“I should like to hear that her villain of a husband was dead—or that she was.”
It was the first time Berwick had heard Roger Egremont mention Michelle since the April morning that they had left Monplaisir behind them. Neither said anything more; and presently Berwick, remounting, rode off. Roger continued to trudge by the side of his men.
It was for him as if no more women existed in the world. He made a firm resolve, and held to it surprisingly well, to think as little on Michelle as possible. Any other way, madness lay. It was as if all his illusions had been shattered at once. He saw himself as he truly was,—not a gentleman of fortune, temporarily out of his estate, but as a gentleman adventurer, most unlikely ever to have an estate. He secretly despaired of the restoration of the King, although keeping a bold front. He went his way, calm, not very smiling, but quite unruffled; did his duty as a soldier, and wondered why God should treat him so ill. For you will have known by this time that Roger Egremont was a very human man, and had all the common faults of humanity. One thing he noted with sorrow; he had grown indifferent to life. What mattered it, a few years more or less? He was reckoned extraordinarily brave, and his coolness in danger was remarkable where all men were cool in danger. But, in truth, Roger Egremont had no special objection to quitting a world where he had got more kicks than ha’pence, so far.
He had written several times to Bess Lukens, and had got two laboriously written letters from her. They were fairly well spelled,—as well as those written by some of the ladies of the court, both at St. Germains and Versailles, and had evidently been copied from a rough draft. Bess was well and happy.
“Last Sunday [she wrote] Papa Mazet took me to sing in the apartments of Madame Maintenon, before the French King. The poor man was near wild. [Roger took this to refer to Papa Mazet, and not the French King.] The King was extreame pleased, and said I should hear his twenty-four violins which played while he ate his dinner, and I did. There was a French lady there who also sang. She screached mighty loud, but did not seem to mind her notes much. Mr. Richard is now studying at Paris. He comes to see me on the one day in the month when he is let out. He and I are the best of friends. Papa Mazet heard that the Superior, as Mr. Richard calls him, had been axing about my character, knowing that Mr. Richard came to see me. I warrant you, Papa Mazet sent the Superior a message that put, not a flea, but a wasp, in his ear. I see the old lady, Madame Beaumanoir, a week ago, when I went out to see Madame Michot and spend Sunday with her. The old lady stopped me on the terrace, spoke me mighty fair, and said if I ever wanted help, to come to her. I thanked her, and axed her about you, and told her Mr. Richard was now living in Paris. She praised him monstrous high, but no more than he deserved, even if he is going to be a popish priest and talk Latin all the time, as I hear the popishers mostly do. They say the old lady did not stay at Orlamunde a whole month, and when she got back her friends had been near driven to chain her up, to keep her from going to Marly-le-Roi and telling King Louis a bushel of things he did not want to know. Pray let me hear good news from you, my dear, kind Mr. Roger. From your faithful, loving friend,
Bess Lukens.
N. B.—I write my name in general like you showed me—Elisa Luccheni.”
Roger had letters from Dicky as often as there was a good opportunity from Paris. Dicky told him the news from England and from St. Germains:—
“I go to see that honest creature, Bess Lukens, when I can. She sings to my violin, and we talk about what we shall do when we go back to England; not that I think she yearns to go as much as the rest of us. She says she has no one she cares about in England.”
And then Dicky told him the same story about Madame de Beaumanoir’s return.