“Are there any Prussians in the neighbourhood of...?”
“No, they are at ... to-day.”
“Good-night.”
Our carriage again moved off, while M. Thiébeaux’ friends began to interrogate us as to whether there was anything new on our side. The place where the Uhlans were hoping to catch us was in exactly the opposite direction to the way we were now going, and M. Thiébeaux rubbed his hands with pleasure at the knowledge that they were on a false scent.
At eight in the morning we arrived at Montmédy.
There we learnt the sad news of the surrender of Metz.
We were not far from the frontier, and crossed it an hour later, subsequently arriving at Virton, a little Belgian town which was swarming with French. Here we said good-bye to M. Thiébeaux and his friend M. Jeannot and took the first diligence for the nearest station on the Luxemburg railway, by which we arrived at ten or eleven at night at Brussels.
If I were to let myself be carried away by my memories, I would here throw a sidelight on the remarkable but saddening aspect of the Belgian capital, which was the temporary home of so many Frenchmen and the seat of so many diverse and conflicting passions, hopes, and fears. But what would be the use? I will say no more than that the city of Brussels was crowded with people. It was full of Frenchmen and particularly Parisians. The faces of the stout Flemish burghers were bright and radiant and broader than usual; they were delighted with the golden flow of business, but, none the less, had no love for the French who brought them all this gold.
The Belgian capital, which I had often before visited and which had always charmed me by its beauty and elegance, then seemed to me ugly and hateful, and I only stayed there for as long as was absolutely necessary to get things in order for my departure.