“The retreat continues. France is invaded. Valenciennes has fallen.”
On the eleventh morning Dalroy hid among the bushes until the daily basket was brought. Monsieur Pochard himself was the go-between. He feared lest Léontine would contrive to meet Maertz, so the girl did not know where her lover was hidden.
The Frenchman started visibly when Dalroy’s voice reached him; but the latter spoke in a tone which would not carry far. “I’m sorry to seem ungrateful,” he said, “but we are growing desperate. Do us one last favour, monsieur, and we impose no more on your goodness. Tell me where and when we can cross the Meuse, and the best route to take subsequently. Sink or swim, I, at any rate, must endeavour to reach England, and mademoiselle is equally resolved to make the attempt.”
“I don’t blame you,” came the sorrowful reply. “This is going to be a long war. Twenty years of deadly preparation are bearing fruit. I am sick with anxiety. But I dare not loiter in this neighbourhood, so, as to your affair, my advice is that you cross the Meuse to-morrow in broad daylight. The bridge is repaired, and no very strict watch is kept. Make for Nivelles, Enghien, and Oudenarde. The Belgians hold the Antwerp-Gand-Roulers line, but are being driven back daily. I have been thinking of you. If you delay longer you will—at the best—be imprisoned in Belgium for many months. Are you determined?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want money?”
“We have plenty.”
“Farewell, then, and may God protect you!”
“Is there no chance of nearing the British force?” was Dalroy’s final and almost despairing question.
“Not the least. You would be following on the heels of a quick-moving and victorious army. Progress is slower toward the coast. You have a fighting chance that way, none the other. Good-bye, monsieur.”