Colonel O’Brien had disappeared, but Celeste was there, as if waiting for me. I held out the cap to her, and she thrust her hand into it. The cap sunk with the weight. I took out a purse, which I kept closed in my hand, and put it into my bosom. Celeste then retired from the window, and when she had gone to the back of the room kissed her hand to me, and went out at the door. I remained stupefied for a moment, but O’Brien roused me, and we quitted the Grande Place, taking up our quarters at a little cabaret. On examining the purse, I found fifty Napoleons in it: they must have been obtained from her father.
At the cabaret where we stopped, we were informed that the officer who was at the hotel had been appointed to the command of the strong fort of Bergen-op-Zoom, and was proceeding thither.
We walked out of the town early in the morning, after O’Brien had made purchases of some of the clothes usually worn by the peasantry. When within a few miles of St. Nicholas, we threw away our stilts and the clothes which we had on, and dressed ourselves in those O’Brien had purchased. O’Brien had not forgot to provide us with two large brown-coloured blankets, which we strapped on to our shoulders, as the soldiers do their coats.
It was bitter cold weather, and the snow had fallen heavily during the whole day; but although nearly dusk, there was a bright moon ready for us. We walked very fast, and soon observed persons ahead of us. “Let us overtake them, we may obtain some information.” As we came up with them, one of them (they were both lads of seventeen to eighteen) said to O’Brien, “I thought we were the last, but I was mistaken. How far is it now to St. Nicholas?”
“How should I know?” replied O’Brien, “I am a stranger in these parts as well as yourself.”
“From what part of France do you come?” demanded the other, his teeth chattering with the cold, for he was badly clothed, and with little defence from the inclement weather.
“From Montpelier,” replied O’Brien.
“And I from Toulouse. A sad change, comrades from olives and vines to such a climate as this. Curse the conscription: I intended to have taken a little wife next year.”
O’Brien gave me a push, as if to say, “Here’s something that will do,” and then continued—“And curse the conscription I say too, for I had just married, and now my wife is left to be annoyed by the attention of the fermier général. But it can’t be helped. C’est pour la France et pour la gloire.”
“We shall be too late to get a billet,” replied the other, “and not a sou have I in my pockets. I doubt if I get up with the main body till they are at Flushing. By our route, they are at Axel to-day.”