He was looking all the time for Michelle, with small hope of seeing her. But presently he heard Madame de Beaumanoir cackling in the distance, and in another minute she appeared, with Mademoiselle d’Orantia, and François in attendance.
Madame de Beaumanoir always made a flutter at her entrance, even into the presence of royalty. She chose a way of praising her ever adored King Charles before King James, which made that now strait-laced and deeply religious monarch writhe in his chair. It was—“One day, at the Duchess of Portsmouth’s—he! he! your Majesty, what gay days we had at Louisa Kéroualle’s!” Or—“I never could abide that Mistress Eleanor Gwyn, with her orange-girl ways. Your Majesty never approved of Nell Gwyn, that I know;” at which King James, who had been no Puritan himself in those days, but who had repented, hummed and ha’d, and glanced uneasily around him, and fancied a lurking smile on every face. And so the King, after speaking to her, usually made haste to get out of her company. To-night he pleaded pressing business in his closet, and retired from the face of his tormentor. The Queen remained, and a certain Scotch gentleman, who played a good fiddle offered to play for the dancing of those present. A recruit was found in the person of another gentleman, who played the viol da gamba; so they had an impromptu little ball, the Queen looking on smilingly from her chair at the top of the room. There were jigs and reels and rigadoons, the Scotch and Irish gentlemen excelling in these merry dances. Roger, who was a fine dancer, fairly rivalled them and altogether distanced even the Scotch and Irish in the minuet de la cour. He had never seen Mademoiselle d’Orantia dance any of these informal dances, but to-night she did jig and reel, rigadoon and strathspey with an incomparable merriment and grace. Roger had the anguish to see General Buchan take her hand for the minuet, and in consequence he retired and sulked in a corner.
It was known that Madame de Beaumanoir and Michelle were leaving the next morning for Orlamunde, and that Berwick and Roger Egremont were to go Rhinewards with them. There was keen curiosity to know why the ladies should go to Orlamunde, but beyond the fact that they went at the request of the French King, no information was to be had. Mademoiselle d’Orantia simply declined to be pumped. Madame de Beaumanoir frankly admitted she knew nothing about it, except that all her expenses were paid, and she should not stay a day at Orlamunde longer than she pleased—if she had to risk a lettre de cachet by returning home.
All last things are sad; Roger could not but think Michelle’s merriment put on, with her peach-colored satin gown, and pearl chain. At last, however, it was time to go home; the gentlemen fiddlers grew tired of fiddling. The King sent for Roger Egremont into the royal closet, where he found Berwick and the Queen.
“I have sent for you to say good-bye and God-speed to you, Mr. Egremont,” he said. “The Duke of Berwick has my instructions. If I should never see you more, remember I am your King and father, and have ever found in you a good and dutiful subject and son.”
And Roger, on his knee, kissed the hands of the King and Queen, and sent his duty to the Prince of Wales, and professed himself ready to die for the rights of his master, if dying could help them. The Queen too thanked him, bending upon him those glorious Italian eyes of hers, once so proud and laughing, and now so serene and full of sorrow majestically borne. Roger rose and backed out of the royal presence, leaving Berwick behind, who made him an unseen motion with his thumb, which was the magic signal for a night at the inn of Michot.
Roger left the palace, and walked fast through the town, under the white moon and stars, toward the inn,—the last evening there too. As usual at that hour, there was great commotion in the common room; and as Roger entered the great door and passed Madame Michot, on her platform, a boyish figure ran forward and clasped him—it was Dicky.
“Ah, my lad, I thought you would not let me get away without seeing me,” cried Roger, delightedly.
“For sure, I would not, Roger,” replied Dicky, “but you know I can’t come and go like you gentlemen of the sword. I have to get permission from my superiors.”
“So do we,” said Roger, laughing, and drawing Dicky toward the punch bowl, which Ogilvie the Irish gentleman, was stirring something in, vigorously; “I know of monstrous few men who don’t have to ask some one’s consent for all they do. But now that you are here, Dicky boy, you shall make a night of it, and you can have from now until Christmas to do penance.”