Bess Lukens’s eyes were blazing by that time, and she seemed to grow taller every minute. No danger of her bursting into tears then, as she had done under Madame de Beaumanoir’s charge. She only said, in a voice moderate, but ringing with emotion,—
“No, it is not possible. I know what you would imply. And I tell you to ask Mr. Roger Egremont to show you a certain scar he has upon his left temple, and then ask him what his opinion is of Bess Lukens.”
“You misunderstand me,” answered Michelle, gently. “I meant was it possible that Roger Egremont loved you? You are a very handsome woman, Bess Lukens, far handsomer than I, and you have gifts and graces besides. It would not surely be strange if, seeing you every day, and experiencing your kindness, Roger Egremont had loved you. It would be strange if he did not.”
“What passed between me and Mr. Roger Egremont concerns but us two; but know you, there is nothing that ever happened which could not be proclaimed aloud on the terrace at St. Germains of a Sunday. Can you say as much?”
It was only a chance shot, but it went home. Michelle’s slight figure wavered a little—she caught the back of her chair for support. She had known all the time she was at la Rivière, and every moment since she had left it, that this horror of discovery would be hers—but it was the first time it had made itself felt.
“Mr. Roger Egremont has been very—very kind to me,” she said, hurriedly. “You had the privilege of being kind to him, but he and the Duke of Berwick, at Orlamunde, where I was grossly insulted by Hugo Stein—so grossly you cannot imagine—they succored me.”
And then there was a pause. Michelle had not heard one word of Roger Egremont, except that he had seen this beautiful girl daily for three years,—a thing he had never breathed to her. She ardently desired to hear more, but she dared not ask. The pause continued,—a pause which Bess Lukens declined to break. Both of them continued standing, and as Bess did not resume her chair, Michelle felt herself invited to go.
In going, however, she was once more the Princess. She might, remembering la Rivière, abase herself in soul below Bess Lukens; but when she walked in or out of a room, or said good-day or good-bye, she was the great lady. She made Bess a sweeping curtsey, saying,—
“Mistress Lukens, I thank you for receiving me, and for all you have told me, and for what you did to Hugo Stein; and if I said anything to wound you, I beg you will forgive me and believe I meant it not.”
“I will,” replied Bess; “I think we both be friends of Mr. Roger Egremont—perhaps too much the friends of that gentleman to be over friendly ourselves. But I bear you no ill-will, and trust you bear none to me.”