Roger Egremont in some way divined that to work well was a way to win Michelle’s favor; so he fell to work with an intelligent energy that fairly rivalled Berwick’s. And—oh, joy!—Michelle raked the hay for him to cock! She too as far surpassed the ladies in work as Roger surpassed all the men except Berwick. She seemed as insensible to fatigue as he was, and making hay in August is no merry jest. Roger thought he had never seen so fascinating an employment for a graceful woman,—raking and tossing the hay, lightly, yet with strength, every motion revealing the grace of her figure, and the beauty of her arms and her dainty feet, and bringing a flush, deep yet delicate, to her usually colorless face. She worked even when Roger rested, mercilessly prodding him with her hay-fork until he resumed his work, rated Berwick soundly for not making his hay-stack as well as usual, and was easily the star of the hay-field.
All through the golden afternoon they worked. Roger tried in vain to engage Michelle in conversation about other matters than haying, to which she gave her undivided attention.
“Mademoiselle, you have been much missed at St. Germains since your departure for Paris,” he ventured.
“I should have truly been missed had I been absent from the hay-field to-day, for I never saw the King’s hay more lazily attended to,” she replied tartly. “There is more singing than work.” For just then a song was being trolled forth by Captain Ogilvie, the Irish gentleman who composed such beautiful songs, all about—
“Que ne suis-je sans vie,
Ou sans amour.”
“I agree with you, mademoiselle, that we sing too much at St. Germains,” said Roger, significantly; and Michelle’s reply to this was,—
“Pray, Mr. Egremont, attend to your work. If you do not better, I shall ask the King not to pay you your wage;” at which Roger went furiously to work, declaring he could not afford to lose so much.
At five o’clock the King and Queen descended the great flight of two hundred stone steps from the terrace, and calling the hay-makers about them, proceeded to inspect their work and give them their dole of money,—a few pence each, which were treasured, as even the smallest gifts of royalty are. So pleased were their Majesties with the two hay-cocks made by Roger and Michelle—none of the rest had made more than one, except Berwick—that they were each given an extra coin. To this, great complaint was made by Berwick, but the King declined to pay him more.
And then, in the purple twilight, the whole party turned homeward, walking along with their forks and rakes upon their shoulders, singing chansons that floated through the mellow air, fragrant with the new-mown hay. Roger walked by Michelle’s side, and sang with her the song that echoed sweetly over fields and woods: