“Come, my man,” said Roger, not at all offended, “have you not a hat you can sell me? And will not your good wife clean the mud off my cloak, at least?”
Both of those things were accomplished by the power of money, and the peasant, yoking a horse to a rude cart, drove Roger to the edge of the town. From thence he managed to get to the schloss unobserved. He had just changed his clothes, and looked once more the gentleman, when Berwick knocked at the door. He wore his riding-dress.
“Come,” he said; “we can depart on the instant. I have told all the necessary lies for you. The old Duchess was mad to see you, and plainly told me she knew I was lying when I said you were ill with a cold and fever,—sickening for the small-pox, I ventured, thinking to frighten her. But not she! However, I told her we must and would depart at once, and that you had sworn never to enter that Cave of Adullam, Monplaisir, again. She is very dissatisfied with you. I bade adieu to the Princess. By the high heavens, that girl should be a soldier! What a spirit she has! And I gave that scoundrel of a prince to understand that to mistreat a daughter of France was to bring destruction on himself. The fellow grinned horribly at my hint. And now let us take horse.”
Roger Egremont felt almost happy when he again found his legs across the back of Merrylegs. That faithful beast had profited by his rest, and was as eager to leave Orlamunde as his master. Even Berwick’s valet shook the dust of Orlamunde from his feet with joy.
When they had passed out of the town and had crossed the bridge over the laughing river they stopped and looked back at Orlamunde lying placid in the spring sunshine. Bare-legged girls were beating linen and laughing on the banks of the river; the old schloss rose dark and threatening, as if terrorizing the merry little town. A sentry upon a lookout tower walked his narrow beat, his cuirass glistening afar. The beautiful roofs and pinnacles of Monplaisir shone above the delicate green of its gardens and parks. Within that fair palace was Michelle. Roger Egremont’s heart was like lead in his bosom when he thought of her. She was destined to misery, but, however her heart might be tortured, he felt sure her soul would remain free. She would walk like Una, unafraid and unashamed. He remembered what she had said about not counting on her strength—that she was no better than he—and he inwardly contradicted her. She was as pure and as unapproachable as a star; for Roger Egremont knew so little of the human heart that he esteemed the highest form of virtue to be that which knows no temptation.
CHAPTER XIV
ROGER EGREMONT HAS A LITTLE ADVENTURE IN A GARDEN AT NEERWINDEN AND BECOMES A MAJOR IN THE FINEST BRIGADE IN THE WORLD.
A WARM July night in 1693—a full moon illuminating a flat, wooded country, with cottages and hamlets flecking the meadows, and villages nestling upon the slight ascents. It is a prosperous-seeming country and well peopled at all times. Now it is like a beehive, with something like eighty thousand men moving over it, and sixty thousand are preparing to contest their way, when they shall have reached a pretty spot, on the prettiest little river in the Low Countries—Landen. It will run with blood to-morrow.
It is almost midnight, the hour when the peasants usually are snoring hard after their day’s work. But on this hot July night no one sleeps, although the windows of the houses are kept dark; the people do not care to reveal to the soldiers the nearness of a house.
The movement is remarkably quiet for such vast numbers of men. The cavalry have clanked and thundered on ahead; the artillery can still be heard lumbering heavily in the advance, but the roads are good, and the flat country makes few echoes. Along the highroad, march steadily many regiments of infantry. It is easy marching, but they have been at it for long hours. The soldiers of the French army were allowed to sing and joke—nay, even to dance—on the march, when there was likely to be fighting at the end of it. But the time for this was past. They could not reach their bivouac before one in the morning, at least, and their minds were on—what think you? Whether they would know the secrets of the other world before another moon should rise? Not at all. It was how much time would they be allowed to sleep before the beat of the drum next morning, and whether their share of those vast quantities of bread which had been baked that week would come up in time.
Lieutenant-General the Duke of Berwick, tired of riding, had dismounted for a few minutes, and leading his horse, walked by the side of an officer, also dismounted and leading his horse. They were among friends and comrades; the marching troops were that celebrated Irish Brigade, which held Irish, English, and Scotch in its ranks, and always gave its enemies trouble when encountered.