Men have been known to sleep the night before execution, and they invariably make a careful toilet when preparing for that interesting occasion. This occurred to Roger when, after having been immaculately shaved by Berwick’s man, he proceeded to dress himself carefully in his suit of green and silver, with his waistcoat of rose brocade. His chestnut curls, innocent of powder,—for he could not bring himself to wear anything but his own hair,—lay upon his well-made shoulders; his complexion was ruddy with health and youth; in short, had he been preparing for his own hanging, he could not have been more solicitous to make a good appearance. And he succeeded so well that, although he had nothing on this earth which he could actually call his own except the clothes on his back, and a few more in his portmanteau, and his horse, Merrylegs, he might very well have pleased a lady’s eye—as he undoubtedly had pleased Countess von Roda’s. He esteemed the lady but lightly, however, and had let several occasions for impudence to her pass unnoticed the night before—much to her disgust. He was long in dressing, and when he was at last through, Berwick knocked at his door. Berwick, too, was very nobly dressed, with his orders upon his breast, but he looked even more grave than usual.
“God forgive me for any part I had in this affair,” he said.
At noon, the chapel in the schloss was a blaze of gold and color; the Cardinal-Archbishop upon his throne, with shining mitre and jewelled crozier; the altar, with its robed priests, and glowing with a myriad of wax lights; the sanctuary lamp, like a great burning ruby; the sun sifting through the gorgeous stained windows,—all, all was beauty.
The bridal procession entered to the sound of joyous music,—the bridegroom, in his mantle of state, leading his bride; Michelle, in a white glory of satin and lace and pearls, her rich hair unbound and flowing over her shoulders, a circlet of diamonds gleaming upon her head, two beautiful boys holding up her long train of rose-colored velvet, sewn with jewels and bordered with ermine,—looking, as she had done the day before, appealingly beautiful. With bell, book, and candle was she married to the most high, most mighty, and most puissant Karl, Prince of Orlamunde, with many other titles and dignities. And he unblushingly took the vows of faithfulness upon himself, calling God to witness them.
The marriage being over, a loud crashing of bells, and clanging of trumpets and horns, and thunder of drums, and roar of artillery, drowned the bridal music as the procession passed from the chapel to the Hall of Knights, and Michelle was proclaimed by all her new dignities. Then there was another procession along the great avenue to Monplaisir, where a banquet and ball were to follow; for Prince Karl could by no means endure the old schloss, and would not remain a moment in it longer than he could help.
The April sun shone on the state carriages, horsed with four and six horses, on cavaliers, on coaches, and on a merry throng of townspeople and country folk lining the broad avenue, where the horse-chestnuts were pushing their pale pink leaves through their green sheaths. And the fair palace shone beautifully in the sun, the dolphins on the marble terrace spouting wine, and a whole regiment of soldiers—the regiment for which both Louis of France and William of Orange were chaffering—was paraded, and it was very grand and glorious; quite like Versailles, so Roger Egremont told several ladies, who nearly embraced him in their ecstasy at this compliment.
The banquet was very gay, and the Prince drank quite as much wine as the day before. The puppies did not appear this time. Madame Marochetti enlivened things by fainting, or pretending to faint, just as the bride’s health was proposed. The Countess von Roda, who still fancied Roger, and sat next him at the banquet, whispered to him, sadly, “My friend, my heart is wrung. I am a deserted woman. You cannot have been at Orlamunde twenty-four hours without knowing that I—I—was once loved by the dear Prince.” And then she fell to upon a fat capon and devoured it to the bones, meanwhile telling her mournful tale in Roger’s ear; he, inwardly raging and palpitating with agony, forced to laugh, in spite of himself; for the sorrows of Madame von Roda, as she told them, would have made a man laugh on his way to the gallows.
The ball followed in the evening,—more lights, more music, more everything. Roger was not now reckoned good enough to dance with Michelle in the minuet de la cour, so he could only stand off and watch her as she moved with splendid grace through the dance, her husband quite oblivious of her, and his attention fixed, this time, not upon puppies, but upon a handsome lady, who chose to appear and to sit in a conspicuous place in a very melancholy attitude. This was the Countess Bertha, who, her curiosity having finally got the better of her chagrin, chose to appear at the ball. And when the dance was over, she came up and demanded to be presented to the Princess of Orlamunde by the Prince himself. This, that worthy person did, with much obsequiousness, and was received by the Princess with perfect dignity and composure.
The eyes of all, however, were fixed on the great archway leading into the Saloon of the Swans, a magnificent room, with walls of mirrors and silver swans embossed upon them. Overhead, the painted ceiling told the story of Leda and her lover, Jupiter. In this saloon, tables were laid for play. The Duke of Mayerne, esteemed the prince of gamblers in Europe, was present; already, ten of his lackeys in green velvet, with gold chains around their necks, were bringing in little bags of gold, over which they stood guard. The dancing was soon over,—play being the more fascinating of the two great amusements of the court of Orlamunde,—and the whole company trooped into the saloon to play primero and quadrille. At the Prince’s own table were his new-made Princess, Madame de Beaumanoir, the Countess Bertha, the Duke of Mayerne, the Duke of Berwick, Count Bernstein, and Madame Marochetti. Roger surveyed the party, and his heart swelled for Michelle. Except Berwick, and Madame de Beaumanoir, what company was this for her? Professed gamblers, low women. Berwick was the only gentleman—nay, the only man,—at the table.
As the play progressed, he heard Berwick utter an exclamation, and then say, smilingly, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur; I was mistaken, I see,” and go on playing. Soon, Madame de Beaumanoir’s shrill tones rose over the murmur of voices, the occasional bursts of laughter,—