Our old patron, the boar hunter Tourgant, was so anxious to bid us a fitting farewell when we started in the early morning that he stayed up most of the night. When we moved out of the town he was asleep in the blacksmith shop of old Jacques of rugged voice and jet black beard.
As we drew up in line outside the village, someone commemorated the departure in verse:
Farewell, my Aillianville, in fair Lorraine,
Town where sun shines through the rain,
The “Cheval Blanc,” the “Lion d’Or,”
“Au ’voir,” farewell forever more.
I was with you when woods were brown,
When boars were hunted on the down,
When log fire crackled on the hearth
And in the evening there was mirth