Berwick stopped. Roger had come forward naturally enough and seated himself to inspect the map, but his face looked as pale and strange as Michelle’s had looked.
“What ails you, man?” asked Berwick, kindly, laying his hand on Roger’s shoulder.
“I have had a blow,” replied Roger, breathing heavily. “I feel it very much now; but I shall be myself to-morrow, never fear. Now show me the drawings.”
Berwick said not a word, but showed the maps, talked, and explained things far more than was his wont. Roger Egremont, usually the more talkative of the two, spoke not a single word. Occasionally his eyes, commonly so bright and clear, now dull and expressionless, wandered uneasily about the room. When a neighboring church clock struck one, Berwick rose.
“Come,” he said, “a man must sleep sometimes. We shall be awake betimes in the morning. All of Orlamunde will be here to meet the Princess Michelle. She is to marry the Prince, you know.”
Berwick turned his back as he spoke to Roger, and went up the narrow stair.
Roger had a little room over Berwick’s head, and under the sloping roof. All night long Berwick heard him tossing and groaning and muttering. At daylight he became quiet, and Berwick, whose rest he had much disturbed, fell into a deep sleep. From this he was awakened at eight o’clock by the sound of merry music, the clang of horns and trumpets, and the songs of maidens. The peasants around about had made bold to salute the young lady who was to become the bride of their Prince. Berwick saw from his window Michelle, beautifully dressed, standing on a little balcony, bathed in the white light of a lovely morning; she was kissing her hand to a flock of merry peasant girls who were flinging down spring flowers before her—anemones, the sweet narcissus, jonquils and crocus and violets—and singing verses made for the occasion. She was smiling and gracious—for was she not, the very next day, to marry their Prince?
CHAPTER XIII
THE PALACE OF MONPLAISIR—THE ABODE OF THE MOST HIGH, MOST MIGHTY, AND MOST PUISSANT PRINCE OF ORLAMUNDE.
THE glory and beauty of that April day would have made itself felt to a condemned man on his way to execution. The earth was like heaven—so fresh, so fragrant, so fair. The sky was one great sapphire; the little airs that blew wantonly kissed the new-born leaves in love and sport. The vineyards smiled; the little river Orla, a tributary of the Rhine, laughed; the birds and the butterflies rioted in the sunshine.
The inn was astir early, the peasants singing around it; all Orlamunde was released from work that day. At nine o’clock a courier had arrived from Orlamunde, notifying the party from France that state coaches, ladies and gentlemen in waiting, and a guard of honor were on their way to meet and greet their new princess, and would arrive within the hour.