The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

It was now August. The Maréchal de Luxembourg had fixed his headquarters at the gay little town of Nivelle, which was the gayer for that reason, and at Nivelle Berwick reported himself.

On the evening of his arrival he sought out Roger Egremont. Roger was found, sitting in his tent, studying maps by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle. He was delighted to see Berwick again.

“I had meant to go to see you as soon as the high mightinesses were disposed of,” cried Roger, as they gripped each other’s hands.

“I have seen other high mightinesses,” said Berwick. “I have seen my half-sister’s husband, the Prince of Orange. I will say of him that although I shall have no cause to bless his memory, I cannot deny him the faculties of a great man, nor, if he were not a usurper, of a great king. Our encounter after Neerwinden was not unlike the one you had at Egremont. The Prince, when I was presented to him, paid me a long compliment. This I returned by a low bow. He then regarded me steadfastly for a space. I looked him in the eye. He put on his hat. I put on mine. The interview ended.”

Roger laughed very heartily at this—he still had some laughter left in him. It is only your mean-spirited rascal who cannot laugh. God leaves laughter and tears as a solace to the honest people.

War, in those days, was full of gallantry, and the gay old Maréchal de Luxembourg was never without the presence of ladies at his headquarters, except when he was actually burning powder; and the ladies of the neighboring towns and châteaux had reason to remember the merry old gentleman gratefully. While he was doing all he could to send their husbands, fathers, and brothers into another world, he was eager to make this one pleasant to these fair ones. Some stern moralists, Berwick among them, rather complained of the Maréchal’s habit of turning his camp into a resort for the ladies.

Nivelle, during those August days, was certainly gay enough. Roger Egremont heard much of it, and saw many pretty women fluttering about, in coaches, on horseback, on pillions; but women no longer interested him. He had begun to study very seriously the great game of war, and had little thought for anything else. He did not even read as ravenously as he once had done, and one night, passing an abandoned campfire, he threw into it his little volume of Ronsard’s poems. He did it deliberately; he had tried once or twice before to burn the little book up, but his resolution had failed him at the last moment. The book, however, nestling close to his breast, spoke always of Michelle; it called her name softly to him, in the quiet moments before he was sinking to sleep, and made him dream of her. It talked to him of her as he went his way those summer days, in the pleasant Low Country, and as it would not be silenced he burned it up.

The fighting was over for the season in September. Armies in those days killed many men,—nearly twelve thousand dead men marked the day of Neerwinden,—and they could not keep this up the year round. In the winter most of the officers took turns in getting leave to visit Paris. Not so Roger Egremont. He was in a condition generally esteemed happy,—the place where he was, was the place where he most desired to be.

In the spring of 1694, more fighting; in the summer, more fighting still,—in Flanders, in Italy, on the Rhine, on the coasts of France,—everywhere arms resounded. In the winter all was peace, and the gallants fled to Paris. This year of 1694, Roger Egremont, conscious that he was growing to be a mere campaigner, that books and women, to whom every gentleman should be devoted, had lost their charm for him, determined to go to St. Germains for a while. He longed to see Dicky. He was willing to see Bess Lukens, whom he truly believed to be his best friend, but he was just as happy without seeing her. Bess felt something for him which he could not return. Roger Egremont, however, would not admit this openly, even to himself, being of a chivalrous nature, but he showed his instinctive knowledge of it by a certain discomfort he always felt in Bess’s presence.

He arrived at St. Germains in December, and remained a month. He went straight toward his old lodging at the inn of Michot, and as he passed through the orchard, coming to it from the river way, on a pleasant winter day, who should come running toward him but Bess Lukens! He had not seen her for two years, and was forced to see that she had improved in certain ways. There could be no improvement in her beauty or dress. She had ever a natural taste to set off her looks to the best advantage. However she had gained propriety of manner; she was more like a lady. But, alas! nothing could make Bess Lukens a lady. She was as unaffectedly glad to see Roger as ever, and the joy that sent the blood into her clear skin and filled her red-brown eyes with rapture was the same. Her voice, however, was softened, her manner gentler.