EN ROUTE FOR THE FRONTIER
The distance we now had to go was very much shorter, but it was also
more difficult, and we only arrived at the frontier the next morning,
between ten and eleven. Had it not been for the intelligence and
devotion of M. Thiébeaux and his friend M. Charles Jeannot, we should
not have arrived at all.
It was a long, slow and painful journey, a regular Odyssey, across
country entirely occupied by the enemy.
It is not my purpose in this short narrative to tell of its events
and adventures ... that would take us too far and would only serve
to revive sad memories. I only refer to it in token of gratitude to
our courageous guides who carried us by night under a drenching rain
through the lines of the army of occupation with no less intelligence
than courage and presence of mind. It is clear that the Germans saw our
balloon as well as M. Thiébeaux and his friends, and they at once set
out to capture it. Fortunately for ourselves the forest and the rain
prevented their following our movements and taking exact note of the
place where we had come down.
At midnight we met some of M. Thiébeaux’ friends on the road, returning
from a neighbouring fair. “Anything new?” asked our guide.
“Yes, a balloon has come from Paris. There were three or four persons
in it, and the Uhlans are after them.”
“In which direction have they gone?”
“I believe they are pursuing them in the direction of Verdun.”
“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.