“Oh, come now, Prince! play your cards straight, like a gentleman.”
“Madam,” said the Prince, scowling at her, “pray, proceed; is it not your play?”
“God knows,” replied Madame de Beaumanoir; “I never played in so queer a game before. I must be getting old—or the cards are drunk.”
At this moment Countess von Roda whispered in Roger’s ear,—
“And the Countess Bertha was asked to the Prince’s table, and I was not! And she has been most unamiable to the Prince about his marriage; while Madame Marochetti and I actually went to meet the bride!”
“I dare say you are as good as either of them,” bluntly replied Roger; and then a laugh from the Prince cut the air; it was so harsh, so discordant—Roger had never heard him laugh before, and it was not pleasant to hear.
THEY WAIT TO BID THE PRINCESS GOOD-NIGHT
That evening was twenty-four hours long to Roger Egremont. At twelve o’clock it was time to leave. Roger, with Berwick, went to bid the Prince and Princess good-night; Roger mentally resolving that it should also be good-bye. For one moment, as he stood bowing before Michelle, their eyes met, and they looked steadily at each other. That look was, in some sort, a pledge of eternal constancy. He hardly knew how he got out of the palace, and found himself walking along the avenue of horse-chestnuts, the statues standing out like ghosts in the misty light of a languid yellow moon. Berwick was with him, and stalked along silently. He spoke but once, and then in a voice of concentrated rage and disgust.
“This palace of Monplaisir is a den of thieves. They cheat at cards; the women deceive the men, the men think they deceive the women. Oh, what a hell will that poor girl find herself in!”