And so it was with Roger Egremont. His honor was as his life, and he was now living in defiance of it. In many ways this new conduct of his, new because it was base, affected him strangely. He had been wont to ride abroad, to see and speak with his fellow-men. Now he would not go near the highway, albeit there was no danger of his being recognized; he did not want to see the face of any of his kind except Michelle. Even the occasional presence of old Pierre and Marianne was often distasteful to him.
There were no houses nor even a peasant’s hut in sight from the windows, but on a neighboring hill was a little old church. It could not be seen, but the sound of the church bell could be heard; a singularly rich and sonorous bell, which some echo of the neighboring hillsides repeated with beautiful effect. When, at morning and evening, this bell set up its melodious clangor, Michelle always turned pale,—it seemed to be an accusing voice. Roger, on those occasions, would snatch up the viol and sing to it some merry chansonette—perhaps that gay song which so often rang out at the inn of Michot.
“Amis, passons-le gaîment!”
But it made a discord, a horrid discord, with that deep and serene music—that clear, angelic call to prayer and repentance of the bell.
It may, in short, be judged how happy they were in the Paradise of their own seeking, when it is told that Roger, after a while, began to be haunted by a dreadful apprehension about Michelle; he lived in terror that she might, some delicious day, or some wretched night, throw herself into the river. Something in her eyes, when she heard the sound of the church bell, frightened him. And on those nights when she walked the floor all night, he came, after a time, to rise, and open his outer door, which looked on to the little brawling stream, so that if he should see a white figure fluttering down, he could save it. And something of the same idea came to Michelle.
One day, sitting in the bridge-room, she inadvertently spoke of Berwick.
They had tacitly avoided talking of persons, because if these persons were good, Roger Egremont and the Princess of Orlamunde would be scorned by them; and if bad, this gentleman and lady would be reckoned fit company for them. But on this day Michelle, for once forgetting where she stood, talked of Berwick. She glanced at Roger, and saw that his face had turned pale under his tan and sunburn. She stopped at once, and a painful silence came between them, broken by Roger’s saying, in a tremulous voice,—
“Some day, I shall have to meet Berwick—and then—”
He rose and literally fled from the room. Presently she heard a noise below, and looking out of the window, saw Roger, in the doorway of his wretched chamber, hammering at his horse-pistol. She too ran out of the room, but when she came within his sight as she turned the corner of the building, she walked sedately enough. Going straight up to him, and looking him full in the eye, she said to him calmly,—
“Roger, give me this pistol,” and took it out of his hand.