in my pockets, I cried out with all the energy of a man in despair—"Oh, heavens! I have left at Morlaix my pocket-book, with my passport and eight double louis. I must return this moment, yes, this very moment, but how shall I find my way? If the patrole, who knows the road, would go with me, we should be back in time in the morning to set out early with the galley-slave." This proposal routed all suspicions, for a man who wishes to escape seldom solicits the company he would fain avoid; on the other hand, the garde-champêtre, smelling a reward, had buttoned on his gaiters at the first word. We set out accordingly, and at break of day reached Morlaix. My companion, whom I had taken care to ply well with liquor on the road, was already pretty well in for it, and I completed him with some rum at the first pot-house we reached in the city. He staid there to wait for me at the table, or rather under the table, and he might have waited long enough.
I asked the first person I met to direct me on the road to Vannes, and on being told, I set out, as the Dutch proverb has it, "with my feet shod by fear." Two days passed without accident, but on the third, some leagues from Guemené, at a turning of the road, I met two gendarmes, who were returning from duty. The unexpected vision of yellow breeches and laced hats gave me uneasiness, and I made an effort to escape, when my two gentlemen desired me to halt, making at the same time a very significant gesture with their carbines. They came up to me, and having no credentials to show them, I invented a reply on the spur of the moment. "My name is Duval, born at l'Orient, deserter from the Cocarde frigate, now in the roadstead at St Malo." It is useless to say, that I had learnt all this during my stay at the Bagne, where we had daily accounts from all parts. "What!" cried the chief, "you must be Auguste—son of father Duval, who lives at l'Orient, on the terrace near the Boule d'or." I did not deny this, for it would have
