I think Madame de Beaumanoir is mistaken. I have heard that you are a most respectable girl, and very gifted in singing. And Mr. Roger Egremont has spoken of you to me,—a thing he would scarcely have done, did you not indeed have his respect.”

The words astonished Bess Lukens. She shared Madame de Beaumanoir’s notions concerning the gulf which separated gentle and simple, and the idea had never dawned upon her mind that a woman in Michelle’s position could care about the feelings of a woman at the other end of the scale. Bess looked up, her amazement checking her tears, and in Michelle’s black eyes she saw kindness, good-will, all that makes women sisters. She reached forth her hand, and took Michelle’s—it was hard to say which woman’s hand was advanced first.

“I thank you,” said Bess, with perfect dignity. “I was a fool to let an idle, malicious word upset me so. But ’twas the first time I ever had such a thing said to my face, though God knows many might have said it behind my back. I scorn to defend myself, but I cannot let a loyal gentleman, like Mr. Roger Egremont, who has been my friend, be traduced for me. If he had been what some persons think, would the Duke of Berwick have asked Madame Michot to take me in her house? Would Monsieur Mazet, with whom I am now going to Paris, offer to take me under his roof, with his sister, while I study singing? And all these things are of common repute in St. Germains.”

Bess had steadily refrained from addressing Madame de Beaumanoir, and looked straight into Michelle’s eyes. The two women felt not the smallest warming of the heart one to the other, but an instant and perfect respect. Madame de Beaumanoir, however, was not a person to be ignored, and at this stage of the proceedings, she put in her word.

“Now I remember, my nephew François, who collects all the news for me,—that is, such news as a poor rag of a man like him can collect,—told me that it was all pure invention about you and Roger Egremont, and that you were perfectly well behaved and not above your station. I am sorry I called you a hussy.”

Bess bowed haughtily.

Madame de Beaumanoir continued with animation:

“But I should like to know how any girl of your condition, and with your good looks—for you are a handsome baggage if ever I saw one—there, there, don’t fly out—I should like to know, I say, how you dare to remain virtuous? ’Twas not so in the days of my ever dear and blessed King Charles, who is now an angel in heaven. Why, the greatest ladies in the land didn’t care a button about virtue! Well, I say, the world is continually growing more topsy-turvy and outlandish, and when a girl like you—a London tradesman’s daughter, no doubt—prates about her virtue and respectability, and flames up because a woman of quality calls her a hussy, I don’t know what we shall come to!”

“All I have to say, madam,” said Bess in reply, “is, that I hold my name as dear as my betters; and as for your ever dear and blessed King Charles, I have always heard he was a great rascal where women were concerned.”

“Drive on, coachman!” screamed Madame de Beaumanoir, in much horror and indignation; and her coach rolled off, leaving Bess Lukens victor on the field of battle.

The postilions, as well as Madame de Beaumanoir’s footmen, had very much enjoyed this bout, and were sorry when it came to an end by Madame de Beaumanoir’s departure, and Monsieur Mazet’s arrival with the smith. In half an hour, the wheel was repaired,—Bess steadily refusing, from superstitious and other motives, to leave the coach; and sunset saw her arrived at the Porte Saint Martin, then unfinished. The size and height of the houses of Paris delighted her, and especially, the novelty of seeing the streets lighted at night by lanterns strung across on ropes. And she saw more coaches in her drive to Monsieur Mazet’s house than she had ever seen in all her life before.

Arrived at her new home, she found it a tall old house, surrounded by other tall old houses in the Rue Mazarin, and dismounting and entering, she found Mademoiselle Mazet, a tall old lady, who received her kindly. There were innumerable spinets and harpsichords about, and stringed instruments of all sorts, and piles of manuscript music. Bess had a famous appetite for supper, but was ready to weep with disappointment when she was set down to eggs, a bit of fish, and a very small ragoût, mostly vegetables. Her hosts were somewhat appalled by her appetite; nevertheless, Bess went hungry to bed. She determined, however, if necessary, to starve, in order to learn to sing. She slept well, as people do whose digestions and consciences are in perfect condition, and next morning she made the glorious discovery that in her voice, as trained by Papa Mazet, she had an everlasting source of joy and comfort.

Papa Mazet was delighted with his pupil, from the very first lesson he gave her. Her strong young body was a fit abode for her powerful and delicious voice.

While the reading of books had ever been more pain than pleasure to her, she learned to read music with surprising quickness, and even to accompany herself on the spinet and harpsichord. Mademoiselle Mazet was equally pleased with her, for Bess was quite incapable of airs, and asked no waiting on, which would have been more of a novelty than a pleasure to her. Then, as soon as she found herself at home, her native and ineradicable sense of order and cleanliness asserted itself. From keeping her own room exquisitely neat, she came to take charge of the dark old house. In a little while the cobwebs of a century had been ruthlessly swept out, the dust of ages had been sent along with the cobwebs, the piles of music were put in decent order, the instruments primly ranged against the wall, unused windows were opened, and light, cleanliness, and comfort reigned in Monsieur Mazet’s house. From keeping the house in order, she insensibly came to looking after the household affairs, when she discovered that the Mazets were regularly and systematically cheated by their servants and tradespeople. Bess sent for two or three of the worst of them, the candle merchant, the wood merchant, and the butcher, and descending majestically to the kitchen, harangued them forcibly in such French as she could command, eked out with very vigorous English. And being naturally of a hot temper, she indulged it, and was secretly pleased to find that her dramatic outburst had actually frightened the cheats extremely. Monsieur Mazet, listening anxiously at the head of the stairs, had more than one cause of congratulation at the panic with which she inspired the dishonest tradespeople, and the tragic tone with which she threatened them. After having dismissed them, trembling, Bess came upstairs laughing. Monsieur Mazet ran forward, and clasped her hands with delight.

“And was it truly acting, my child?” he cried. “If it was, you have a great dramatic genius, and you will be able to act as well as sing!”

“I don’t know that it was all acting,” diplomatically replied Bess, “but I think I scared them pretty well, and I want to look in the dictionary and find some more hard names that I can call them next time. I don’t know half enough.”

When she had been in Paris about a month, one morning Roger Egremont dismounted from his horse Merrylegs at the Mazets’ door, and Bess, seeing him from the window, ran and let him in.

Roger was glad to see her so well and happy. Bess examined him critically, but saw no change in him. Roger had learned the lesson of self-possession well, and no one could tell from his countenance when things were going ill with him. He showed the same old kindness in his manner to her, brought her many messages from Madame Michot, and wished to know every particular of Bess’s welfare.

She told him all, and when Roger laughed at some of the things she told him, she smiled a sly and pretty smile at him. But growing serious, she said,—

“Papa Mazet says I must not be Bess Lukens any longer,—that when people begin to hear of me as a singer, they will laugh at so homely a name,—but I must be Elisa Luccheni. The trouble is, that I can write ‘Bess Lukens’ so easy, and to have to learn to write that other name, ’twill be monstrous troublesome.”

“Monsieur Mazet is right,” said Roger, laughing, “And I will write Elisa Luccheni for you, so you may learn to write it yourself.” And taking his tablets from his pocket he wrote her new name most beautifully and gave it to her, which Bess thankfully accepted.

And then she had to tell him all the occurrences, great and small, which had befallen her in Papa Mazet’s house, including her victory over the tradespeople, and the full regeneration of the premises, under the influence of soap and water.

“I’ve washed everything in the house, Master Roger, except Papa and Mamma Mazet—for that’s what the good souls wish me to call them—and I have a great mind to put them in a great pail of water and to scrub them both well. And as for the servants and tradespeople, ’twould do your heart good to see how afraid of me they are.” Here Bess’s red lips parted in a broad smile. “You know my voice is pretty loud and full anyway, and it’s more so since I have got to doing trillos and roulades and such,—and I give ’em the benefit of it. And then I’ve learned a couple of dozen hard words out of the dictionary, and when I bring ’em out—Lord! how it makes their teeth rattle in their heads with fear!”

Plainly she was happy and well employed,—but not so absorbed in her new life as to be forgetful of her older friends. She wanted to know all about Madame Michot. Jacques had been to see her twice in the cart. And how was Mr. Dicky? Roger satisfied her on all those points. When it came to his own affairs, he told her glibly enough a number of things; that he feared the King would have to disband the gentlemen-at-arms; that the King gave him much writing to do, and the Queen made him go to church oftener than was altogether agreeable; and, in short, spoke freely of all his affairs, except the most important one—how his heart lay. He never once mentioned the Princess Michelle’s name, and if he knew of the encounter in the highroad, he kept his own counsel about it.

Roger passed a pleasanter hour with Bess than he had yet spent with her in France, and then had an interview with Papa Mazet, who returned home. Bess scurried out of the way as he came in.

“Well, monsieur,” cried Papa Mazet before Roger could speak. “Our postulant is getting on finely. Such a voice! such volume!—it increases daily. And she is, what so few girls of her condition are, a natural actress. The women of the people are not trained to self-control, and they rarely learn it. Your fine ladies are the ones to learn acting quickly, for they are taught to play a part as soon as they can speak. They know how to smile when they are inwardly tormented with vexation; to remain calm in the midst of provocation and tumult; to see ridiculous things without smiling and heart-rending things without weeping. And hark you, Monsieur Egremont, this girl of ours is very prudent where men are concerned. She seems well versed in the art of keeping them at a distance.”

“That is true,” gravely replied Roger. “I know of an English gentleman who once dared an impertinence with her, and she gave him in return a whack with a broom-handle, of which he will bear the scar to his dying day.”

“’Tis a blessed thing for her that she is of that mind,” answered Papa Mazet, “for she will have to keep many at bay as soon as she appears in public.”