“Say to the King that all his commands shall be strictly fulfilled—and I am his dutiful subject.”
As Michelle’s eyes sought him, Roger Egremont had a strange sensation, and moreover, he was vexed and uncomfortable at being the only person in the party who was not in the secret. Berwick’s face was inscrutable; the French gentleman looked a little surprised at the way his communications had been received, and somewhat haughtily bowed as he remounted, wishing them a pleasant journey. The old Duchess screamed after him, “Tell your master that I am going to Orlamunde for my own pleasure, and I shall not stay a day longer than it pleases me, if I am put in the Bastille for it. I know he will never dare to deliver my message,” she added to her listeners; and then they set out upon their journey.
CHAPTER XI
THE JOURNEY, AND SOME CONFIDENCES MADE BY ROGER EGREMONT TO THE PRINCESS MICHELLE.
“A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad one tires in a mile-a,”
trolled Roger Egremont in a voice, though not so good as Dicky’s, yet highly agreeable. He was riding by the side of François at the time. Berwick had, without so much as saying, “By your leave,” attached himself to Mademoiselle d’Orantia. The two rode in the lead, the travelling-chaise following, and Roger and François came next. The baggage wagon and servants were quite in the rear. To start out in the dewy freshness of a spring morning, on a good horse, upon an adventurous journey, with the lady of one’s love in the party, is not a bad thing. So thought Roger Egremont, undisturbed by Berwick’s possession of Michelle. He did not wish to make too free with his company. He had art enough and wit enough to know that it was well to make her ask herself the reason of his absence.
They had been travelling a good two hours before Roger broke out in song. At their first starting there had been something of uneasiness in the whole party. The receipt of the King’s letters had not seemed to elevate either the Princess Michelle or Madame de Beaumanoir to the pitch of joy. Berwick had jogged along looking even soberer than usual. Even François’s foolish face was clouded. Roger was annoyed at being the only one in the party who was left out of some sort of information or arrangement,—he knew not exactly what, and had no vulgar curiosity to know,—but not to know made him feel like an interloper. However, the sweet spring day, the motion, the exercise, helped to put each one in tune, and when Roger trolled forth his song, waking the woodland echoes, every one wore a cheerful face, and had a composed spirit. There is no such soother of perturbed minds as a good horse, on which to traverse the King’s highway, fair and free.
They made rapid progress, the roads being good, and skirting Paris without passing through it, found themselves at noonday on the side of the town opposite to St. Germains. They chose to stop in a pretty wooded place, rather than at an inn for dinner, Madame de Beaumanoir having brought a huge lot of provisions along. Her cook, however,—an incomparable artist,—had been left behind on a plea of illness; a plea which did not impress his mistress with its sincerity. She was therefore obliged to satisfy herself with the services of her maître d’hôtel and the footman. These two proceeded to lay a white table-cloth on the ground, and set forth a dinner that made the travellers’ hearts rejoice; all except Madame de Beaumanoir, who bemoaned that when they had got to the end of their home supplies she should not again have a decent meal until she returned to her own château and the recalcitrant cook. She even threatened to send back for that functionary, but was dissuaded by the maître d’hôtel betraying that the cook had an engagement in Paris, and had sworn publicly that nothing would induce him to again serve a house where there was a lady at the head of it.
“The ungrateful villain!” cried Madame de Beaumanoir, and proceeded to baste the cook; winding up, however, with the observation that he was right, after all; and if ever she adopted his profession, she too would decline to serve a mistress.
It was a very merry dinner; Michelle laughed and talked more than Roger had ever heard her. The air was unusually mild, even for the spring, and they could almost feel the grass growing under their feet, and see the bursting buds. Their stop, however, was not long. Madame de Beaumanoir was determined to reach Meaux that night, although it made a day of hard travel. But the roads were good, the weather fine, the cattle fresh, and no one balked her. They again took the highway, Roger this time with Michelle. He thought she would be weary and would wish to rest in the travelling-chaise; but he soon found that no old campaigner could sit a horse longer and with less fatigue than this delicately made girl. They talked gayly together, Michelle describing the country, of which she knew something so far. It was flat and rich and well tilled. Roger, as the case always was, found himself bringing into his talk something about the country at Egremont, until, after an hour or two, Michelle, breaking into laughter, said,