“Do I know you, madam? Certainly I do, but I would not be so ungallant as to betray a lady when she wishes to remain inconnue. I know, however, that you have a little, little hand, that you use a gold snuff-box, and that you love the English.”
“Oh, you delightful rascal, I know you. Is Berwick in attendance to-day?”
“Yes, madam; he is to escort the Prince of Wales.”
“You know what these French call Berwick?”
“Yes, madam,—the Pike, because he is so tall and straight.”
“Ah, but they have another name for him. ‘That great tall devil of an Englishman,’ they call him; and—”
A fanfare of silver trumpets cleft the golden April noon, and the King of France, with the Queen of England upon his arm, appeared under the gloomy archway of the château, leading the procession of royalties toward the terrace. Louis the Fourteenth was still Louis le Grand, although slightly tottering upon those royal legs of his, encased in crimson satin knee-breeches with diamond buckles. He could still make the most magnificent bow in the world, his plumed hat sweeping the ground, and the April sun shining on his vast powdered periwig. And he could still show that splendid deference to Mary Beatrice which no man ever showed so much to his poor relations of England as did Louis the Fourteenth. As for that sweet and noble lady, she appeared queenly, even by the side of the Grand Monarque. Her regal bearing was softened by an exquisite feminine softness, and she looked the fond wife and tender mother she was, striving to interest poor, sad, dispirited King James, who walked on the other side of her, and casting back affectionate glances at the pretty little four-year-old Prince of Wales, who clung to Berwick’s hand. It was plain to see why the Queen of England should love this half-brother of her son, for Berwick showed in every expression of his noble face the affection he felt for the young Prince, while the child himself evinced the utmost fondness for Berwick.
A brilliant suite of French and English court people followed the royal party as they proceeded toward the pavilion of Henry the Fourth, and then turned to traverse the whole length of the terrace. They walked along the drive-way, which had been beautifully swept and watered, and laid with a gorgeous red carpet. At every two hundred yards sixty powdered lackeys ran, and taking up the strip of carpet just passed over laid it ahead of the strip upon which the royal people were then treading. The promenade both on the right and left was crowded with people, some venturesome spirits standing outside the iron railing and clinging to it, that they might see the grand procession without being crushed. On the other side, where the great trees, cut flat as green pasteboard, made a wall, another vast crowd surged. Cheers and vivas resounded, to which King Louis and King James responded as became gentlemen, bowing to the right and left, while Mary Beatrice smiled that gracious and lovely smile which won all hearts. The little Prince of Wales, trotting by Berwick’s side and holding his hand, waved his little hat and feathers gayly; and when he grew tired, and was taken up in Berwick’s arms, the delight of the people was extreme. Honest bourgeoisie that they were, they liked this simple and natural family affection, and were not afraid to show their liking.
Midway the terrace is a huge semicircular alcove, set around with the flat-cut trees, and beautifully green with mossy grass. Here were placed three gilded chairs for the King of France and King and Queen of England. Numbers of other seats were arranged around the semicircle, for the other members of the royal family and their suites, and from this lovely spot, overlooking that fair valley—the steeple of St. Denis in view, much to the distaste of the Grand Monarque—these great ones of the earth watched the masquerade. The motley procession promptly appeared. Coaches were in plenty. Phoebus, driving his unruly horses, came first, in the gilded chariot of the sun. The four seasons followed,—the last the ice-king in his snow-covered sleigh. Knights and crusaders on horseback and in armor, ladies mounted on palfreys, Circassian beauties veiled from the gaze of men, peasant women, who wore jewels upon their bodices,—all the gay mummery of a court bent on displaying itself in public. It was two hours in passing the royal party, and the afternoon shadows had come before the procession was over. Their Majesties returned to the château, and then gentle and simple, courtier and shop-keeper mingled together in a grand revel. The music clashed louder. Anybody danced who would. Couples slipped away from the shouting, singing rush of revellers to the shady recesses of the forest, and were not missed—or, if missed, were not sought for. Wine flowed freely, coming from no one knew where. The masquerade grew wild, uproarious, and Roger Egremont, his natural gayety taking delight in such things, grew wild and uproarious too. But in the midst of a dance, whirling around with his strong arm the light form of a girl dressed as a gypsy, whose white hand belied her, one of those sudden revulsions of feeling which wait on all who know how to feel beset him. He threw his partner aside with mock courtesy, his soul revolted at her paint and powder. He cast off his domino, and rolling it up into a ball, kicked it as far as his heel could make it go. He had suddenly enough of revelling, he hated the masquerade then because it had ceased to amuse him; it was all foreign, French, alien to him. He could not act a part long or well. He yearned for quiet and for green fields, and fled from the music and chatter and loud laughter as if they were pestilent. He looked down at the meadows below the terrace. Nothing could be more silent or peaceful. The river was full of boats moored to the banks, but no one was in them. He saw not a solitary person in those deserted fields two hundred feet below him.
He walked quickly to the farther end of the terrace, by which he could walk down the steep slope to the meadow. The masquerade seemed increasing in noise and wildness as he passed along,—the shouts, the screams of laughter, the blare of music, the loud echoes of song,—but it only drove Roger the quicker away from it. His rapid walk soon brought him to the farther end of the terrace, and he fairly ran down to the steep hillside, toward those still and silent meadows basking in the sunlight. Once he looked back and saw the whole scene silhouetted against the blue sky, and he recognized easily, on the corner of the terrace, a short, lithe figure in a black domino, dancing nimbly with a fiddle in his hand accompanying the clashing of a pipe and tambourine. Roger laughed and was glad; it was good to see such honest, innocent mirth as Dicky’s.