He got no further, a storm of shouts and cheers breaking forth, and Roger colored higher than ever.
Then the signature of every man of the corps was signed to the paper, General Buchan’s first, followed by those of the officers, and Roger Egremont was accorded the honor of putting his name next those of the officers. He signed himself, with a great flourish, as “Roger Egremont of Egremont.” That, too, he hoped would be at least a pin-prick to his enemy.
The proceedings being over, every man went about his business, most of them to the grand saloon. Roger was, of course, the hero of the evening. Berwick took the King a copy of the letter, which the poor broken man read, with a kind of dismal pleasure, aloud to the Queen, whose beautiful eyes flashed with gratification. When he entered the saloon, the King and Queen at once sent for him to the top of the room, where they sat on a very low dais,—James and Mary Beatrice chafed under the rigid ceremonial imposed upon them by French etiquette, and much preferred to sit and stand and walk about among their people as they had done at their palace of Whitehall.
“Mr. Egremont,” said the King, “you wield not only a stout arm, but a pen like a sword.”
“And keen pens are scarcer than stout arms,” added Mary Beatrice, with her heavenly smile, at which Roger bowed to the ground, saying,—
“Both my arm and my pen belong to your Majesties and the Prince of Wales, as long as I have a drop of blood in my body.”
Being dismissed with a gracious bow, he turned and saw the Princess Michelle’s soft, glowing eyes fixed upon him with a look which spelled as plain as print, “Come to me.”
He went to her, and thrilled with delight, when she spoke some words of enchanting praise. Then Madame de Beaumanoir’s shrill voice cleft the air, and Roger was obliged to go to where the old lady sat and held court in a great chair by the fire, their Majesties having left the saloon.
“So you’ve made a great success with that impudent letter of yours. Well, I always thought you capable of it, you rogue!” Then, lowering her voice, she continued, “I know about you and Berwick going to Orlamunde with me and my niece. But—’fore God!—” Madame de Beaumanoir occasionally used language not unlike Bess Lukens’s—“will you believe it?—the King of France has not told me one word of what we are going for, except that it will be for the advantage of my family, and I am not to know until the very day we start. But I suspect what is in the wind, and could give as good a guess as one would want. The thing that nettles me is, some of these fools about here say that the King won’t let me be told for fear I’ll blab; as if I had not always been renowned for keeping my own counsel! Well, you don’t know any more than I; but then, you are not Michelle’s uncle, and I am her aunt. Kings and Queens are queer things. I would that every King who reigns were as brave and charming as my own dear Charles the Second of blessed memory!”
It was a heavenly evening to Roger, and he remained after most of the company had gone. The night was cold, and the fire was meagre; and, warming himself at the small blaze, he saw a log lying inside the fender. Roger, softly and slyly, essayed to put the log on the fire, unseen by Lord Melfort, the comptroller of the household, who was standing near, but with his back turned.