Roger was glad to note that day in Madame de Beaumanoir a kindness of heart he had not before credited her with. He saw her send some wine and dainty provender to the rowers, who were munching their black bread and cheese; and she gave them time to rest from their arduous toil. The boat was still moored, and the rowers resting, some sleeping, when Roger and Michelle started upon their walk along the river’s brink. The path was very open; scarce a tree or a bush hid them from view along the turning of the bank. Once or twice, they stopped and loitered behind a friendly thicket, and had a delicious sense of being alone, and far from the every-day world. Roger’s heart danced within his breast when he thought that, in the coming journey, he would have many walks like that with Michelle, only more solitary. He did not dream of making open love to her. Apart from the fact that he was, in plain language, a penniless adventurer, there was that hateful, ridiculous, odious, and senseless obstacle,—he was simply a private gentleman, and she a Princess, with some faint and shadowy tinsel of rank which placed her above any private gentleman in Europe. Yet he did not believe that any man, no matter what his rank or title might be, had talked with her on such a footing of equality as he had done.
They walked along leisurely, in the bright sunshine, sometimes talking and sometimes silent; but in those eloquent pauses their eyes met and exchanged thoughts. Roger saw a change in her since that night they had met on the road toward Verneuil. Then she seemed at first sad and desolate of heart, and then wildly gay and excited. Now there was a quiet composure about her. It seemed to Roger Egremont as if this journey involved some resolution,—something which would change her life, and which she accepted with courage and patience, rather than gayety of heart. He thought it involved a long residence out of her own country,—she passionately loved it, as he knew; but that she was sustained by the hope of a return. That it would be long before she would see France again, he knew by what she said as they passed along by the shining river.
“I said a little while ago, in the boat, that I looked forward with sharpest pleasure to those days of travel that are before me. If only the road led into France instead of out of it! Sometimes—oftenest in the night-time—the thought strikes me that I am leaving my own country, and it is like a sword through my heart.”
“I know that grief,” said Roger; “but no one leaves his country without the hope of return—” and then it occurred to him that when he found himself once more at Egremont, Michelle might be very far away. He cast out this rude, interloping thought, however, saying, smiling,—
“When we are in our own land, our King restored to his own, then must all those who have been kind to us in our exile, come to visit us in England. Then will we requite you; and you, mademoiselle, will be among the number; for I am sure Madame de Beaumanoir will land in England along with the King, if she can.”
At which they both laughed, and Michelle said,—
“I think I should like to see my mother’s country—and some day—some day I shall see it.”
And so, in sweet idle talk and sweeter silences, they went along, and, far too soon, they came to the bend in the river where they were to await the boat. It was already near, and then they stepped in it, and were borne steadily on toward Paris.
It grew dusk before they reached Paris. The solemn twilight, falling like magic over land and river and villages, the stars, coming out one by one in the dark blue heavens, as the opaline light died away in the west, subdued them all. It even stopped the clack of Madame de Beaumanoir’s tongue. There was no sound but the regular dip of the oars, the occasional faint cry of a night-bird, or the echo of a dog’s friendly bark as they glided past the quiet villages, now dim in the evening shadows. The silver river turned to a purple blackness; a young moon was delicately and fleetingly reflected in the dark water. It was quite dark when they came upon the streets and quays of Paris. The towers of Notre Dame loomed large in the gloom of night. There were other boats passing them, or going along with them,—some bearing a crowd of roysterers, others returning empty to the villages whence in the morning they had brought supplies for the town; others still, loaded with merchandise, were making their way, slowly and mysteriously along, bound for some distant place, far beyond St. Germains. The streets were still full of people, going from work, and the swinging lanterns, hanging on ropes at the crossings, cast weird and flickering shadows upon the water. They went quite into the heart of the town, landing at the quay on which the Louvre fronted. The vast, unlighted pile looked superhumanly large in the half-light. Berwick, friendly as ever to Roger, assisted Madame de Beaumanoir; while Roger Egremont, in the darkness, held Michelle’s little hand in his while he helped her out, and for a moment after. A coach was in waiting for the ladies, into which they stepped, and rolled off, Madame de Beaumanoir commanding her two young friends to visit her as soon as she returned to St. Germains; they were both to go back the following day.
Roger remained standing in the street until the coach turned the next corner; he caught one more glimpse of Michelle’s fair face and dark eyes before she was lost to his sight.