Countess Bertha sat down again, still trembling. Roger sat and smiled at her with the utmost blandness.
In a few minutes Berwick came from the inner room, and he was heard saying: “Thanks for your Highness’s safe conduct. For two days I shall, with Captain Egremont, visit Mondberg and Arnheim, and return with my report to your Highness.”
The Prince remained sulking in the inner room, and Berwick, after a pause at the threshold, said, “I have the honor to bid your Highness good-morning.”
Then, nodding slightly to Countess Bertha, Berwick’s tall figure stalked out. But Roger made her a low obeisance, and walked out backward, with many genuflexions, as if he were leaving the presence of royalty—much to the lady’s fury.
He joined Berwick, and the two walked together through the Saloon of the Swans, the marble corridor, and many other sumptuous rooms, Berwick growling:
“The abandoned villain! But I have him—I can make him squeal, and by God, I will!”
On the marble terrace outside, the Princess was walking up and down, with the Marochetti and some other busybodies about her. They closed in around Berwick and Roger, and there seemed to be a sort of preconceived attempt to prevent them from having any private conversation with the Princess. But Berwick, in his direct and simple way, foiled them. “Madam,” he said to the Princess, “may Mr. Egremont and I have the honor of a few moments’ private talk with your Highness?”
“Certainly, my lord Duke,” replied the Princess, walking apart from the crew, which slunk back.
She led the way to a marble bench, over which stood a statue of Silence, holding a rose in one hand, with the finger of the other to her lip. On the Princess’s invitation, they sat, Roger on a garden chair which he drew up, and Berwick on the bench with the Princess. The ladies and gentlemen in waiting hovered as near as they dared, but out of earshot.
Roger observed Michelle well. She was indeed pale and thin, and had that look most wretched to see on a woman’s face,—one of defiant misery. But she was plainly softened by the presence of her two friends. To Roger Egremont’s eyes, she was only more lovely, more enchanting, in her woe than in her triumphant youth. How did he long to take this poor, stricken lamb to his bosom, and soothe and cherish her!