The procession, augmented by the Prince’s party, by a civic parade, and the rest of the army of Orlamunde, proceeded by slow degrees to the dingy old schloss. Here Michelle was to spend the last day of her maiden life, and to be married on the morrow; for the former Princes of Orlamunde had built a chapel in the schloss, but the last Prince had not remembered to include a chapel in his new palace of Monplaisir; nor had his son and successor repaired this singular oversight. Therefore must the marriage ceremony take place at the schloss.
Arrived in the old courtyard, with a cheering crowd outside, the Prince descended from the coach, and assisted Michelle to the pavement. Roger, amid the throng of court people, stood close to Berwick, and as he caught sight of the Prince’s face, observed that he looked as black as midnight. Evidently his first interview with his handsome bride had not been wholly satisfactory. And as for Madame Marochetti, she looked like an embodied thunder-cloud. Madame von Roda wore an air of meek resignation. The Countess Bertha had, so far, not appeared.
There was an hour of rest for the party, an hour spent by Roger Egremont in the room assigned him in an old tower of the schloss. It was one of the most wretched hours of his life. Being essentially of a noble nature, and disposed to fight against the devil which could not wholly be dislodged from him—or from any other man, for that matter—his own misery was hugely increased by the prospect of Michelle’s torments. For that she could ever be happy, or even be decently treated by the Prince of Orlamunde, he felt perfectly sure was impossible from the little he had already seen and heard. Had there been a prospect of her happiness, had her husband been a man whose hand he could take, whose word he could believe—ah, it would have been different. He had made no protestations of unselfish love to Michelle the night before,—nay, he had then only spoken of his own hurt and humiliation—but he forgot his own sufferings in thinking of hers. And as she had truly said, hers would be the heavier part. He would go forth a disappointed man, compelled to find in life the best substitute he could for happiness. She was chained to a man she would soon hate, if she did not already hate him, insulted by the presence of the women he placed about her, alone in a foreign land; her case was indeed hard. He could have groaned aloud as he thought of her.
At two o’clock came a banquet in the great Rittersaal of the schloss. The guests were placed at the vast table, Roger in a seat of honor next Berwick. When all were seated, a flourish of silver trumpets announced the entrance of the Prince and Michelle. They entered, preceded by the Italian woman and Count Bernstein. The Prince led Michelle to the head of the table, and placed himself by her, and the banquet proceeded.
Roger Egremont had been accustomed to seeing men drink, both in England and in France. But he never saw any man drink as did the Prince of Orlamunde, who remained, however, apparently sober. He talked occasionally with Michelle, and exchanged a few words with Madame de Beaumanoir, who sat on his left. The old duchess was singularly quiet. Roger had expected, from the expression in her sharp, bright old eyes that morning, that there would be a regular outbreak of sarcasm and impertinence from her; but she was almost polite to her cousin of Orlamunde.
Through the whole tedious affair, lasting some hours, Michelle sat composed and even smiling. Roger would have feared for her less had she shown more feeling, more apprehension at what was before her. But she might have been past all emotion, for any she showed. She did not even wince when, toward the close of the feast, a footman brought the Prince, by his order, a gilt basket containing four puppies, which the Prince fed from his plate, and conversed with, to the absolute neglect of his bride.
When the dinner was over, it was near sunset. As soon as darkness came, there were to be fireworks in the town. Until then, all were free to do as they pleased. Roger, consumed with a furious restlessness, sought Madame de Beaumanoir.
“So you have come to tell me you think my cousin of Orlamunde is a brute,” was her greeting, as Roger entered her saloon. “Well, I am of the same mind. I told Michelle not half an hour ago, that she would do well to establish some sort of communication with France, so that if she should be obliged to run away from this precious Prince, with his puppies in gilt baskets and his Marochettis and his von Rodas, she would have a place of refuge.”
Was it already gone so far as this? thought Roger, trembling for the woman he loved. It was not, then, his own sad and jealous fancy that made him feel that Michelle was doomed. Madame de Beaumanoir feared for her, Berwick feared for her. Roger listening in bitter silence, the old lady continued: “The Beaumanoirs have an old château, half of it tumbled down, on the frontier near Pont-à-mousson,—a horrid, lonely place. I have told Michelle of it, and how to reach it. She laughed at me—strange girl that she is; but she may yet be glad to fly to the old rookery of the Château de la Rivière—it stands on a little river.”
Roger said presently, with bitterness,—