The Duke of Berwick had followed Roger in, and walked along, hat in hand, and bowing right and left, not forgetting Madame Michot at the door. His greetings were respectfully returned, but no man rose at his approach; the code of the common room at Madame Michot’s inn put duke and commoner on the same footing.
“Gentlemen,” cried Berwick, warming his hands at the fire, “this is Mr. Roger Egremont, of whom we have all heard, who hurled a plate of beans in Dutch William’s face. By what hair-breadth escapes he has made his way from Newgate here, I know not, but he must tell us, after he is filled with some of the best wine Madame Michot has. Here, Jacques, a quart of the best, mind you.”
“Indeed, sirs,” replied Roger, coloring and trying to disengage himself from Dicky, “I am ashamed of much in my escape. I was taken blindfolded out of prison, this Monday a fortnight, and carried south to my own place,—not mine at present, however,—and there, being much vexed and tried, and knowing little of affairs in England, I had but one thought, to get my carcass to France. For I tell you, after three years in prison, a man must be on the move. I have no particular news to bring from England, but rather do I ask for news here.”
Immediately all rose and crowded around him. It was enough that he had just come from England. Such news as he had was stale enough, and the frequent and easy communication between St. Germains and the islands made the refugees very much acquainted with what was going on across the channels. But they would by no means be satisfied.
“Is it a dry or a wet season, I pray?” asked one gentleman, anxiously, who owned not an acre of land, while another desired very earnestly to know how the fish were biting in the Ouse. Berwick, laughing, came to Roger’s rescue.
“Some of you may have had a taste of prison, but our friend hath had a full dose; so give him leave to eat and drink. Come with me, Mr. Egremont, and let me make you known to the hostess of this inn.”
Roger followed him back toward the door, and to the other side of the grille, where Madame Michot, stout and placid, checked off the slips the serving-men brought her for liquor.
“Madame,” said Berwick, bowing low, “this is Mr. Roger Egremont, an English gentleman, late out of Newgate prison. I will stand godfather for him at this place, and beg you will give him no inferior liquor.”
Madame Michot, after considerable effort, managed to rise and curtsey in return for a profound salute from Roger, and then he and Berwick returned, and all gathered around the table and began to make an English brew of liquor. Dicky was head man at this, and Roger, inwardly laughing, wondered what had become of Dicky’s piety.
They sat next each other, and every now and then Dicky would give Roger an affectionate shove, to which Roger would respond by a whack on Dicky’s back, and it was as if they had never been parted. Dicky was quite unchanged,—his homely, round, bright face sparkling with good humor and good sense,—and Roger had seen for himself that Dicky was as handy with the violin, as sweet-throated with his songs, and as light of heel as ever. Roger, however, was completely changed, and yet Dicky loved him not the less, but admired him the more. Before, he had been a taciturn man, knowing little to say, and having sense enough to hold his tongue. Now he bore his part in talk, and spoke well and plainly, and always to the point. His very countenance, formerly somewhat gloomy and vigilant in spite of a laughing sprite in his black eyes, was grown open, frank, and animated. Imprisonment had made him pale and spare, but his looks were thereby improved. Dicky thought him the finest fellow in the world.