“You at St. Germains have not so tiresome a time as the gentlemen and ladies at Marly,” said Michelle, smiling. “At least you have the unchanging favor of your King. At Marly every one wants something and works—how they work!—for it. In winter’s cold and summer’s heat, in illness, in weariness of body and spirit, yet they work, work, work! You are not so worn out at St. Germains.”
“True,” said Berwick, with his grave smile. “The French court calls for ten times the patience and assiduity we ever needed at St. James’s. And some of us—the younger ones—take things joyously at St. Germains, for we all hope to be restored to our own. Even our friend Egremont plumes himself that his estate will be worth more when he gets it back into his hand than when it was torn from him.”
As Berwick spoke Roger’s name, a blush kindled all over the creamy cheeks of Michelle. Berwick was sorry for her at that moment. She shook her bridle-reins and quickened her horse’s pace, and no more was said of Roger.
It was late in the sunny afternoon before they reached Vitry. When they clattered up to the entrance of the courtyard of the Three Roses, Roger was waiting for them. As soon as Michelle drew rein, Roger stepped forward, and without regarding the rights of Berwick, who had the privilege, as the gentleman riding with her, of lifting the Princess Michelle from her horse, swung her to the ground. And again Michelle blushed.
Madame de Beaumanoir and François were close behind. The landlord, bowing to the ground, was at hand, and supper was ordered at once.
There is something in change and movement which makes almost any inn tolerable for a night, and the life they were leading was novel to all of them except Berwick. Their supper, in Madame de Beaumanoir’s room, served by the landlord himself, with the maître d’hôtel to stand between him and the old Duchess, was gay as usual. When it was over, the young moon was high in the sky of night, which was still ineffably blue and clear.
Roger began to urge Madame de Beaumanoir to walk out and see the old castle by moonlight. Madame de Beaumanoir pleaded fatigue, rheumatism, old age. Roger answered these objections by producing from somewhere about the inn, an ancient and moth-eaten sedan chair, in which the old lady, with screams of laughter, ensconced herself.
“And you, mademoiselle, will go too?” he asked of Michelle.
“With pleasure,” she replied.
Roger looked at Berwick, who shook his head, as much as to say, “Manage this campaign by yourself, my fine fellow!”