THAT night, returning to their lodgings, Berwick said to Roger: “One week must do our errand here, for we have but a week in which to consider the apology you are to make to the Prince.”

“Only a week,” said Roger, reflectively; “I am not nimble enough of wit to think out a suitable apology in one little week—and that I shall tell him.”

“So I supposed.”

Next morning brought Count Bernstein, very early, to the joint lodging of Berwick and Roger.

“My dear sir,” he said, debonairly, when Roger appeared in answer to the Count’s name. “I come from Sir Hugo Egremont, your half-brother. Naturally, he is annoyed at your behavior yesterday, but he considers that you are—pardon me—a man of impetuous temper, and will make allowances. If you will deliver to me the jewelled handle of the sword, which, in your—your excitement last night, you wrenched from his person, he will overlook all else. I am authorized to receipt for the handle.”

“My dear Bernstein,” replied Roger, in the friendliest way possible, “you have been grossly imposed upon. There is no such person as Sir Hugo Egremont. He who assumes that name and the arms of Egremont is a bastard, by name Hugo Stein. My father was his father—and a great sinner my father was.”

Bernstein made a gesture of impatience.

“And,” continued Roger, as Berwick entered the room then and gravely saluted Bernstein, “I can call the Duke of Berwick to witness that I was up at sunrise this morning, hammering the jewels, which are mostly heirlooms in my family, out of Hugo Stein’s sword-hilt. I have them here in a little box in my bosom, and the fragments of gold I saved carefully and will thank you to return to Hugo Stein with my compliments.”

And he thrust a little parcel into Bernstein’s hands.

Bernstein, in a rage, turned to Berwick.

“Sir,” he said, “the Prince of Orlamunde will take cognizance of this affair. Your friend and protégé must submit to the authority of his Highness.”

“Alas, Bernstein,” replied Berwick, “I cannot answer for Mr. Egremont submitting to the authority of the Prince of Orlamunde. William, Prince of Orange, Stadtholder of Holland, and de facto King of England, a great prince, although a usurper, could not bring Mr. Egremont to submission, and how does the Prince of Orlamunde compare with William of Orange?”

Bernstein rose, speechless with anger. Berwick and Roger accompanied him ceremoniously to the head of the stairs, Berwick saying, “We shall hope to see you when we have our appointed interview with the Prince at noon.”

At twelve o’clock the two found themselves entering the palace doors of Monplaisir. They were ushered into a room Roger had not before seen, known as the Prince’s cabinet. It was small and luxurious, and the bright sun of April laughed in at the one tall window, with its yellow satin hangings. There was an inner room, which seemed smaller still.

Seated at a table in the first apartment, was Prince Karl, and with him Bertha von Kohler.

The Prince rose as Berwick entered, and saluted him pleasantly; nor was he cold to Roger.

“I desire to place in your Highness’s hands,” said Berwick, suavely, “the letter of His Most Christian Majesty. Likewise to convey to you the views of His Most Christian Majesty on certain matters concerning the league between the kingdom of France and the principality of Orlamunde.”

The Prince extended his hand for the letter. Countess Bertha wore a broad smile of delight. She aspired to be the Maintenon of this dissipated, evil Prince.

“Pardon,” said Berwick, bowing, “I must ask your Highness for a private interview.”

“Come into my closet, then,” replied the Prince, in a fretful voice.

Roger and the Countess Bertha remaining alone, the Countess appeared to be furiously vexed.

“His Highness discusses questions of state before me,” she said; “I do not know why the Duke of Berwick can object to my presence.”

“Nor can I, dear lady,” said Roger, with a grin, “unless it be that he has orders from his Most Christian Majesty to make his communication in the strictest privacy. And it would be exactly like the Duke of Berwick to do what the King of France told him, in spite of your own sweet wishes.”

Countess Bertha turned very red in her anger, unlike the Prince, who turned pale when he was in a rage.

“At all events, I shall know all that passes; of that you may be sure.”

“My charming friend, of course I know it. The Prince leaks like a sieve. The King of France took, I think, much trouble for nothing.”

Countess Bertha’s eyes flashed. The impudence of this fellow was past bearing.

“I think I understand you, Mr. Egremont,—and I understand why you and your friend the Duke of Berwick treat the Prince and me with such studied disrespect. We all had eyes last night. There is a personage here in whom you take a singular interest. Her enemies are your enemies, her feuds are your feuds, her friends your friends; shall I speak her name?”

“Not, dearest madam, if you have the least regard for your present health and future welfare. For, I swear to you, if you speak that lady’s name before me with any but the most profound respect, I am your enemy and you are mine, to the very last hour of my life. Remember, creatures like you hold their power by a very uncertain tenure, and the personage you dare to allude to holds hers by the power of a subsidy of two hundred thousand livres a year. The Prince loves money better than he loves you, and upon the report that we take back to France does that two hundred thousand livres depend.”

Countess Bertha sat down again, still trembling. Roger sat and smiled at her with the utmost blandness.

In a few minutes Berwick came from the inner room, and he was heard saying: “Thanks for your Highness’s safe conduct. For two days I shall, with Captain Egremont, visit Mondberg and Arnheim, and return with my report to your Highness.”

The Prince remained sulking in the inner room, and Berwick, after a pause at the threshold, said, “I have the honor to bid your Highness good-morning.”

Then, nodding slightly to Countess Bertha, Berwick’s tall figure stalked out. But Roger made her a low obeisance, and walked out backward, with many genuflexions, as if he were leaving the presence of royalty—much to the lady’s fury.

He joined Berwick, and the two walked together through the Saloon of the Swans, the marble corridor, and many other sumptuous rooms, Berwick growling:

“The abandoned villain! But I have him—I can make him squeal, and by God, I will!”

On the marble terrace outside, the Princess was walking up and down, with the Marochetti and some other busybodies about her. They closed in around Berwick and Roger, and there seemed to be a sort of preconceived attempt to prevent them from having any private conversation with the Princess. But Berwick, in his direct and simple way, foiled them. “Madam,” he said to the Princess, “may Mr. Egremont and I have the honor of a few moments’ private talk with your Highness?”

“Certainly, my lord Duke,” replied the Princess, walking apart from the crew, which slunk back.

She led the way to a marble bench, over which stood a statue of Silence, holding a rose in one hand, with the finger of the other to her lip. On the Princess’s invitation, they sat, Roger on a garden chair which he drew up, and Berwick on the bench with the Princess. The ladies and gentlemen in waiting hovered as near as they dared, but out of earshot.

Roger observed Michelle well. She was indeed pale and thin, and had that look most wretched to see on a woman’s face,—one of defiant misery. But she was plainly softened by the presence of her two friends. To Roger Egremont’s eyes, she was only more lovely, more enchanting, in her woe than in her triumphant youth. How did he long to take this poor, stricken lamb to his bosom, and soothe and cherish her!

“Madam,” said Berwick, “we have come on a double errand,—to see how the Prince is keeping his engagements about Mondberg and Arnheim, and to see how it fares with you. The King has given me large discretion; he has no mind to sacrifice you, and is your unwavering friend.”

Michelle’s eyes filled with tears, but she laughed as she turned away, saying tremulously,—

“I must not let those wretches yonder see me weep. They have not yet wrung a tear from me that any one has seen. As for the Prince’s engagements, I cannot tell how he is keeping them, but this I know, that Hugo Stein”—she turned to Roger, and a brilliant smile broke over her face—“is the accredited agent of William of Orange, and he has been trying to induce the Prince to sell the twenty-four bronze guns for about one half their value. Countess Bertha is in the scheme, and no doubt will get a part of the money.”

“We shall settle that very easily, madam,” replied Berwick. “We go to Mondberg and Arnheim this very day, and if the guns are not there, we return here, and make the Prince account for them. If they are there, with what you have told me, and with what the Prince betrayed involuntarily to me, I shall demand the instant withdrawal of Hugo Stein, on pain of withholding your dowry.”

“And without my dowry, the Prince will not want me,” cried poor Michelle, her sad eyes beginning to sparkle.

“Madam,” said Berwick, “if you wish to return to France, I cannot myself escort you, as it might make political complications; but Mr. Egremont—who is only my travelling companion, and is therefore independent—”

“Will take you, and cut the throat of any man who would keep you back,” interrupted Roger, vehemently.

Michelle leaned back smiling, and trying to keep back her tears.

“I thought I had not a friend in the world,” she said, “but now— Only, if I should leave, what would become of the poor French who have settled here? For there are in Orlamunde a dozen or so of French families which have come here to practise their arts—such as perfumers, wig-makers, and such. Those people look to me.”

“We may trust the King of France to look after his subjects,” replied Berwick. “But now tell me, madam, all you know of Hugo Stein.”

“I know nothing good of him,” said Michelle, a deep blush appearing upon her pale cheek. “He had the insolence to pity me, as a neglected wife,—to—to—dare to say that I could find in him the devotion the Prince lacked—and much else. I ordered him from my presence; I could not order him from the palace, because I have no authority here—the Countess Bertha reigns at Orlamunde—” this with extreme bitterness. “He appeared with unabated assurance at the levee after this interview, and excepting that he is insolent to me, where once he cringed, there is no change in him. But I know that he has orders to get the twenty-four guns, if possible; and I believe he is offered a place at court in England, provided he can get them.”

Roger’s heart swelled as she spoke, but his spirits rose likewise. How sweet was the thought of revenge upon his enemy! And he had little doubt that Berwick would make Orlamunde too hot to hold Hugo Stein.

Then they talked together for an hour.

Michelle had much to ask of her friends in France, and some gentle words of sympathy for Berwick when he gave her, in a few words, some particulars of the loss of his young and lovely wife. At last she rose. Berwick, who was no waster of time, wished to start for Arnheim that afternoon.

“For I foresee,” he said with a grim smile, “that a week will be the extreme limit of our stay here. The Prince has graciously allowed Mr. Egremont a week to make up his mind to apologize for pitching Hugo Stein out of the window,—and, as I know he will not be able to do it in that time, I take it that we shall be leaving shortly.”

“Oh that I could go with you!” cried the poor Princess. “If you but knew—” Then she stopped speaking, rose quickly, and tripped away gayly, waving her hand and crying out, “Au revoir.”

All that day Michelle had the feeling of an impending crisis—something decisive was in the air. True it was that Berwick came armed with all the authority of the King of France, and as such, having great power over the Prince. But it was something more than that—a crisis was at hand in Michelle’s life. This she felt as she had never felt before. It made the time pass as if she were in a dream.

On the Wednesday, Berwick and Roger Egremont had left for the fortified places, which were only about fifteen miles away—and on the Friday were they expected to return.

As soon as their absence was known, Sir Hugo appeared at Monplaisir. He had thought it judicious to keep away for a day, especially until the blast of ridicule had blown over—for this precious crew fell upon each other with savage mirth when one of them met with disaster. At the levee on Wednesday evening, however, he appeared in the Saloon of the Swans. He was as cool, as calm, as handsome as ever, and as superbly dressed, except that he wore a new sword, without a jewelled handle. He had to hear many sly innuendoes, and much open rallying upon his exit through the window, on meeting his half-brother. He took it with stoical composure.

“My brother is quite light-headed in his fury,” he said, and told the story of Roger’s throwing the plate of beans into the face of William of Orange. He told it in a loud voice as he stood at the foot of the dais, so that the Princess, sitting on her canopied chair, heard him distinctly.

“And he is a disloyal man and a rebel, and being both evil and unfortunate, I can but pity him; and besides, he is my brother,—we are the sons of one father.”

“Did you say your brother was both evil and unfortunate?” asked Michelle, leaning forward.

Now, this was an unlucky speech for the poor Princess, because it was already in the air, as Countess Bertha had said, that there was love between the Princess and the English gentleman.

“I did, madam,” replied Sir Hugo, impudently. “But perhaps you know him better than I.”

“I do,” retorted the Princess, in a soft voice. “I know that at St. Germains he had the high regard of his King and yours, and that of the King of France, upon whose will alone Orlamunde exists as an independent state. You are a very rash man, Hugo Stein, to show yourself in the presence of your half-brother Roger Egremont, and of Lieutenant-General the Duke of Berwick, who comes here with the fate of Orlamunde in his hands.”

Sir Hugo’s face turned scarlet as she called him Stein, and all his dear friends laughed—so much so that the Prince, who was playing lansquenet in the next room, asked what the joke was; a dozen persons pressed forward eagerly to tell him.

Presently Sir Hugo got near enough to the Princess to whisper in her ear, “You shall pay for that speech, my lady.”

“Just as you please,” smilingly replied Michelle, out aloud. “I do not think that Orlamunde is large enough to hold you and me much longer; and when you go, you carry with you the bribe of your master William of Orange,—but when I go, I take with me most of the ready money which goes to support the Countess Bertha.”

And with this shot the Princess lay back in her chair of state, her dark eyes full of laughter and triumph. Sir Hugo turned his back upon her, at which she laughed a rippling, silver laugh; and then the tale-bearers flew into the next room to tell the Prince that the Princess and Sir Hugo were quarrelling, or making love,—nobody exactly knew which.

On the next night was the weekly masked ball, which was, next to gambling, the very life of the princely palace of Monplaisir.

It was to be a very brilliant ball; for so the Countess Bertha had determined. The Prince had just given her a new emerald and diamond necklace, and she longed to display it. The Princess had ever taken but little interest in these balls, and when she appeared at them—which was not always—did not commonly take the trouble to put on her jewels. But to-night that strange, intangible, but convincing feeling of an impending crisis moved Michelle to dress herself magnificently, with all her diamonds blazing upon her graceful head and around her white neck. Perhaps it was partly also that feeling, which departs only with life, that makes a woman desire to shine before the man she loves.

Michelle had loved but one man,—Roger Egremont,—and he was far removed from her by all manner of obstacles; yet she had loved him well, and loved him still. She had noted all the silver hairs in his chestnut locks, all the lines that had come into his bronzed face; his coming had power to thrill her, to make her hate tenfold the wretched creature to whom she was tied, to make her blush with rage and shame at the insults he and his wretched companions heaped upon her. And having hungered for the sight of Roger Egremont for five years, she had herself splendidly dressed, and called up the color into her pallid face, and the fire into her weary eyes to welcome him.

The haunting presentiment which had not left her since Berwick and Roger appeared made her collect what money she had, as well as her jewels, and put it where she could lay her hand upon it. And also she made her waiting-women lay upon her bed a plain riding-suit and a furred mantle.

“For,” she said to herself, as she descended, with stately grace, the marble staircase, “this is my last ball at Orlamunde—my last ball at Orlamunde.”

When she reached the Saloon of the Swans, where there was dancing to the incomparably good music of Prince Karl’s private band, neither the Duke of Berwick nor Roger Egremont was there. Michelle’s heart sank a little; but Berwick and Roger had told her they would return on the Friday night, and nothing could shake her faith in them. They would be there; sooner or later, they would be there.

Hugo Stein was already present, walking about with his mask in his hand. He bowed insolently to the Princess, who sat in her chair of state, unmasked and declining to dance, and she gave him a smile of contempt which made him long to wring her white neck.

Michelle sat in her place hour after hour, smiling, composed, and waiting. It was divined at once for whom she was waiting,—in fact, Hugo Stein had told the Countess Bertha, in tones loud enough for Michelle to hear, why the Princess waited so patiently, and why she was so splendidly dressed. Michelle heard him, but did not betray so much as by the flicker of an eyelash that his words disturbed her. But she knew that before daylight dawned Berwick and Roger would, as they had said, be at the palace of Monplaisir.

The balls at this lovely palace were noisily gay, and when, shortly after midnight, Berwick and Roger, in riding-dress, drew rein before the palace doors, the throbbing of the music, the shrieks of laughter, the rhythm of dancing feet were loud in their ears.

Count Bernstein, who received them, looked infinitely surprised, the more so when Berwick demanded to see the Prince immediately on urgent affairs.

“It is impossible,” cried Bernstein. “His Highness is this moment at supper with a choice party of his friends, and cannot be disturbed. He will see you early to-morrow morning.”

“Count Bernstein,” said Berwick, going up close to him, “tell your master that the Duke of Berwick wishes to see him immediately, or it will be the worse for you.”

Bernstein, highly offended, turned away, but he dared not disobey; he, too, got his share of the two hundred thousand livres.

Berwick and Roger walked about restlessly in the entrance hall. The dancers saw them, and peered curiously at them. Once, through an open door, they caught sight of Michelle, a vision in white and pearls and diamonds, sitting in her chair of state, without a soul near her except a solitary lady-in-waiting, who yawned behind her fan. The rest, men and women, were flocking about the Countess Bertha, who held her court with the Prince at the other end of the saloon.

After a long, long wait, Bernstein came back to say that the Prince would see them in his closet in an hour.

“It must be a short hour,” was Berwick’s comment on this. They were shown into the Prince’s closet, the same room where they had encountered the Countess Bertha three days before. An hour passed. The clock struck two. There was no lull in the crash of music and the beat of the dancers’ feet upon the floor.

At half-past two Berwick had just risen to go in person to the Saloon of the Swans, when the Prince entered. And leaning on his arm was a masked lady laughing very much at something the Prince was just saying. It was the Countess Bertha.

“I beg you a thousand pardons, my lord Duke, and you, Mr. Egremont,” began the Prince, airily, “but the ladies—the ladies bewitched me and kept me beyond my time.”

“It is nothing, so you are here at last,” was Berwick’s reply.

Countess Bertha sank upon a chair, and removing her mask, fanned herself with it She had determined to make a stand to be present at the interview; but apparently no stand was required, as neither Berwick nor Roger took the least notice of her.

“Sir,” began Berwick, without any circumlocution. “I and Mr. Egremont, in whose judgment as a military man I have confidence, have visited within the last two days, Mondberg and Arnheim.”

At this, Prince Karl grew visibly paler; he was naturally of a cadaverous complexion.

“We find the fortifications in complete order, as you agreed with his Most Christian Majesty; but instead of the twenty-four bronze guns, of the latest pattern of ordnance, we found twenty-four dummies, guns made of some species of composition, painted over to resemble bronze, and calculated to deceive any one who did not minutely examine them.”

The Prince was quite pale now, and bowed his head on his hand weakly.

“And,” continued Berwick, “we find that they have been removed within ten days, and they cannot yet have been shipped to England; for that is their destination. I have come to require of you to replace those guns where they belong within thirty days, and to dismiss at once Hugo Stein who acted as agent for the Prince of Orange in this affair.”

The Prince attempted to bluster. “You take a tone with me, my lord Duke, which a reigning Prince is not accustomed to, and,” rising, “will not bear. How are you to enforce your demands, sir?”

“By at once notifying the King of France, who will withhold the pension of two hundred thousand livres which he allows you in the form of a dowry for the Princess.”

The Prince sat down again.

“And I must desire you,” continued Berwick, “to send immediately for Hugo Stein, as I wish my interview with him to be in your presence.”

The Prince made no move, and Roger Egremont after waiting a moment rose and touched the bell. Bernstein appeared so quickly at the door that he seemed to have been listening outside.

“The Prince desires to see Hugo Stein immediately,” said Roger.

Bernstein looked at the Prince for confirmation, and a faint nod was enough.

Countess Bertha, ambitious to play the part of a Maintenon, then spoke.

“My advice has not been asked,” she began.

“And will not be, dear lady,” replied Roger promptly. “And if you wish to remain and hear and see all that passes, you must be very good and still, else the Duke of Berwick will request to see the Prince in private, and you will miss a very interesting scene.”

Countess Bertha looked at the Prince, who scowled, and at Berwick, who smiled, and concluded to hold her tongue.

In a few moments more Hugo Stein walked in. He saluted the Prince respectfully, and kissed the hand of the Countess Bertha, and then looking about him, asked suavely,—

“May I ask your Highness’s pleasure?”

His Highness shuffled uneasily in his chair, and mumbled something indistinctly. Berwick spoke for him in a very cool, calm voice.

“Hugo Stein, the affair of the twenty-four guns is discovered. His Highness has precisely thirty days in which to replace them, for they are probably now in the Low Countries, and he has exactly thirty minutes to get rid of you, intriguer and falsifier that you are.”

Hugo Stein was not deficient in personal courage, when driven to the wall. But he was so absolutely wedded to his own interest that he seldom allowed himself the luxury of honest indignation.

“Thirty minutes, have I?” he said. “Are you, James Fitzjames, the ruler of Orlamunde, or is Prince Karl?”

Berwick turned such a look upon the Prince that he was galvanized into action.

“I—I—am extremely sorry, Sir Hugo,” he faltered. “As you know, I am under a very strict agreement,—obligation, one may say,—to His Most Christian Majesty. The Duke of Berwick has made the demand—I mean the request—for your dismissal.”

Hugo Stein looked about him at the three men before whom he stood. He was an inborn time-server, but he was not devoid of sense, nor was this bastard Egremont devoid of courage. He knew all about the Duke of Berwick, and knowing the man, he felt a perfect certainty that he would have to leave Orlamunde. Nevertheless, he would make a fight for it. He turned to the craven Prince and said, with a low bow,—

“Is your Highness willing to take the responsibility of dismissing the accredited agent of the King of England at the bidding of the King of France? I beg an answer.”

This opened a loophole for the poor stupid princeling. He tried to bluster.

“My lord Duke,” he said, turning to Berwick; “what Sir Hugo Egremont says is of moment. It will be a very gross affront to the King of England.”

“No, it will not,” replied Berwick. “Your Highness must be aware that the King of England dwells at St. Germains, and the Stadtholder of Holland reigns in England. But that is neither here nor there. If your Highness does not dismiss this man, you will hear from the King of France. His message will be brought by a couple of regiments of tall, stout fellows, who will remain at Orlamunde, to be fed at your expense, until this man, Hugo Stein, goes. And the soldiers of His Most Christian Majesty have enormous appetites! They will eat up the palace of Monplaisir, the schloss in the town, all your Highness’s carriages and horses, pictures and statues, jewels and money,—everything, in short, and possibly end by devouring your Highness.”

The Prince wiped his face, which was sicklier, more cadaverous, than ever. He got up from his chair and sat down again. He looked into Hugo Stein’s handsome eyes, and saw there the promise of the vengeance of a desperate man. He looked into Berwick’s, and saw there the promise of the vengeance of the King of France.

He said no articulate word; but a sound, a motion, conveyed to Hugo Stein that he was beaten. Countess Bertha sat, inwardly raging, but afraid to speak. Roger stood, enjoying himself hugely, and feeling little thrills of happiness run up and down his legs and his back at the discomfiture of his enemy. Roger could not say, however, that Hugo showed any discomfiture in his eye. He stood, a smile breaking over his handsome face, his hand gently tapping his new sword, and had the air of a man with a card in hand yet.

“So I must go, at the order of the Duke of Berwick? Well, before I pack my portmanteau to report to his Majesty of England, I desire to see her Highness the Princess of Orlamunde, in your Highness’s presence; for I plainly perceive that it is that illustrious lady who is at the bottom of this. It is she who has kept the French King advised of affairs at Orlamunde; and it is she who told me, some months ago, that should I succeed in securing the guns, she would see that I suffered for it.”

Bernstein, who was still hovering about the door, disappeared. There was deep silence in the little room. Every heart listened to its own beating. Roger thought that his would break through his ribs, so hard did it pound them. Through the open door came the echo of dancing and revelling. And after a pause which seemed interminable, the sweep of satin garments was heard on the marble floor, and in another moment Michelle walked into the room. Her face was full of color, and her eyes sparkled like the diadem she wore. Roger was reminded of her unearthly beauty on that day when she entered Orlamunde, and on that next, most ill-fated morning, when she had married the creature before them. She wore a rich white mantle, and casting it off her bare shoulders, she said, in her usual sweet and composed voice,—

“I am here at the request of your Highness.”

As she entered, Berwick and Roger Egremont rose and bowed profoundly. Hugo Stein was already standing, and he did not bow at all; he only looked at Michelle with an unrelenting smile. The Prince did not budge at all, nor the Countess Bertha, until she was moved by Roger Egremont, who, taking her elbow firmly in one hand, gently brought her to her feet, while with the other hand he tipped her head forward until she executed a very humble bow.

Michelle flashed a smile at him,—a smile so bright, so full of light and grace and feeling, that it almost turned him dizzy.

There was a deep, deep, pause. The Prince had not answered Michelle’s question, and the first voice that spoke was Hugo Stein’s,—cool, measured, and ineffably wicked.

“Madam,” he said, “his Highness has seen fit to order me from Orlamunde for alleged political reasons. I foresee that the truth will soon be out. He has, no doubt, information concerning our attachment. I shall be compelled to leave you to face the storm alone. But I wish to bear testimony that I am solely to blame. It was I who sought you out; who, charmed by your wit, and enchanted by your beauty, gave rein to the passion you inspired within me. Had the Prince been a more attentive husband, he would not now be lamenting his own shame. I offer, in his presence and that of the persons who are now here, to take you away with me, and to make you my wife as soon as a divorce can be obtained.”

Had the sky above them parted, and the earth beneath them opened, and the whole world fallen into chaos and old night, there could not have been more overpowering amazement. It was some minutes before any one recovered sufficiently to speak, or even to think. Hugo Stein alone stood in perfect possession of his faculties, looking coolly about him with an affected humility which could not conceal a sly smile. What delicious revenge was his! How simple, how comprehensive! How many did he pay back! That wretched Prince, who, bought by him, could be frightened by Berwick; that haughty Princess, who had scorned and humiliated him; and that half-brother, who had so grossly insulted him, and against whom he had that fierce and vivid hatred which a man always feels towards one whom he has injured. Hugo Stein had, indeed,—what the bad in this life, as well as the good, seldom have,—one moment of perfect and entrancing joy, when everything goes exactly as one wishes.

Roger Egremont was the first to recover his senses. Without a word, but with a cry like a tiger, he sprang at Hugo’s throat. Berwick, catching him in a powerful grasp, forced him back into a chair, and held him there.

The Prince lay back in his chair, livid and panting. He was a very foolish prince, was this Karl whom Michelle had married, weak of will, as he was of understanding, and open to suspicion. He had enough that was human in him to wish to kill the man who asserted that he had dishonored the Princess, and Hugo, looking back and forth, saw two pairs of eyes fixed on him with murder in them.

As for Michelle, she stood as if she were turned to stone. One hand she had partly raised, and she held it unconsciously in the same position, only a few inches from the top of the carved chair on which she had been about to place it. Her gaze sought Hugo Stein’s with a look of wide-eyed horror that was eloquent. Although she spoke not one single word, that look was accusation enough to condemn him a thousand times over. She actually appeared to grow taller as she contemplated him, and the indignation that brought the blood surging to her face, and even to her white throat, seemed as visible in her fair body as the rising of the mercury in a glass tube.

There was now no retreat for Hugo Stein, nor did he wish any. He had this woman—his enemy—in his hand, as he thought, and he had no mercy on her. He advanced a step, with a hypocritical gesture of deprecation, and cried,—

“Ah, Michelle, have I not made all the reparation in my power to you? If it was my fault, as I freely admit, that we had those sweet, stolen hours together, when we saw into each other’s hearts, and each read the other like an open book, have I not said, at the very moment of our detection, that I am ready to marry you the instant the Prince secures a divorce? And you may yet be Lady Egremont. Look not on me so, love; remember it was not always that you so regarded me.”

No one interrupted Hugo Stein, as he made this speech, which seemed in every word the direct inspiration of the Evil One. Berwick was holding Roger Egremont by main force, or Hugo Stein would never have lived to finish it. The Prince still cowered in his chair, breathing heavily, and wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

Suddenly Michelle seemed to come out of the dreadful trance in which Hugo Stein’s words had cast her. The deep, red color still remained in her cheeks, and she could not quite restrain the trembling of her hands, but she relaxed her stony attitude, and, advancing to her husband, said in a quiet, natural voice,—

“This creature is perfectly sane and responsible, and as such, your Highness must now and here, this moment, take steps to punish him. I do not ask his life, although he has forfeited it a thousand times by what he has said; but I do ask—demand—his immediate arrest, and the most rigid imprisonment until he recants. After that, it will be time enough to determine what shall be done with him.”

The Prince sunk farther back into his chair, and looked at Michelle with hatred and suspicion in his eyes. She waited a moment or two, and then repeated, word for word, what she had just said.

The Prince still remaining perfectly inert and speechless, Michelle moved a step nearer to him. She had no more words to waste on him, but her gaze of concentrated scorn and loathing pierced the armor of his dulness and wickedness, and he quailed under it.

Hugo Stein smiled, and approaching her, knelt at her feet. He meant to take her hand and kiss it, but when he was fairly down on his knee, although her hand was within reach of him, he dared not touch it, and scrambled foolishly to his feet. It suddenly came over him that, if he attempted it, he might never get out of that room alive.

There was a perfect silence, except for the faint whisper of music which floated through the open door from the ball-room of the Saloon of the Swans. The celestial thrilling of the violins vibrated so softly in the air that it might have come from another world.

Michelle, after contemplating her husband, turned toward Berwick and Roger Egremont, and instantly both of them rose to their feet.

“Madam, madam,” cried Roger, almost sobbing, “we will defend you!” He ran forward and knelt at her feet. Berwick, making a low obeisance to her, spoke in his usual calm and measured voice.

“Madam,” he said, “Captain Egremont speaks for me as well as for himself, and I speak for the King of France. His Majesty will wreak a dreadful vengeance on those who have so deeply injured you. I make no apology for telling your Highness that you must leave this den of thieves within the hour. I and Captain Egremont, acting for His Most Christian Majesty, will take your Highness away; and trust to us to punish every man and woman at Orlamunde who has injured you!”

At this, he looked menacingly at the Countess Bertha, whom everybody had forgotten.

“I thank you, my lord Duke, and Captain Egremont,” said Michelle, making them a sweeping and splendid curtsey. “I leave this place, as you say, within the hour.”

“How, madam?” feebly demanded the Prince, having at last found his tongue.

“Like a princess, as I came—in a coach and six,” replied Michelle, with the utmost coolness.

“But—but—you cannot go, madam. I will not furnish you with a coach and six.”

At this the Countess Bertha laughed, and Michelle smiled.

“The coach and six are mine,—the gift of my aunt, the Duchess of Beaumanoir, on my marriage.”

“I will forbid my servants to attend you,” cried the Prince, suddenly becoming violent.

“Let your Highness be at ease about that,” said Roger Egremont, respectfully, to the Princess. “I am an excellent coachman, and will drive your Highness’s coach and six to Paris with pleasure.”

“And I will be your Highness’s footman on this journey,” added Berwick. “I would recommend your Highness to make ready for your departure, for it is now near daybreak, and we should leave with the dawn. I will remain with you, to protect you, while you make your preparations for leaving—and Mr. Egremont will see that the coach is made ready immediately.”

“I go to order the coach,” said Roger. “Luckily, we are here as we arrived from Mondberg, and my horse-pistol is in the holster of my saddle. A horse-pistol is a powerful persuader under some circumstances. I beg your Highness will excuse me.”

The Princess nodded graciously, and Roger went out backward. As he reached the door, he paused, and shaking his fist at the Prince, at Sir Hugo, and at the Countess Bertha, he bawled,—

“O generation of vipers! infernal scoundrels that you are! As for you, Hugo Stein, remember your life is forfeit to me a thousand times over—and prepare you to defend it!”

“I will,” replied Hugo. He was not quite so happy as he had been five minutes before,—his scheme was not working out so well; but he said boldly, “And make you ready, Roger Egremont, to defend your own life; for by God! you will need to.”

“I shall,” replied Roger, “and know you, I fear you not by night or day, with arms or without, on foot or on horseback. And I say to all of you—may God’s vengeance alight on you, and may He in His goodness make me the instrument of it!”

And as he shouted out the words in his rich, full, resonant voice, came through the open door a burst of triumphant music, louder than any that had gone before, as if in applause of Roger Egremont’s words.

He ran at full speed out of the palace, on to the terrace, where a sleepy groom was walking Merrylegs and Berwick’s horse up and down. The air was keen and fresh; the sky was like a great dome of mother-of-pearl, with glints of color radiating from the east where a rosy flush heralded the dawn. Through the open windows came still the long, drawn sweetness of the violins, and the candles flickered palely in the coming of the new day.

Roger jumped on Merrylegs, and giving him the spur galloped off to the palace stables, half a mile away. He roused the sleeping people by beating with his pistol-butt on the great carved doors of the stables. Some faint protest was made when he ordered the state equipage of the Princess.

“Where is your order?” impudently asked the head-groom.

“Here,” replied Roger, clapping his pistol to the man’s head, “and your order too.”

Three men then jumped to do his bidding. Quickly the horses, six handsome chestnuts fresh and eager for the road, were harnessed; Roger stepped upon the lofty box, with its crimson velvet hammer-cloth embroidered in gold, and followed by Merrylegs, his bridle hooked to the footman’s strap behind, took the reins, and laying the whip upon the leaders, the coach lurched forward at a tremendous pace.

When at the palace doors, he brought the horses down from a gallop. Michelle and Berwick were standing on the marble steps. A great crowd was assembled, for it had flashed through the palace like lightning that the Princess was about to leave.

Men, pale after their night’s revelry, women, painted, patched, and powdered, stood in groups, the cruel light of morning showing them off hideously. Even the musicians, with their instruments in their arms, hovered near the doorways, and servants flocked upon the terrace. Some of these latter were weeping.

The Prince walked up and down the terrace, his sickly face working with passion; tears even dropped down his sallow cheeks. And from a huge bull’s-eye over the doorway, Sir Hugo surveyed the scene. He thought himself quite safe until he noted the pistol lying in the box seat of the coach beside Roger, who, catching sight of his half-brother, raised the pistol, and aiming straight at the bull’s-eye, fired. Sir Hugo dodged just in time—the glass being shattered with a loud noise.

Michelle wore a black hat, and a large black mantle lined with fur covered her travelling-dress, and in her hand was a box with the jewels she had brought to Orlamunde. Berwick in one hand carried a small portmanteau, while with the other he gracefully assisted Michelle. When she reached the coach, the door of which Berwick respectfully held open for her, some of the servants—those who were weeping—assembled around the coach-door. To them, Michelle said in a gentle voice,—

“I thank you for your faithful service. You alone at Monplaisir deserve that I should say farewell to you. All of my wardrobe, except a few necessaries, I leave behind for you. The division will be made by any one of you whom all may agree in selecting. And say to the poor French artisans in the town that I grieve to leave them unprotected, but if they have any injuries to complain of after I am gone, bid them write to me in the care of His Most Christian Majesty of France. Good-bye, and God bless you.”

The servants bowed low and murmurs arose of—

“Good-bye, your Highness. God preserve your Highness.”

Michelle stepped into the coach, and Berwick shutting the door sprang up behind in the footman’s place, throwing at the same time the bridle of Merrylegs and his own horse to two of the men-servants who had been among those at the coach-door. They mounted and followed.

And thus in her coach and six, with an English gentleman of a great and ancient family, for her coachman, and an English duke with royal blood in his veins for her footman, did Michelle, like a princess as she truly said, leave Orlamunde.