Roger started and colored guiltily. He at once remembered Bess, but he could not recall seeing Michelle.
“This morning?” he stammered. “Well, ’twas— I—I—I did not see you in the forest then, mademoiselle?”
“No,” replied Michelle, “I happened to be behind you, and I was struck with the beauty of the girl.”
And then, suddenly, some sense of how rash her question might be dyed Michelle’s face scarlet. Roger, however, recovering his self-possession, replied,—
“It was Bess Lukens, a very honest English girl, of humble condition, who was kind to me when I was in prison, and for whom I have a profound respect. Like many of our English, she drifted to St. Germains, but she has been luckier than most. She has a fine natural voice, and Monsieur Mazet, of the King’s Opera, has offered to teach her singing. She is living with Madame Michot at the inn and working there for her living, until she learns something of the French language, then she goes to Monsieur Mazet’s house in Paris, to live with his old sister and to learn to sing and act.”
An “honest English girl of humble condition.” Michelle had no idea of how very humble Bess’s condition was. The whole story had a pretty and romantic sound to Michelle’s ears. She knew the English were very much less conventional than the French, and far more sentimental in their feelings, though not overflowing with it in words. Instantly the thought flashed through her mind that Bess Lukens was really going to Paris to be educated, and when that was done Roger would marry her.
Michelle said nothing more, but, the music striking up in the dancing saloon, permitted Roger to lead her out to dance. And as she danced she was saying to herself,—
“What a pity it is!—he a gentleman, so graceful, courtly, and polished, and she a common girl, whose beauty will go to seed like a coarse hollyhock. Well, these poor exiles must often find it hard to remember their quality.”
And every time she looked at Roger, when he made her the sweeping bow the dance required, he seemed to her more elegant, more of a courtier. Remember, she had not known him when he could barely write his name, and when Molly the housemaid and the stablemen and game-keepers were his best friends.
That night, as every time he saw Michelle, Roger felt more and more her power over him, and it began to come home to him, in the most painful way, that he was poor and likely for the present to remain so,—that he was but a commoner, while Michelle was Mademoiselle the Princess d’Orantia—and a dozen other drawbacks, miseries, discomforts, and disadvantages, all of which were to him like the sharp points in the iron girdle which poor King James wore secretly for his sins, one day in the week. Not that these things impaired Roger Egremont’s courage,—he continued to fear God and take his own part, according to the motto of the Egremonts,—but they were not pleasant. He still made no effort to see much of Michelle,—his lore in feminine human nature taught him that much,—and besides, he had honor enough left not to plead business with the King as an excuse for not seeing Bess Lukens often, and then find time to haunt the presence of Mademoiselle d’Orantia; and the King had especial need of his services then, and would not let him off; so he practised virtue, discretion, and industry under compulsion, which is better than not practising them at all.