The next time they spoke together was near a month afterward. Roger had ridden forth on Merrylegs, of a chill and misty January afternoon. He did not take the road to Paris, nor yet those beautifully paved highways between St. Germains and Versailles and Marly, where the equipages of the King of France were continually rolling, and royal messengers booted and spurred were riding hot upon some important errand, concerning a siege or a ballet, and ladies in their coaches lumbered along, and beggars swarmed. Rather took he the road toward Verneuil, which led through a wooded country, and was quiet and little frequented.
He felt downcast on that afternoon. Berwick had given him a hint that it might be necessary to disband the corps of gentlemen-at-arms. The French people were not over pleased at the spectacle of a body of troops in France, organized under the flag of England—and besides, the poor King had no money to pay them. But they would be permitted to keep their organization as a company of private soldiers, and fight for King Louis, if so it pleased them. The thought of fighting was by no means displeasing to Roger Egremont, even should he fight with a pike or a halberd in his hand instead of a sword; but it showed to him what he earnestly tried to shut his eyes to,—how far, far off was that return to England, and how long must Hugo Stein, the bastard, keep warm the place of a better man.
Turning these sad thoughts over in his mind, Roger trotted along on Merrylegs,—a good horse, but one which Roger would have mounted his groom upon at Egremont, he thought, no horse being ever so good as those he bred himself upon his own land. The highroad was deserted, except for a solitary cart once in a while, and a jolly beggar or two, making haste toward that beggar’s paradise—Paris. But Roger wished to be more solitary yet, and when some miles from St. Germains turned into a by-road that led through deserted fields and melancholy woods. It was growing toward dusk, and a warm mist was rising and making the cloudy afternoon yet darker. Presently, Merrylegs, having his own sweet will, the reins lying idly on his neck while his master mused, turned into a road little used, and bordered by sombre poplars, gaunt and bare. The way led up to rising ground, with a little hill at the top, where the poplars ended and scattered pines and cedars grew dismally. Roger raised his eyes and surveyed the dull and misty landscape before him,—so lonely, so deserted, a few peasants’ huts in the distance being the only thing that indicated human habitation,—and silhouetted against the dun sky on the hill-top was a figure on horseback; he recognized instantly that graceful head, with a hat and feathers, the slight figure sitting erect, yet easily. It was Michelle—but what was she doing so far away from home and alone? Roger rode rapidly forward, and as the hoofs of Merrylegs were heard nearing her, the Princess turned her head and recognized the new-comer.
Something in her face ever told Roger, on their meeting, that the sight of him was not displeasing to her. To-day, she smiled and opened her eyes wider, like a person roused from sleep, when Roger spoke.
“May I ask, mademoiselle,” he said, “why you are in this desert place, so far from home?”
“By rare good fortune,” she said pleasantly, “I rode afar with my cousin François. His horse cast a shoe about a mile away, and he stopped at a peasant’s cottage, where he found a man able to do some rude smith’s-work, and I came on here, promising to rejoin him. It is good to be away from the crowds of people one encounters in every by-path between Versailles, Marly, and St. Germains.”
“If I am in your way—” began Roger, haughtily.
“Not in the least. You, of all the men at St. Germains, can best understand me. I sat here looking at those poor huts in the distance. I suppose that is where the people dwell who hoot the King’s coach in the darkness, when it passes along the highway at night. Those people have injuries; yet, what are they, and who can mend them?”
“I can tell you their injuries very quickly, mademoiselle, but I cannot tell you how to mend them. They must be mended though some time. Think you those men, with stout legs and strong arms, will continue to labor forever, and to see the fruit of their toil go in great wildernesses of marble and bronze, like Versailles, with heaps of jewels, and thousands of pictures and statues and coaches and horses,—and all for a few? No; let these rustics but once find out how strong they are, and you will see great changes.”
“Do you mean to say our King, the great Louis—” Michelle stopped, offended, but not knowing how to go on.