A surprise awaited me there.
The inhabitants, not wishing to be separated from their Curé, had put him into a little carriage drawn by a horse, and the good priest, his eyes overflowing with tears, was bidding farewell to Mademoiselle Marguerite, who wept on the steps in front of the door of the Presbytery.
In those days, a journey of forty leagues was no small matter, and the poor girl believed that the good Abbé Fortin had departed for ever.
We continued our route, the drums beating, and the carriage rolling ahead of us. Some of our party pressed on in front, to form an escort of honor for the worthy priest.
We found M. Drouet awaiting us at the head of the deputation, on the Place of St. Menehould.
Amongst the deputation, was an old soldier of the Seven Years War, who had served under Marshal Saxe, and who was present at the battle of Fontenoy; and a sailor, who was in active service at the time of the birth of the Bailli de Suffren. Both, living ruins of an ancient regime, wished to witness the dawn of a new era.
M. Drouet had placed a carriage at their service, but they would not use it. It therefore proceeded empty in the midst of the cortêge, in the front rank of which the two veterans marched with heads erect—a benediction, as it were, bestowed by the dead era on the age which was just about to dawn.
All the high roads of France were filled with processions like ours, all hastening to one great focus—Paris.
Never since the Crusade had so great a number, of their own will, bent their steps in one direction.
All along the road, deputations came to greet the travellers.