At this the guard as one man kneeled and bent their eyes on the ground, and presently rising, passed the King, the tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks, and gave him all the royal honors.
When the parade was dismissed Roger Egremont went back to the palace. Outside, in the gardens, he met Berwick walking with the little Prince of Wales and his governor. The lad, his hand within that of his half-brother, was pleading,—
“Ask the Queen, my mother, if you may take me into the forest to play.”
“Not to-day, my Prince,” replied Berwick, gently trying to loosen his hand.
Roger kneeled, and the little fellow was compelled to let go Berwick’s hand in order to receive upon his own hand Roger’s loyal kiss.
The child went off discontentedly, looking back at Berwick who was smiling at him, and Roger whose face was grave.
“When do we start for Orlamunde?” asked Roger, after a while.
“In a couple of days, perhaps, or possibly not for a week. I await word from Marly.”
Roger reflected; he could not go to Clermont to see Dicky, but he knew of a messenger going there, and Dicky might get permission from his superiors to come to St. Germains; there was little difficulty in the English seminarists going to and fro. So Roger hastened to his garret at Madame Michot’s and scratched a hasty line to Dicky; then finding his man in the village sent off the note, and began making his preparations to start at an hour’s notice.
He had not much to do; your man whose purse is light and his wardrobe scanty, can make ready in a little while to go to the ends of the earth. He looked around his great, bare room with the affection one feels for a place where one has been well treated. Yes, it was in that garret, on that narrow, hard bed, that he had dreamed his first dreams about Michelle. He had thought it a palace after Newgate gaol. He went down to the common room, which was quite deserted at that hour, asked Madame Michot for his score, and paid it like a gentleman, without looking at it, saying,—