By the time Roger and Berwick had reached the doorway, the tune had changed. This time it was in honor of the poor King who could no longer give them their meagre pay.
“For I love, from my soul, a friend and a bowl,
So here goes a health to our King, brave boys;
Here’s a health to our King,
Let every true man sing,
Long live our noble King!”
Several Scotch gentlemen among the brave boys were very drunk, and an Irishman and a Yorkshireman were rapidly coming to fisticuffs when Berwick appeared. Respect ever followed his entrance; the acknowledged son of their King, although a bastard, was so worthy in himself that none failed to do him honor. The two gentlemen who were disputing shook hands, wept maudlin tears, and each called himself a villain for quarrelling with the other. The Scotch gentlemen quieted down. The company became not less merry, but more orderly; Berwick was no killjoy. They made a night of it; poor human nature requires some solace, and these unfortunate gentlemen had but little. Roger Egremont did not reach his garret until two o’clock. He stood looking out upon the quiet stars before he threw himself into his bed. He began to think he should never see Egremont again, and it tortured him; and then he thought of the journey with Michelle, and his pain was turned to a joy so keen, so penetrating, so agitating, that it was more painful than pain itself.
CHAPTER IX
“I WISH YOU TO COME WITH ME”
NEVER was there a man born who loved better to be revenged on his enemies than Roger Egremont. He was so constituted that he could not feel forgiveness for an enemy until he had that enemy under his heel, which is not forgiveness at all. Therefore, when a few nights after Berwick had told him of the necessary disbandment of the corps, Roger tasted exquisite joy on being selected to compose a letter meant for William of Orange, and likely to give him a bad quarter of an hour.
The determination of the corps of gentlemen-at-arms to enlist as a company of private soldiers in the army of the King of France had been speedily conveyed to London, where everything that happened at St. Germains was known as fast as horses’ legs and the winds of heaven could carry it. The news of this determination made a profound and painful impression in England. The spectacle of the best blood of the three kingdoms serving in the mean capacity of common foot-soldiers in a foreign army was not calculated to foster good-will toward the Dutch Prince who sat at St James’s. William of Orange, one of the wisest, as well as one of the most ruthless men who ever reigned, saw this was no time for ruthlessness. He had seen himself stripped by degrees of the absolute power he once owned, his Dutch guards sent packing, the estates he had so liberally bestowed upon his followers taken away and given to their rightful owners by act of parliament,—that parliament which had ever proved too strong for any sovereign who defied it. It would be well to spare the country the sight of English, Irish, and Scotch gentlemen serving in the ranks, and so a cordial invitation was sent to these men to return to their country, submit peaceably to the existing régime, and let bygones be bygones.