When the King spoke, it was not without dignity. James Stuart knew not how to govern, but he knew how to bear misfortunes calmly and even majestically; and he was far more kingly in his dreary court of St. Germains than he had ever been at his palace of Whitehall.
“I shall be glad to have you enrolled, Mr. Egremont, in the corps of gentlemen-at-arms. ’Tis not much to offer you,” he said with a faint smile, “but it marks, at least, my appreciation of the loyal gentlemen who have abandoned so much to follow their King. No doubt, at this moment the Prince of Orange would be glad if he could see you once more in the enjoyment of your estate, but I know of no Egremont, so far, who has accepted a bribe.”
“True, your Majesty, and I thank you for the honor you have done me in permitting me to be of that corps especially attached to your Majesty, to the Queen, and the Prince of Wales. And I look one day to have my own restored to me, when your Majesty’s is restored to you.”
Roger Egremont had never spoken with a royal personage until then; but he bore himself so as to win favor, and backed out of the room without tumbling over his own heels. Once outside, Berwick clapped him on the back, and whispered,—
“We must pay our respects to the gentlemen and ladies in waiting, and then for Madame Michot’s; for I tell you that is the best place in St. Germains after the King’s bed-time!”
To this Roger responded with a wink. Three years’ imprisonment and the loss of his estate had not taken all the savor out of life for him.
Berwick led him to a handsome saloon, but poorly lighted and indifferently heated, and half full of ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman usher announced in a loud voice, flinging open the door,—
“The Duke of Berwick and Mr. Roger Egremont.”
Berwick entered, smiling and bowing right and left, and introducing Roger. The scene, which was really dull, seemed dazzling to Roger, long unused to assemblies of any kind. All the women seemed beautiful to his unaccustomed eyes, and his glance, wandering admiringly among them, fell upon a little weazened old lady, sitting in a great gilt chair at the top of the room. She was much painted and bewigged, and must once have been handsome; she still had a pair of black eyes, soft and flashing in spite of years. Behind her chair stood a small, cadaverous young man, very well dressed and extremely subdued in manner. And the old lady, catching sight of Berwick, screamed to him, in a voice and accent unmistakably English,—
“Come here, Berwick, and introduce that pretty fellow you have with you!”