"The assassination of Charles I," said the major, "was the sole work of Oliver Cromwell; now Oliver was a very good cavalry colonel, but he knew nothing of the real feelings of the English people, which they showed pretty plainly at the time of the Restoration. "Cromwell’s head, which had been embalmed, was stuck on a pike on the top of Westminster Hall. One stormy night the wind broke the shaft of the pike and the head rolled to the feet of a sentry. He took it home and hid it in the chimney of his house, where it remained until his death. It passed through various hands till it came into the possession of a friend of mine, and I have often sat at tea opposite the head of the Protector still on its broken pike. One could easily recognize the wart which he had on his forehead and there still remains a lock of chestnut hair." "Humph," grunted the colonel, at last interested in the conversation. "Besides," continued the major, "the English Revolution does not compare in any way with the French one: it did not weaken the ruling classes. As a matter of fact, all the bad business of 1789 was caused by Louis XIV. Instead of leaving your country the strong armour of a landed gentry he made his nobles into the ridiculous puppets of Versailles, whose sole business was to hand him his coat and his waistcoat. In destroying the prestige of a class which should be the natural supporters of the monarchy, he ruined it beyond repair, and more’s the pity." "It is very easy for you to criticize us," said Aurelle. "We made our Revolution for you: the most important event in English history is the taking of the Bastille, and well you know it." "Bravo, messiou," said the colonel, "stick up for your country. One ought always to stick up for one’s country. Now please pass the port. I am going to play you ’The Mikado.’" *CHAPTER IV* AURELLE’S LETTER Somewhere in France. Les soldats passent en chantant: "Mets tes soucis dans ta musette."[#] Il pleut, il vente, il fait un temps A ne pas suivre une grisette. Les soldats passent en chantant, Moi, je fais des vers pour Josette; Les soldats passent en chantant: "Mets tes soucis dans ta musette." Un planton va dans un instant M’apporter de vieilles gazettes: Vieux discours de vieux charlatans, "Mets tes soucis dans ta musette." Nous passons nos plus beaux printemps A ces royales amusettes; Les soldats passent en chantant: "Mets tes soucis dans ta musette." La pluie, sur les vitres battant Orchestre, comme une mazette, Quelque prelude de "Tristan," "Mets tes soucis dans ta musette." Demain sans doute un percutant M’enverra faire la causette Aux petits soupers de Satan. "Mets tes soucis dans ta musette." Les soldats passent en chantant. [#] "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag."