“I believe, sir,” replied my lady, “that you were bold of speech before ever you were in prison, and you will be bold of speech if you never see prison walls again.”
At which Roger chose to laugh, treating it rather as a witticism than a rebuke.
“At least pardon an exile, madam, and pray for me, that I may once more be with my own King in my own country, on my own estate, with my own roof over me, my own horse under me, and my own sky above me.” By which he wished to convey that he was a gentleman of condition.
“What!” cried the lady, “is not France good enough for you?”
“France, madam, is the best country in the world—except England. France is close to me, like my coat, but England is my shirt—nay, more, it is my skin.”
“I am half English too,” she replied, and then, Roger uttering an exclamation and advancing a step, she withdrew a little and making a deep curtsey, said,—
“Sir, I bid you good evening.”
“Madam, your most obedient,” was Roger’s reply, with all courtliness.
She turned and followed a path that led through the meadows, and into the pleasure grounds of a château whose windows gleamed through the budding trees as the western sun touched them. In an instant her identity was revealed to Roger Egremont; she was the Princess de Orantia, and the château, toward which she walked with a step as light as a breeze, was the château of Madame de Beaumanoir!
Roger stood still, watching Michelle’s slight figure as it disappeared, and then looking at the spot where she had been. In the mossy earth beside him, he saw the imprint of her dainty satin shoes; he stood gazing before him, and her voice was still in his ear, and the air was full of the faint perfume which exhaled from her robe. He asked himself innumerable questions about her. Was she really beautiful? What he meant was to ask if she were captivating. To that he could answer yes; but as for regular beauty—she suggested it, and had, certainly, a fine air and beautiful black eyes, but he could say in truth he had seen many handsomer women. For real beauty of form and color she could not be matched in any way against Bess Lukens; the gaoler’s niece was far and away beyond the daughter of the Holy Roman Empire. But, fiercely as he might fight, he could not drive that usurping passion out. He had seen Bess Lukens daily for three years, and loved her well, and yet he had held the empire of his soul against her. And here came this slender, haughty, prettyish girl, and he was lost—lost—lost for evermore!