“Count Bernstein tells me that these gentlemen are half-brothers and there is feud between them. Some allowance can be made for Captain Egremont’s feelings, if he will apologize for his unbecoming conduct.” “To whom shall he apologize, your Highness?” asked Berwick. “To myself, of course.” “Then, your Highness,” replied Berwick, with much readiness, “I ask, in Captain Egremont’s behalf, a week to consider your proposition. Meanwhile, I am the bearer of an autograph letter from His Most Christian Majesty, which I shall be pleased to deliver at your Highness’s pleasure.” No man who ever looked into the eye of James Fitzjames, Duke of Berwick, felt like defying him, certainly not this miserable creature of Orlamunde. So the Prince passed over the circumstance, resolving, as such beings do, to take secret and private vengeance on Roger Egremont before he left Orlamunde. “We will now attend the ladies in the saloon,” said the Prince; and rising, the whole company marched into the Saloon of the Swans. The great saloon was blazing with wax lights, and over the mirrored walls were the silver swans still sailing, sailing nowhere. And on the dais at the upper end sat Michelle--sat the poor, unhappy Princess, her cheeks wan and painted, her glorious eyes full of mischief and melancholy, her slender figure slenderer than ever,--a picture of what misery may do for a woman. Roger advanced with Berwick to pay her his respects, and the sight of her, and the touch of that cold little hand put all thought of Hugo Stein out of his mind. She received them with perfect composure; she had had time and opportunity to learn composure under disquieting circumstances in the last five years. When she spoke, her voice was unchanged in its thrilling sweetness; that and her winning smile had survived five years of marriage with the Prince of Orlamunde. “It is a pleasure to see you again,” she said, looking into Roger’s eyes; “I have not seen a friend for five years past.” All around her heard this speech, which Roger could not but think imprudent. “And,” she continued, laughing--oh, how sad it was to hear her laugh!--“you are unchanged, a violent and turbulent man when you are angered, but as gentle as a dove when you are pleased. I thought you would not sit quiet when Hugo Stein was at hand.” So, already the news had flown about of his pitching Hugo out of the window. Hugo had thought it wise to depart, particularly as he had lost his sword, without which, he could not, according to etiquette, appear at the levee. “Madam,” asked Roger, “is not that the way with most men in the presence of a sworn enemy?” “No, no,” cried the Princess, looking at the Prince who was standing on the dais close by her. “In Orlamunde, for example, when a man is angry with his enemy, be it man or woman, he watches his chance stealthily, and when he thinks he is quite safe, he deals a poisoned thrust.”