It was to be a very brilliant ball; for so the Countess Bertha had determined. The Prince had just given her a new emerald and diamond necklace, and she longed to display it. The Princess had ever taken but little interest in these balls, and when she appeared at them—which was not always—did not commonly take the trouble to put on her jewels. But to-night that strange, intangible, but convincing feeling of an impending crisis moved Michelle to dress herself magnificently, with all her diamonds blazing upon her graceful head and around her white neck. Perhaps it was partly also that feeling, which departs only with life, that makes a woman desire to shine before the man she loves.
Michelle had loved but one man,—Roger Egremont,—and he was far removed from her by all manner of obstacles; yet she had loved him well, and loved him still. She had noted all the silver hairs in his chestnut locks, all the lines that had come into his bronzed face; his coming had power to thrill her, to make her hate tenfold the wretched creature to whom she was tied, to make her blush with rage and shame at the insults he and his wretched companions heaped upon her. And having hungered for the sight of Roger Egremont for five years, she had herself splendidly dressed, and called up the color into her pallid face, and the fire into her weary eyes to welcome him.
The haunting presentiment which had not left her since Berwick and Roger appeared made her collect what money she had, as well as her jewels, and put it where she could lay her hand upon it. And also she made her waiting-women lay upon her bed a plain riding-suit and a furred mantle.
“For,” she said to herself, as she descended, with stately grace, the marble staircase, “this is my last ball at Orlamunde—my last ball at Orlamunde.”
When she reached the Saloon of the Swans, where there was dancing to the incomparably good music of Prince Karl’s private band, neither the Duke of Berwick nor Roger Egremont was there. Michelle’s heart sank a little; but Berwick and Roger had told her they would return on the Friday night, and nothing could shake her faith in them. They would be there; sooner or later, they would be there.
Hugo Stein was already present, walking about with his mask in his hand. He bowed insolently to the Princess, who sat in her chair of state, unmasked and declining to dance, and she gave him a smile of contempt which made him long to wring her white neck.
Michelle sat in her place hour after hour, smiling, composed, and waiting. It was divined at once for whom she was waiting,—in fact, Hugo Stein had told the Countess Bertha, in tones loud enough for Michelle to hear, why the Princess waited so patiently, and why she was so splendidly dressed. Michelle heard him, but did not betray so much as by the flicker of an eyelash that his words disturbed her. But she knew that before daylight dawned Berwick and Roger would, as they had said, be at the palace of Monplaisir.
The balls at this lovely palace were noisily gay, and when, shortly after midnight, Berwick and Roger, in riding-dress, drew rein before the palace doors, the throbbing of the music, the shrieks of laughter, the rhythm of dancing feet were loud in their ears.
Count Bernstein, who received them, looked infinitely surprised, the more so when Berwick demanded to see the Prince immediately on urgent affairs.
“It is impossible,” cried Bernstein. “His Highness is this moment at supper with a choice party of his friends, and cannot be disturbed. He will see you early to-morrow morning.”