As the second coach drew up before the arch of flowers, the two gentlemen of the court descended, and assisted the two ladies out. Berwick and Roger Egremont, who stood together at the entrance to the garden, heard a murmur as the first lady was recognized.
“The Italian woman,” was whispered in the hearing of Berwick and Roger Egremont. “Then the Prince could not persuade the Countess Bertha to come. Ah! there is Madame von Roda. She was more obliging; but they say the Prince is tired of her—and her husband has come back too. Where is he to-day anyhow?”
Berwick and Roger exchanged glances. This, then, was the greeting, the meeting, the escort which the Prince of Orlamunde had prepared for his bride. The lady known as the Italian woman, Madame Marochetti by name, was assisted to descend from the coach by the two gentlemen, Count Bernstein, and Baron Reichenbach. Madame Marochetti, a tall, black-browed creature with a walk like an ostrich, wore a scowl which would have disconcerted an ogre. Madame von Roda then alighted. She looked like a grisette of the Palais Royal dressed for a masquerade, and had a foolish, pretty face. The gentlemen, in manners and appearance, matched the ladies.
Berwick, advancing, formally introduced himself, and then introduced Roger Egremont to these noble representatives of Orlamunde; and a signal being given, Madame de Beaumanoir appeared at the door of the inn, leaning upon the arm of François Delaunay, who was very handsomely dressed, and looked frightened to death.
Never had Roger Egremont seen the laughing devil in Madame de Beaumanoir’s eye more rampant than at that moment. The state assumed by Orlamunde really amused her vastly, and she appraised instantly, and at their true value, the ladies and gentlemen who had been selected to receive their new Princess.
Madame de Beaumanoir had not thought it worth while to adorn herself especially for the occasion. She wore an ancient green brocade, which both Roger and Berwick recalled she had told them she had worn in the glorious days of King Charles the Second. On her head, however, sparkled a splendid coronet,—thus emphasizing the fact that she could have dressed herself grandly had she desired. There was much bowing and courtesying, Madame de Beaumanoir going through it with an indescribable air of affected seriousness.
“And how is my cousin of Orlamunde? Very well and anxiously expecting his bride,” she said, answering her own question before anybody else could. “Well, I hope he will like what I bring him. But one never can tell about these foreign marriages. At all events, you seem to have a very pleasant little country here, and I expect to stay as long as I find it agreeable.”
Roger distinctly saw one of the court gentlemen shudder at this, while Madame de Beaumanoir, putting up her glass, coolly surveyed the two ladies from the crowns of their heads to the soles of their rather large feet, exactly as if she were examining a couple of new and curious reptiles.
There was a pause, broken by a burst of young voices that rang in the morning air, not unlike the sweet, shrill bird-songs; the white-robed girls were singing their bridal song; and Michelle appeared, walking alone down the broad garden path, flower-strewn.
She wore a gorgeous satin robe of the color of a pale sky. Over her shoulders was a rich mantle of velvet of a darker blue, embroidered in gold and pearls with the arms of Orlamunde. Her head was bare, except for a flashing coronet that glittered in the sunshine. She walked with slow and stately grace, her head uplifted, and bore not the slightest trace of either fear or agitation.