Roger jumped on Merrylegs, and giving him the spur galloped off to the palace stables, half a mile away. He roused the sleeping people by beating with his pistol-butt on the great carved doors of the stables. Some faint protest was made when he ordered the state equipage of the Princess.
“Where is your order?” impudently asked the head-groom.
“Here,” replied Roger, clapping his pistol to the man’s head, “and your order too.”
Three men then jumped to do his bidding. Quickly the horses, six handsome chestnuts fresh and eager for the road, were harnessed; Roger stepped upon the lofty box, with its crimson velvet hammer-cloth embroidered in gold, and followed by Merrylegs, his bridle hooked to the footman’s strap behind, took the reins, and laying the whip upon the leaders, the coach lurched forward at a tremendous pace.
When at the palace doors, he brought the horses down from a gallop. Michelle and Berwick were standing on the marble steps. A great crowd was assembled, for it had flashed through the palace like lightning that the Princess was about to leave.
Men, pale after their night’s revelry, women, painted, patched, and powdered, stood in groups, the cruel light of morning showing them off hideously. Even the musicians, with their instruments in their arms, hovered near the doorways, and servants flocked upon the terrace. Some of these latter were weeping.
The Prince walked up and down the terrace, his sickly face working with passion; tears even dropped down his sallow cheeks. And from a huge bull’s-eye over the doorway, Sir Hugo surveyed the scene. He thought himself quite safe until he noted the pistol lying in the box seat of the coach beside Roger, who, catching sight of his half-brother, raised the pistol, and aiming straight at the bull’s-eye, fired. Sir Hugo dodged just in time—the glass being shattered with a loud noise.
Michelle wore a black hat, and a large black mantle lined with fur covered her travelling-dress, and in her hand was a box with the jewels she had brought to Orlamunde. Berwick in one hand carried a small portmanteau, while with the other he gracefully assisted Michelle. When she reached the coach, the door of which Berwick respectfully held open for her, some of the servants—those who were weeping—assembled around the coach-door. To them, Michelle said in a gentle voice,—
“I thank you for your faithful service. You alone at Monplaisir deserve that I should say farewell to you. All of my wardrobe, except a few necessaries, I leave behind for you. The division will be made by any one of you whom all may agree in selecting. And say to the poor French artisans in the town that I grieve to leave them unprotected, but if they have any injuries to complain of after I am gone, bid them write to me in the care of His Most Christian Majesty of France. Good-bye, and God bless you.”
The servants bowed low and murmurs arose of—