Of course, Roger tried to lay it all on fate, on opportunity, on everything except that tendency to evil which dwells in every man’s breast. It fell out so, he argued miserably and senselessly to himself. At the very first stage, the woman attendant had repented of her bargain to go to Pont-à-Mousson, and had slipped off secretly in the night. So Roger and Michelle were left without any travelling companion.
There was, however, no time to stop, as Berwick and Roger had agreed that Michelle should be got as far from Orlamunde and as quickly as possible. Michelle suggested that they should make for this old château of la Rivière, only two days’ hard travel off, where they could rest a night, get an attendant for her, and press on to Pont-à-Mousson. This seemed the only feasible thing to do; so they set forth from the village where the treacherous attendant had deserted them, and made haste to reach la Rivière. Roger rode Merrylegs, and the post-boys drove Michelle in the chaise.
They reached la Rivière late on the second evening from the frontier. They found an old man and his wife in charge, whom they knocked up at ten o’clock at night. The post-boys were dismissed, old Pierre cared for the tired horses, and old Marianne made Roger and Michelle decently comfortable in the tumble-down old château. At last they had a breathing spell, and Roger slept in a bed, instead of sitting in a chair in the corridor near Michelle’s door, with his hand on his pistol, as he had done for two nights before.
The next morning both of them slept late; the last three days were calculated to try the soul of either man or woman. What wonder was it, then, that when Roger saw how weary and languid Michelle was, he should say to her that she was not fit to travel to Pont-à-Mousson that day, and should rest at la Rivière? So much with a good conscience; but he did not go farther, as a gentleman should, and take horse to Pont-à-Mousson, and fetch her back an attendant on a pillion behind him, so that Michelle should not be without the constant company of a woman. No. The Devil did not need to take him up upon a high mountain, and show him the kingdoms of the earth in order to seduce him from his duty; all the fiend had to do was to picture forth to Roger’s imagination the fond delight of a day in May, at that lovely secluded spot, alone with Michelle. Of course, the favorite argument of Satan was used with good effect: it would never be known. And Michelle, who should have asked him to go to Pont-à-Mousson, if he had not so offered, listened to the same argument from the same source. Nay, she was even more casuistical than Roger, and tried to silence her conscience by saying to herself that it was the good God who had given her this one day with the man she loved, as a recompense for five years of torment.
They would certainly go on to Pont-à-Mousson the next day; of that there was no doubt whatever,—so each one declared in secret.
Old Marianne gave them some breakfast, and then Michelle, this wearied lady, who was not able to travel in a chaise a day’s ride, suddenly recovered her strength and spirits. When Roger said that it was not prudent for her health for her to go farther until the next day, her face became so illumined, she smiled so radiantly, the faint dimple showing in her cheek, that Roger was dazed with joy, and thought the six years since they had made hay in the meadows of St. Germains must be a bad dream. And when he remained silent on the subject of his going to Pont-à-Mousson, Michelle did not so much as once remind him of his duty. She acted as if two or three days of travel could fatigue him completely as it did her—him, Captain Roger Egremont, a campaigner in the Irish Brigade.
After it was tacitly settled between their two pairs of eyes, their tongues taking no part in the debate, that they should spend that day, the loveliest May day ever seen, together and alone at la Rivière, each saw rapture in the face of the other. Roger lay back in his chair on one side of the table where they had been breakfasting, and Michelle lay back in her chair on the other side, and they could no more have helped smiling than they could have stopped breathing.
“’Tis a heavenly day,” said Roger. “We must see this sweet spot,—this quaint house, the park; we shall have one whole day together.” And there was a note of triumph in his voice.
After breakfast, they started out on their exploring expedition. In the night, Roger had heard the rippling of water over stones; and to their delight they found a beautiful, shallow, clear, little river, tinkling under the windows of an old saloon with its moth-eaten yellow satin furniture. And, oh, surprise of surprises! there was a stone bridge across the water,—a bridge which some dead and gone Beaumanoir had built for defence; and some other dead and gone Beaumanoir had conceived the notion of building a quaint octagon room on this bridge; and the cushioned window-seats of this room looked down upon the crystal flood of the little river, with its mossy banks. On either side were willows, dipping almost into the water, making dark places where the silver scales of fish glinted.
Michelle—the weary Michelle—walked about this room with the quickest and lightest step imaginable, crying,—