“You are very good. I may yet be forced to change my mind. My corps marches straight to the Rhine. It may be that I ought to march with them.”
Michelle had great command over her expressive face,—all except her black eyes. They told their story to Roger Egremont in spite of her. They said, “Come with me on this journey, I want you,” and Roger, answering them both by look and word, said boldly,—
“After all, mademoiselle, I reckon upon being your escort,” and then a lovely smile dimpled all over Michelle’s face; but it was a sad smile, not a merry one.
Near by, was Madame de Beaumanoir, still talking with Berwick, who liked the old lady’s conversation, and was sometimes jovially accused by Roger of wishing to be the successor of the late duke and peer of France. She was saying,—
“So you go to Paris to-morrow, and so do I and my niece and that sober-sided François. I shall never make anything but a milksop out of him. We go by the river, in a boat engaged for the day, with carpets and cushions, and a collation to be served by my maître d’hôtel. Come you with us.”
And seeing Roger talking with Michelle, the old lady screeched out an invitation to him too.
“’Twill be most agreeable to us,—we shall need to go to Paris to prepare for our journey,—and I think, Mr. Egremont, we may accept the kind invitation of Madame de Beaumanoir,” Berwick replied.
To which Roger agreed joyfully, and when he walked back through the cold and dampness of a grim February night, felt as if he were in heaven. He had indeed preparations to make in Paris, and Berwick’s hint of a good supply of money was most agreeable to him. And he had a duty to perform; he must, of course, go to see Bess Lukens and bid her farewell. This, be it observed, he regarded as a duty, and not strictly a pleasure. He always felt inexpressibly mean when in her company, he knew not why, and it would have been far easier for him to have kept only her memory. But being, with all his faults, of a loyal nature, he could not so ill requite her. In truth, Roger Egremont was better formed for love than friendship with women.
He was no laggard next morning, and he had been fully dressed for an hour when he met Berwick by appointment at the foot of the terrace below the hillside. They walked together briskly toward the river shining in the white light of morning. The fresh meadows were already green, although it was still February, and the air was full of that mysterious resurrection called springtime.
They reached the river, and at the water’s edge lay a boat with rowers, and Madame de Beaumanoir’s maître d’hôtel and other servants,—the ladies were to remain some days in Paris,—and a huge basket containing the collation. And presently the old lady herself was seen coming down the valley, supported by François Delaunay’s arm, and walking demurely behind her was Mademoiselle d’Orantia.