The way in which Roger took this was as every courageous man takes the inevitable, in love, in war, in all things. He had, at the first glance, fallen deeply in love with a woman who esteemed herself far above him; and this was truly a great catastrophe, and one upon which he had not reckoned. But it was to be borne as becomes a man,—silently, unflinchingly, and debonairly. So he walked about on the river’s edge until the April twilight fell, and the people who came by boat from Paris had trooped down to the landing near the town, and the boats filled with revellers were gliding past on the bosom of the dark water. There was still singing and shouting and laughter and the twanging of stringed instruments, but it was all softened by the distance and the mellow twilight glow, and melted sweetly into the far away as the boats threaded the windings of the river.
Roger wanted solitude then. He made a wide détour, which led him past the great iron gates which opened into the park of the Château de Beaumanoir. He had often caught glimpses in his walk about St. Germains, in the fortnight he had been there, of this château,—a stately place, with three marble terraces. He had never accepted Madame de Beaumanoir’s pressing invitations to visit her; he knew not exactly why, except that, cast as he was, fresh from prison and loneliness, into the seething caldron of St. Germains as it was then, with its thousands of exiles, English, Scotch, and Irish, he had scarcely got his bearings. Only the night before, the thought had entered his mind that he would not go to the château Beaumanoir at all, so strong a distaste had he taken for this unknown Princess Michelle. But now—ah, how Fate deals in mountebank tricks!—he would go anywhere on earth and beyond to see those soft eyes once more, and to hear that delicious voice.
When he reached the town, at nightfall, he found the revelry still in full blast, and his mood having changed, he suddenly felt a passionate desire for movement, gayety, action. He saw a merry crowd dancing in the public square before the château, and took several flings with shop-keepers’ daughters and farriers’ wives, handsome jades in their holiday clothes. Nor was Roger Egremont the only gentleman who so amused himself; the grave Berwick, the Pike, was figuring away in the same rigadoon with Roger, and winked solemnly at him when they changed partners. Roger’s was a milliner’s apprentice, and Berwick’s was the buxom laundress who did his linen for him. They drank freely of the cheap wines sold in the booths, and ate pâtés of the itinerant vendor, whose stand was lighted by a single candle. When the last echo of merriment had died away Berwick and Roger repaired to the inn of Michot, when the evening was just beginning, at midnight. In the great common room was a roystering crowd of English, Scotch, and Irish gentlemen, carousing hugely, and giving much scandal to the sober French servants, who served them endless jorums of punch and apple-toddy. Even Madame Michot, who was used to it, wondered at the amount of brandy and strong drinks consumed by her patrons. Captain Ogilvie, the Irish gentleman who made poetry, was there with a beautiful new song on their exile, which he had just composed. Every verse ended with the refrain,—
“But I shall return no more, my dear,
I shall return no more.”
There was much singing of this, and some tears were shed by gentlemen who had had too much punch and wanted more. Dicky Egremont was there of course, and led the singing and fiddling. Roger did his share of drinking as well as singing, but remained obstinately and perfectly sober,—a bad sign; for neither drink nor any other deviltry could drive away the picture of Michelle’s face as she looked at him, smiling and interested, in his sleep in the green meadow. And when the sun was tipping the church spires with gold, and Roger tumbled into bed, hoping in sleep to forget that haunting vision, he only passed into a world of dreams where Michelle was ever before him.
It seemed to him as if he had scarcely slept half an hour, although in truth it was nearly noon, when he was waked by seeing Dicky, with a little portmanteau in his hand, standing by the bed.
“Roger,” said Dicky, “I am going back to the seminary at Clermont to-day. My eyes are not yet cured, but I know I am better off there than here, where I am perpetually singing and fiddling. ’Tis no life for a man to lead, and I mean to quit it.”
Roger blinked his eyes, heavy with sleep, and burst out laughing. Dicky was the same Dicky; it was the way at Egremont,—a pious morning always succeeded a rollicking night.
“Very well, my lad,” said he. “I shall miss thee; there is no one could miss thee more. But if you are better off leading a stricter life, I will not say one word to hold you back. At least wait until I am dressed, and can go a part of the way with you.”