“I cannot stand this infernal inn this whole day,” cried Roger,—it was a remarkably good inn,—“I shall ride ahead as far as Vitry; I may go on to Bar-sur-Aube. I shall order my horse. Make my apologies to the ladies, and say I will rejoin them on the road.”
He called to the ostler to fetch Merrylegs from the stables, and then went in search of breakfast and Berwick. He got his breakfast, and then, Berwick strolling into the common room, Roger told him of his intention to ride ahead.
“You will have enough of this in the campaign,” coolly remarked Berwick; “for my part, I shall keep my cloak dry whenever I can. If you go on to Bar, leave word at the Three Roses in Vitry.”
Roger set forth. The rain still poured, but he felt it not. He was in motion and out-of-doors; that always made his misfortunes seem lighter. He rode ahead steadily, and Merrylegs, who had proved himself worthy of his name, showed no lack of energy in taking the road before him. Every mile Roger put between himself and Châlons, he was less heavy-hearted. Lovers’ pangs are sharp, but singularly curable as long as the lady remains unmarried. At last, just as he saw the old castle rising on the hill at Vitry, the sun came out gloriously. He thought he would not go on to Bar. He turned around and had half a mind to ride back toward Châlons, but mercy for his good Merrylegs restrained him.
He rode into the little town, put up his horse at the Three Roses, and then went for a walk around the old castle. It was the loveliest of all the lovely days they had yet had upon their journey. The face of nature was newly washed, the trees were putting on their new green liveries for the festal time of spring. The sun shone out with a generous and penetrating ardor that warmed the whole earth and all the people on it. The gray old castle basked in the noonday light. Roger Egremont wandered over it and, standing on the ancient parapet under the deep blue sky, saw all the beauty around him—and could enjoy none of it, because Michelle was not there.
CHAPTER XII
“YOU HAVE BROUGHT ME TO THE GATE OF PARADISE AND HAVE SHOWN ME THE GLORY OF THE BEAUTY WITHIN—AND THEN HAVE THRUST ME AWAY!”
THE party did not leave Châlons until the sun had come out, which was after midday. Berwick, as usual, rode with Michelle. She trusted and admired him as all discerning women did, and often asked herself if the little Prince of Wales would ever be half the man his tall, taciturn, half-brother was. And Berwick, knowing, as Roger did not, what was before her, felt for her a profound pity and esteem.
“We shall have but a short day’s journey,” she said, when the spires of Châlons had melted from their view and they were riding, a little in advance of the chaise, on a good highroad.
“But,” she added, “I think I do not care how short the day’s journey is, for it makes the time longer that I shall be in France. I never knew how much I loved my country until I made ready to leave it.”
“’Tis the best country in the world to strangers,” cried Berwick, gallantly, “but, mademoiselle, no country is like one’s own. The bread which is given to exiles, albeit the kindest and readiest hand in the world that gives it, has ever a bitter taste. The clothes that are bought with another’s money never have any warmth in them. If it were not for hope all of us at St. Germains would have died long ago.”