CHAPTER III.
THE ESCAPE.
NEXT morning, just after my late déjeuner (of a rather limited and not luxurious character, for food was getting terribly dear in Paris, and the horses were beginning to be doomed to the slaughter-house), I was starting for a lounge in the Rue Rivoli to hear the news, for which every one was almost as eager as for dinner, when I met my eccentric friend.
"How have you fared last night? Will you come in and take some refreshment?"
"I cannot take anything; but I should like to speak with you."
We went upstairs to my bedroom. Posela sat down and looked at me fixedly, in a way that somehow made me very nervous, for he had a wonderful fascination about the eye. I never felt any one's eye like his.
"Do you really wish very much to get out of this terrible place; to go home to your peaceful country from these horrid scenes of war?"
"Indeed, I do; I would pay almost any price, short of doing a wrong action, to get out of it. What is it to me? I am not a Frenchman; this is not my country. I have no interest in this quarrel, and, if I had, I hate war; I always have hated it, and now more than ever. It may develope manly qualities, but still it is an evil thing at the best."
"You really wish to get out of Paris?" he asked.
"Why ask? Is it not clear that I must wish to get home? My whole future may depend on it. If I lose another term my chances of honours are gone. Do, in God's name" (for I was getting excited), "tell me how I can get out."
"I cannot do that; but I can get you out."
"How?"
"I must not say how. But by to-morrow morning, if you wish it, you may be on your way to England. Only, you must promise me never to ask how I have freed you."
"I promise you. I give you my word—I will give you my word of honour as a Christian, and as an English gentleman—I will never ask you, if only you engage that it is by no wrong or dishonourable act that I am passed out."
"I can assure you of that. There is no harm in my mode of liberating you and myself. For I must go with you to England; that is, if you like my company."
"My friend, my liberator, how shall I ever be able to show you how grateful I am? Perhaps, if you come with me to England, I may strive to show you a tithe of my gratitude. But how can we get out?"
"Hush! you have promised."
"Pardon me; it was so natural an exclamation. When will you come to take me away?"
"At eight. Be ready; but I can only take you, not your property; that must be left. Adieu!"
I can scarcely say how delighted I was at the prospect of deliverance. The condition seemed curious; but I was too glad at the hope of escape to trouble myself about it.
****
I packed up my things and locked my portmanteau, and asked my host to take great care of it when I paid my bill, and to let me have it when the siege was over.
"But, monsieur, you cannot possibly pass the Prussian lines. They will not let any one through, I assure you, not even an Englishman. You will be shot, monsieur."
"I cannot tell you how I can get out; but a friend says he will manage it, and, as he is a very clever fellow, I am too glad to believe him."
"Perhaps it may be by a balloon; but there will not be any balloon going for three days."
"Well, I must be off. So please take care of my portmanteau, and I trust you will be spared in this terrible siege."
"Ah, monsieur, c'est vraiment terrible," said mine host.
I went off, bidding good-bye, with a light purse,—hardly enough left for my journey to England.
I hurried on to 17, Rue Soubise, in Montmartre, where I knew Posela lived. In answer to the concierge, I was directed to the fourth étage, where I knocked at a humble-looking door just as the clocks were striking eight.
Entrez, said Posela's soft, sweet voice.
I opened the door and entered. It was a quiet, unpretending little room, but with a fine view over the city, most of the lights of which were clearly visible from the window. There was hardly any furniture, and what there was seemed poor. It looked a mere ouvrier's room. In front of the open window was a sofa.
"Are you sure you wish to leave Paris?"
"I am quite sure, believe me. My money is nearly gone, and my patience also. My life may soon be in danger. I assure you I shall be deeply indebted to you if you set me free."
"Then, sleep!" As he said that, he made a sort of mesmeric pass over me with his hand. I felt my senses dulled, an oppressive drowsiness overcame me, I sank upon the sofa, and was soon buried in a heavy sleep.
****
How long I slept I know not; I think it must have been three or four hours. When I awoke I at once saw that I was in a totally strange place. It was a large field near a chaussée, with a wood close by. Not a human being was to be seen. Everything was still and calm, and the air was fresh and chilly. It was the repose of the country. I got up and stared about me, but the light was insufficient to make anything visible, except the indistinct outline of the trees and the greyish-white stones of the chaussée. I turned. In the distance behind me was the haze as of the lights of a distant city. I paused and listened. Yes! far, far away was the dull roar of distant artillery. I was out of Paris.
The thought of my sudden release quite overcame me. I fell on my knees and thanked God for my deliverance, which was so sudden and inexplicable as to seem almost supernatural. How could I ever have passed that line of "blood and iron"? What means could have been used. At any rate, Posela had kept his word. I was out of Paris and beyond the Prussian lines at last, and nothing remained between me and England but a train and steamer journey of a few hours.
As I was walking along the chaussée, still uncertain where I was, or where I ought to turn my footsteps, I suddenly noticed a man seated on one of the white stones that marked the border of the road. He was crouched down; but, even in the darkness, I thought I recognised Posela.
"Is it you, Posela?" I said.
"Yes."
"Well, I am greatly obliged to you for your successful fulfilment of your promise. But where are we? We are out of Paris, that is clear; but where are we?"
"At Pontoise. Do you not see the lights of the city? Hark! there is the boom of the cannon!"
"At Pontoise? Let me see; that is a station on the line to Amiens. Let us get to the railway, and proceed to England by the first train."
Posela assented, and we walked down the hill. In a quarter of an hour we were entering the town and passing down its silent streets, quite deserted, save by the Prussian sentries, whose helmets glistened in the gaslight. I now beheld them for the first time. It was evident we were out of the lines of Paris.
We found the railway-station lighted up, and half full of people waiting for the early train. A Prussian sentry was walking up and down, and a corporal's guard were lounging in the salle d' attente. At length the train came up, and I can hardly describe my feelings when at last I was on my way to England.
My strange travelling companion was rather sad. He spoke again and again of the miseries he had seen, caused by this terrible war; of the folly of nations in not abolishing such a mode of settling disputes; of its waste and sinfulness. I listened to him, and accepted his arguments, which were eloquently put. Then he changed the subject, and asked me a host of questions, many of which. I could not answer, about England; about its history, government, population, natural products, climate, &c. As we talked, he took out a note-book, and seemed to be taking down what I said. I was rude enough, I fear, once to look over his shoulder; but, though a fair proficient at shorthand, and a student not only of the phonographic but other systems, I could not detect what it was he was writing.
At length we came to Dieppe, which I found in possession of the Prussians. In a few hours I once more trod on British soil.
"How delighted I am," I said, "and how grateful to you for bringing me home to dear old England!"
"One loves one's country. I suppose I should love mine, even if it were less lovable."
"But what is your country?"
He was silent, and seemed not to hear my query.