Presently all was over and they went out into the air. As they passed the holy-water font, Michelle took some in her hand, and after crossing herself, gently sprinkled a few drops on Roger Egremont. He felt it as a consecration.
When they were again together on the street, in the bright sunshine, Roger felt strangely happy. He looked at Michelle, expecting to see happiness reflected in her eyes. Instead he saw only misery. A sudden change had come over her. She looked unhappy and listless, and in place of the light, quick step with which she had entered the cathedral, she was languid and walked with her eyes on the ground. It was like a cold douche to Roger Egremont, glowing with enthusiasm and melting emotions.
“Mademoiselle,” he said to her humbly. “It is yet early—but seven of the cathedral clock. There is a plenty of time for a walk.”
“No, I must return to the inn at once. I am not used to being out alone. I cannot walk with you.”
This prudishness upon the part of a woman who was half English, and who had an independence that marked her among all the women he had ever known, surprised and chilled Roger. He said not another word, but escorting her back to the inn, and into the courtyard, left her, with a ceremonious bow.
He went for his walk, but the sun did not shine so bright, and he thought the birds clamorous, and he met many beggars, to none of whom he gave anything. He realized that he was not so good a man away from the woman he loved as with her,—however hopeless that love might be.
At nine o’clock they set forth, and travelled half the distance to Épernay, a short day’s travel. Mademoiselle d’Orantia still rode her horse, but she did not ride alone with Roger Egremont any that day. Either Berwick was on one side of her, or François. Madame de Beaumanoir, declaring she was lonely, commanded Roger to take a seat in the berline with her, where she gave him the entire history of every scandal that had occurred in her time at the court of the blessed King Charles the Second. In several of these Roger’s father figured, and Roger himself, who had learned to hate his father’s memory, yet fumed and fretted at being regaled with stories of that father’s peccadilloes. He knew Madame de Beaumanoir was far from a stupid woman, and he did not think her malicious, yet she delighted in telling him things he did not wish to hear. Presently an inspiration struck him.
“Oh!” he bawled suddenly, drawing up his leg as if cramped with pain. “Madam, my right leg seems paralyzed. I think I never rode in a wheeled vehicle so long before in my life!”
There was nothing for it but that he must get out and walk half a mile. At the end of the half-mile, the berline was waiting for him, the footman holding the door open. Roger got in. Madame de Beaumanoir resumed her stories. Within half an hour she remarked,—
“I am not at all surprised to hear of the doings at play of the sons of Mr. Egremont of the Sandhills. Their father, I warrant you, was no saint, nor hero either. A more selfish, wrongheaded man—though I believe he was reckoned a man of honor—”