“He’s the most delicious, impudent fellow I have seen since Charles the Second’s time. François, do you model yourself upon this young man, and you will be a man of spirit yet.”
Roger always fell an easy prey to the old lady at these times, for the sake of a word with Michelle. He would drop behind and say to her,—
“How sweet are the meadows to-day, mademoiselle. There is good grass there now, both for horses and cattle.”
At this, Michelle would smile,—a lovely smile that began in her eyes and ended on her lips, showing a faint, elusive dimple in her creamy cheek, not like the dimples in Bess Lukens’s rosy face. Roger’s conversation about grass for man and beast was certainly unlike that of most gentlemen who live at court. Yet was he so far from a rustic that he knew more of books than any man at St. Germains. Michelle was wise enough to see that nothing escaped Roger Egremont’s watchful eye,—neither the growth of the grass in the meadow nor the politics of Europe. Their conversation always drifted to books, and they had a standing quarrel as to the relative merits of Shakespeare and Molière.
“But your Molière was a thief; he stole from Terence, from Plautus, from almost every one of the Roman dramatists,” Roger would say, with a sarcastic smile, to Michelle.
“As for your mighty Shakespeare,” that young lady would cry scornfully, “he stole from the whole world. I myself have read stories writ long before he was born, out of which I am certain he made his plays!”
Once, in one of these pleasant wrangles, as they leaned over the parapet of the terrace, on a cold, bright December afternoon, Roger poured out to her the story of his life at Newgate, and how ignorant he was when he went into that gloomy place. They were as much alone as if they had been in the depths of the forest, although all about them were crowds of people. The King of France with his great suite was on the terrace that day, gravely promenading with the Queen of England, and a mob of well dressed persons followed them.
Madame de Beaumanoir, with her coach drawn up at the end of the terrace, sat within it muffled in furs. The coach-door was open, and ladies and gentlemen stopped and spoke to her, and lingered to hear François read aloud some very profane verses, which caused the poor young man to shudder visibly. But Madame de Beaumanoir would by no means let him off, and she cackled with delight at his sufferings. Michelle, who did not care for the class of literature which Madame de Beaumanoir affected, spying Roger strolling along alone, shot him a glance that brought him instantly to her side. She would walk about a little, she said, if Mr. Egremont would escort her. Mr. Egremont, coloring very deeply with pleasure, handed her out of the coach. Presently they were leaning together over the iron railings, and looking down upon the river, that glittered like steel in the bright December afternoon.
As usual, they fell upon books, not the wild romances upon which the court ladies fed, but something quite different. And then, won by the sympathy in her dark eyes, Roger poured out his tale, how he could scarcely read and write when he went to Newgate.
“And,” he said, looking down like a school-boy under her clear gaze, “at first, for a time, I made a beast of myself with drink and gambling and low company,—far worse than my cousins, the Egremonts of the Sandhills have done here. You know, mademoiselle, they are reprobates.”