Even as he spoke, the air was flooded with melody from Monsieur Mazet’s house. Trills, like the full-throated song of birds, and roulades like the fall of fountains, echoed musically through the narrow old street, and the sun coming out strong just then, it was as if the darksome place were flooded with light and song. Bess was practising. Roger listened at the door until a pause came, and then knocked loudly.
Bess herself opened the door, and when her eyes lighted upon him, they danced with pleasure.
“Come in, Roger,—I thought you were never coming to see me again,” she cried; and Roger, following her, entered and sat down in the long, low room, full of musical instruments, and with bare, polished floor, where Bess practised her singing. He did not need Monsieur Mazet to tell him of the change that had taken place. The floor shone with wax, and was so slippery that Roger thought his life in jeopardy when he crossed it. The chairs were rubbed bright; there was not a speck on window-pane or woodwork; and every piece of music was in exact order. Dusting and scrubbing were essentials of Bess Lukens’s existence.
“I have good news of you—great news, Bess,” said Roger, kindly.
“Yes,” replied Bess, her face dimpling into smiles, “singing is the easiest work in the world. Next week I am to sing before the King. Papa Mazet is scared out of his five wits; but I a’n’t. Somehow I never can be afraid of these here French. Now if it was before our own blessed King and Queen, there’d be something to be scared about.”
While Bess was speaking, Roger was studying her by comparison. Without doubt, she was one of the handsomest creatures he had ever seen. Hard work had not disfigured her, but had nobly developed her. The life she was now leading had refined her beauty. It was of that rich and luscious sort that appeals frankly to all, like a gorgeous full-blown rose. But Roger remembered a woman whose beauty was elusive, and of whom he could not say, as of Bess Lukens, that all the world could see all her beauty. Bess had a deep, deep dimple in either cheek, which showed beautifully when she laughed. Michelle had only a very faint one in her delicate, pale face, and when she laughed, it was more with her eyes than her mouth. However, Bess knew nothing of what was passing in Roger’s mind. She only saw him kind, interested, not ashamed of his friendship with her. She talked on gayly,—
“And you see how I have cleaned up,” she said, pointing around proudly; “and I look after the butcher and the green-grocer too; and you ought to hear me scold ’em! My voice always was pretty loud; but ’tis louder than ever now, and when I give ’em the rough side of my tongue, you’d think it was a Dutch trooper. I make the monsieurs shake in their shoes. On the whole, I think no girl of my condition is as fortunate as me; for Papa and Mamma Mazet never speak a hard word to me; and I am doing what I like best in the world,—to sing; and nobody but yourself and your cousin, Mr. Richard Egremont, know that I am Red Bess, the niece of Lukens, the turnkey; and I know neither one of you will ever betray me. By the way, would not Mr. Richard come to see me sometimes, if he be in Paris?”
“No doubt, with pleasure,” replied Roger; “but Dicky, you know, is a seminarist yet, and does not often leave Clermont; although, he being English, and having relations and friends at St. Germains, they sometimes let him go there.”
“I know,” replied Bess, with something like a sniff, “I know he is to be a popish priest; and he, a good-looking young chap as might have his own way with the ladies.”
Roger laughed.