“I say, my Lord Duke, this conduct cannot be tolerated in my presence.”
“Yes, your Highness,” replied Berwick, also smiling. “And may I ask, in all respect, what are you going to do about it?”
Roger, all this time, was breaking off the hilt of the sword, which he afterwards threw out of the window after its late master.
The Prince hesitated and moved uneasily in his seat. Berwick stood, calmly regarding him; Roger continued to examine the sword-hilt. Count Bernstein stooped and whispered something in the ear of the Prince, who spoke after a moment.
“Count Bernstein tells me that these gentlemen are half-brothers and there is feud between them. Some allowance can be made for Captain Egremont’s feelings, if he will apologize for his unbecoming conduct.”
“To whom shall he apologize, your Highness?” asked Berwick.
“To myself, of course.”
“Then, your Highness,” replied Berwick, with much readiness, “I ask, in Captain Egremont’s behalf, a week to consider your proposition. Meanwhile, I am the bearer of an autograph letter from His Most Christian Majesty, which I shall be pleased to deliver at your Highness’s pleasure.”
No man who ever looked into the eye of James Fitzjames, Duke of Berwick, felt like defying him, certainly not this miserable creature of Orlamunde. So the Prince passed over the circumstance, resolving, as such beings do, to take secret and private vengeance on Roger Egremont before he left Orlamunde.
“We will now attend the ladies in the saloon,” said the Prince; and rising, the whole company marched into the Saloon of the Swans. The great saloon was blazing with wax lights, and over the mirrored walls were the silver swans still sailing, sailing nowhere. And on the dais at the upper end sat Michelle—sat the poor, unhappy Princess, her cheeks wan and painted, her glorious eyes full of mischief and melancholy, her slender figure slenderer than ever,—a picture of what misery may do for a woman.