The House of Egremont

by Molly Elliot Seawell

Roger advanced with Berwick to pay her his respects, and the sight of her, and the touch of that cold little hand put all thought of Hugo Stein out of his mind. She received them with perfect composure; she had had time and opportunity to learn composure under disquieting circumstances in the last five years. When she spoke, her voice was unchanged in its thrilling sweetness; that and her winning smile had survived five years of marriage with the Prince of Orlamunde.

“It is a pleasure to see you again,” she said, looking into Roger’s eyes; “I have not seen a friend for five years past.”

All around her heard this speech, which Roger could not but think imprudent.

“And,” she continued, laughing—oh, how sad it was to hear her laugh!—“you are unchanged, a violent and turbulent man when you are angered, but as gentle as a dove when you are pleased. I thought you would not sit quiet when Hugo Stein was at hand.”

So, already the news had flown about of his pitching Hugo out of the window. Hugo had thought it wise to depart, particularly as he had lost his sword, without which, he could not, according to etiquette, appear at the levee.

“Madam,” asked Roger, “is not that the way with most men in the presence of a sworn enemy?”

“No, no,” cried the Princess, looking at the Prince who was standing on the dais close by her. “In Orlamunde, for example, when a man is angry with his enemy, be it man or woman, he watches his chance stealthily, and when he thinks he is quite safe, he deals a poisoned thrust.”

Roger was not only surprised at this ill-timed frankness, but even secretly shocked. Having never exercised the slightest forbearance in his life toward those he conceived to have injured him, and having not half an hour before wreaked his vengeance on his bastard brother without the least regard to time or place, he was confounded that a woman should do likewise. But Michelle, being quick-witted, saw that she had not pleased him, and changed her manner to that of the most caressing softness. And listening to every word were Madame Marochetti, and the Countess Bertha von Kohler, who still reigned at Orlamunde, and who was first lady-in-waiting to the Princess, much to Madame Marochetti’s annoyance.

There was to be a concert presently, and in a little while the musicians were ordered to appear, and the company seated themselves. A tabouret was provided for Berwick, and a small chair for Roger Egremont; but Roger, seeing that he had carried things with a high hand in the beginning, concluded to adopt it as a regular policy while at Orlamunde. Therefore, saying to the Princess, “By your leave, madam,” and receiving a nod in return, he seated himself quietly on the edge of the dais. Something like a shiver went round. The ladies were all secretly delighted with his impudence, especially his old acquaintance Countess von Roda, who was quite out of favor and had turned pious.

The music began. Every man has it in him to do something good, even Karl, Prince of Orlamunde. What was good in him was the capacity for art. His palace was exquisite, his orchestra was perfect. When the violins and violoncello and flutes breathed forth the divine music of Gluck, it was as if the Saloon of the Swans palpitated with delight, so delicious, so searching, so heavenly was the harmony. Roger listened, thinking it was like the music of Paradise; and when the rapture of melody had lasted some time, he turned to look into Michelle’s eyes and saw the saddest sight. She was leaning back in her stately chair, her head resting on one thin hand sparkling with jewels, her long lashes on her cheek. She had fallen asleep out of pure weakness and weariness, in the midst of the enchanting music, with all those hostile eyes upon her. Bertha von Kohler was smiling maliciously; Madame Marochetti laughed outright. The Prince, turning to her, rudely awakened her. Michelle started, looked at him with hatred in her face, then catching sight of Berwick’s kind and pitying eyes fixed on her, smiled softly. Roger’s heart swelled within him. To this sad pass had ambition brought a woman born to love and to be loved.