It was half-past ten o'clock; they ordered breakfast, and arranged that they should separate at noon, the traveller to continue on his way to Auenheim, Pierre Augereau, citizeness Teutch, and "Sleepy-head" to return to Strasbourg.
The breakfast was sad at first; but the sergeant-major was in no wise inclined to melancholy, and, little by little, the Moselle and Rhine wine enlivened the guests. They drank to Augereau's promotion, to Madame Teutch's continued good health, since they could not wish it to be better; to Eugene's safe journey, to the successful termination of his father's trial, to Charles's future; and, as a result of these toasts, sadness yielded to an illimitable trust in Providence.
France believed neither in the ancient God who had been dethroned, nor in the new God who had just been proclaimed; the Eternal Father was too old, the Supreme Being was too young. Providence, of whom these destroyers of altars had not thought, made a fair compromise.
Noon struck. The sergeant-major rose first.
"Honest men," said he, "have but one word. We agreed to say good-by at noon, and it has just struck. Besides, if we were to stay together an hour longer, or even two, we would still have to part; therefore let us do so now. Come, Charles, my boy, show us that you are a man."
Charles, without replying, slung his little bag across his shoulders, took his walking-stick in one hand and his hat in the other, embraced first the fencing-master, then Madame Teutch, and tried to thank her, but his voice failed him.
He could only say "Au revoir!" slip a twenty-franc note into Coclès' hand, and rush out into the road.
After he had gone fifty paces, he stopped just where the road made a bend, and saw that citizeness Teutch and the sergeant-major had gone up to a room on the first floor which overlooked the road to Auenheim.
Mistrusting her weakness, the good landlady of the Hôtel de la Lanterne was leaning upon the sergeant-major's arm, and, with the hand that was free, was waving her handkerchief to Charles. Charles drew out his handkerchief and answered her signals.
Another turn in the road hid the window from him. He retraced his steps for a last wave of the hand to his two good friends. But the window was closed, and the curtain was drawn so carefully that it was impossible to see whether they had gone downstairs or not. Charles breathed a deep sigh, hastened his steps, and was soon beyond the village.