Roger Egremont had never reckoned her as a strictly beautiful woman, although he had sometimes seen her blaze forth in sudden loveliness. But to-day she had a kind of unearthly beauty, that went to men’s heads like wine. A great, involuntary shout rose from the watching and waiting people, who were dazzled by her,—a rich blush covering her creamy cheeks, her black eyes like twin stars, her red mouth half curved in a smile. It occurred to Roger Egremont that the gorgeous dress she wore had something to do with the splendor of her beauty. He remembered that Bess Lukens—he had scarce remembered there was such a person in the world as Bess Lukens, since he left France—always looked handsomer in a stuff gown, with a linen cap and apron; some women were made for grandeur and some were not. Michelle was one of the first-named.
And then she was curtseying to her new ladies, and Madame Marochetti was looking at her with insolent curiosity, which Michelle bore with cool composure; it was not in the power of a Marochetti or a von Roda to disconcert this proud Princess. And the gentlemen were bowing to the ground before her, and she was accepting their assistance into the coach with a splendid air which would have graced an empress.
Madame Marochetti and Madame von Roda then got into the coach in which Michelle was, seating themselves on the front seat, Michelle sitting alone on the back seat. They bent their impudent gaze on her, but met with a cool disdain in her answering glance, that gave them small satisfaction.
Madame de Beaumanoir, with the two gentlemen-in-waiting, got into the second coach. Berwick, Roger Egremont, and François Delaunay rode their horses.
It was five miles to Orlamunde, and every step of the way there was welcome in some form—cheering, singing peasants by the roadside, triumphal arches, and flowers. The town of Orlamunde presently came in sight. A handsome stone bridge across the river led to the main part of it. There was on an eminence a dingy old building, half fortress, half schloss, in which the lords of Orlamunde had dwelt for many centuries. But as, like most of the princelings of that day, the Princes of Orlamunde copied as far as they could the methods and manners of Louis le Grand, a brand new palace, a miniature Versailles, whose towers and pinnacles gleamed whitely above the young greenery of a large park, was visible to the left of the town. A broad, straight avenue, as broad and as straight as the terrace at St. Germains, led to this white palace, amid its park and gardens. Clipped trees bordered the great avenue, and at intervals were statues, fountains, and bridges; and a noble marble terrace, with fountains of spouting dolphins, led up to the main entrance of this palace, named Monplaisir by its builder, the father of the present Prince.
All this, Roger Egremont saw as he rode briskly behind the carriage containing the woman who was to be mistress of this sweet domain,—that is, as far as Madame Marochetti and Countess von Roda would let her, and the Countess Bertha, as yet unseen, but whom he justly reckoned to be the worst of the lot. Nothing escaped his eye, although he felt as if he were acting a part in a bad dream. He had expected to see poverty and squalor on every hand, showing the price the people of Orlamunde had to pay for having so magnificent a prince, and was rather disappointed at the general signs of prosperity, both in the country and the little capital.
And, lo, they were approaching the ancient gateway of the town, with its drawbridge and stone gate-house pierced for arquebuses. And there was a glittering procession made up of the whole court, awaiting the bride, and making a splendor of color in the sunny noon, with the ivy-clad gateway and battlements for background. And in the very centre of the gateway, sat on a noble roan horse the Prince of Orlamunde.
Roger Egremont, who had keen eyes, studied this man closely, as they neared each other. He had a well-made figure, and his face was not unhandsome, but his eye, his mouth, his expression,—all that part of his physiognomy which a man makes for himself was odious and despicable beyond comparison. As they neared the gate, Berwick whispered,—
“If I were a woman, I should not like to be his wife.”
As the coach of state drew up, the Prince wheeled his horse aside, took off his plumed hat, and bowed low to Michelle. An equerry then quickly opening the coach-door, Madame Marochetti and the von Roda descended. What a look the Italian woman flashed from her eyes!—and what a stealthy grin the Prince flashed back at her! The Prince entered the coach, and side by side he and Michelle entered the little capital together.