Every minute or two some one came out of the office, swaggering or downcast, as the case might be. Widow Simon’s son had drawn a very high number, which made him comparatively safe; and Madame de Talmont felt glad ever afterwards that she congratulated the mother. Mathieu Féron came out waving his cap triumphantly, and shouting, “Vive l’Empereur! I am going to fight the Russians! Hammer and tongs, good-bye!”
Then Henri came. He was calm, but a few shades paler than before. He showed his number—eleven. No one spoke; but a moment after Clémence touched his arm and whispered hurriedly, “Come out into the air. Our mother is growing faint.”
“Let us go home,” said Madame de Talmont, sighing heavily. The crowd was increasing every moment, and the din and tumult were deafening. With some impatience Henri pushed aside those who stood in his path, and there was a sharp ring in his voice as he said, “Make way, make way, good people!”
“Oh yes; make way for the new conscript. How well M. de Talmont will look in the awkward squad!” cried some one.
Féron had crossed the street to the little inn opposite the Mairie, and was about to drink the Emperor’s health in a cup of good red wine, a practice much in favour with the conscripts, but before tasting it he pushed through the throng, and offered the brimming goblet to Henri. “Drink, M. de Talmont,” he said. “We are all comrades now, and the sooner we learn good fellowship the better.”
Henri pushed the cup aside without a word; but Clémence spoke gently to the village lad. “It is not that my brother would not drink with you, Mathieu,” she said; “but he is troubled just now, and so are we—like your mother and your sisters.”
No other word was spoken until the De Talmonts reached their home, and even then very few. Madame de Talmont and Clémence arranged everything, and Henri seemed quite passive in their hands. According to their plan, he was to leave the cottage after nightfall, and travelling on foot by unfrequented ways, to try to reach the neighbourhood of their old home in the Bocage, where the faithful Grandpierre, who had been their father’s steward, would receive and protect him. A little money and a change of linen were concealed about his person, but on no account must he look like a traveller. So long had Madame de Talmont contemplated the necessity for this journey that she was able to give her son the fullest and clearest directions.
At length all was done. The last meal was eaten together, or at least a pretence was made of eating it. Henri embraced his mother, and received her parting blessing; then Clémence, wrapping a shawl around her, said, “The night is fine; I will go with you to the stile of the far corn-field.”
They walked along in silence. They had worlds to say to each other, and this might be their last opportunity on earth, yet neither found a word. Not until the parting-place was reached did Clémence whisper, as she slipped a purse into her brother’s hand, “There are five napoleons, Henri; you will be sure to want them. And oh! write to us as soon as you can. I will try to cheer and comfort our mother. Just one word more, dearest of brothers. Pray to God, seek to have him for your friend; then, whatever happens”— But here her voice failed utterly.
Henri threw his arms around her, and his voice was hoarse and changed, very unlike his own. “Clémence,” he said, “promise me one thing.”