The old Duchess received him in her large salon. She was scarcely changed at all. She had been withered and weazened and bright-eyed six years before, and she was still withered and weazened and bright-eyed, and she still wore the green brocade gown.
“At last!” was her greeting; “you have not been near me in five years. Such is the way of men though,—a little love when we are young; no woman can hope for more.”
“Madam,” replied Roger, “I have been at St. Germains but one week in five years, until I came four days ago. And when I was here before you were absent.”
“True enough. But why have you so avoided the place?”
“Ask a soldier, madam, why he is here, or why he is not there?”
“Tut, tut. You had some reason for not coming. Well, I can hardly blame you. Since the peace, the poor old praying King has, I think, given up hope of ever getting back to England, and I suppose he must have asked himself every day since ’88 what he ran away for. And I, too, have well-nigh abandoned all hope of going back, and shall have to end my days in a foreign country. If my husband had died but a year before he did, I should have been back and settled in England, and I’d like to see any Orange prince or princess that would have turned me out!”
“I wish, madam, from the very bottom of my heart, that your spirit had animated the King. But I ever thought there was some temporary weakness of the mind that drove him to act so strangely. He, one of our bravest admirals,—whom Maréchal Turenne and the Prince of Condé declared to be more insensible of fear than any man they had ever known—absolutely ran away when he was implored but to remain, and assured that all the fighting should be done for him! Well, that is all over. We shall have our chance, though, with James III.”
“You will, my dear, not I. Now tell me of your adventures, for I hear that Berwick praises you extremely, and you have won promotion.”
The old lady, being very pressing, Roger told her such of his adventures as he thought would please her, but he had signal unsuccess.
“All about war, in which, according to your own account, for everything you did, your men or your superior officers deserved the credit; and not a single love-affair! Not even a little scrape with a married woman! Look here, Captain Roger Egremont, I once thought you fit company for his glorious Majesty, King Charles the Second; but know you, I now esteem you fitter for this snivelling, forgiving, pious old figure of a King we have at the palace yonder. I shall not let François Delaunay associate with you; he will be sure to learn some goodness or godliness of you that will make him more prudish than he is. I am very much disappointed in you, Roger Egremont.”