Berwick bowed low, and whispered in Roger’s ear as they advanced,—
“Take care not to offend, for there is the loveliest girl of a niece;” and the next minute he was presenting Roger to Madame la Duchesse de Beaumanoir.
“Egremont?” repeated the old lady, giving him a small withered hand to kiss. “Are you the son of John Egremont, whom my Lady Castlemaine hated like poison?”—which she called pi’son.
“Yes, madam,” replied Roger. “My father ever hated Lady Castlemaine like the devil, and I presume it was returned in kind.”
“Hum,” she reflected; “your father was a sad dog. So are some of the other Egremonts here. Mr. Egremont of Sandhills and his sons are, I understand, no better than common touts and gamesters.”
“Madam,” replied Roger, with great respect, “I did not come here to have my name abused. I sometimes take that liberty myself, but I can by no means allow it to any one else. So, if you wish me to stay, say not one word against the very worst of my family.”
“I like your spirit, young man,” replied Madame de Beaumanoir, “and, God knows, few young men have any spirit now. They are not as they were in the time of King Charles of blessed memory. That was a court for you,—no nonsense, like this one, about going to chapel, and every man tied to his wife’s apron strings, and virtue and morality and fiddle-faddle. I was young then, and a fool, and married out of my own country, but sorry enough I was for it,—not that my husband was not a good man; oh, yes, too good. He was what they call a duke and peer of France; the people here of every condition think the world of ’em, and they think a good deal of themselves, God knows. However, I rank a French duke no better than an English duke—nor half so good. There’s nothing in France half so good as it is in England, not even the court of the Grand Monarque, as he is called,—a little man he is too, after he has taken his great periwig and hat and feathers off. The French court is mighty different from Whitehall in the days of that angel Charles the Second.”
“In what way, may I ask, madam?” inquired Roger, with an air of the deepest interest.
“In this way,” replied Madame de Beaumanoir, whipping out a gold snuff-box, which she offered Roger. “’Tis more serious at the French court. No one dares contradict the King; and there is a way they have of putting people in prison,—lettres de cachet they call it,—which shuts their mouths pretty effectually. But with blessed King Charles, we could be as impudent as we pleased, we freeborn Britons, and even this poor old King James, in his gay days,—for I can tell you, he was once as gay as you please, for all his pious long face and tiresome prayers,—he never revenged himself on a lady, nor a gentleman neither. I think from your looks you would have shone at the court of King Charles,” the old lady suddenly added.
“A million thanks, madam,” cried Roger, bowing to the ground.