A huge waggon was procured, and in it a bed was laid, on which the unfortunate old man could sit, and with the two horses which they had brought with them from Durbelliere, they started on their journey.  They rested the first night at St. Laurent, the place where Agatha had established an hospital, and where Cathelineau had died.  The Sisters of Mercy who had tended it were still there, but the wards were now deserted.  Not that the wars afforded no occupants for them, but the approach of the republicans had frightened away even the maimed and sick.  On the following morning Madame de Lescure declared that she could no longer endure the slow progress of the waggon, and consequently, Chapeau having with difficulty succeeded in procuring three horses, she started, accompanied by him and her sister-in-law, to make her way as best she could to her husband, while the Marquis and his daughter, with a guide, followed in the cumbrous waggon.

On the second day the equestrians crossed the Sevre, at Mortaigne, and reached Torfou in safety.  On the third day they passed Montfaucon, and were struggling to get on to a village called Chaudron, not far from St. Florent, when we overtook them at the beginning of the chapter.

They had already, however, began to doubt that they could possibly succeed in doing so.  The shades of evening were coming on them.  The poor brutes which carried them were barely able to lift their legs, and, Madame de Lescure was so overpowered with fatigue and anxiety, that she could hardly sustain herself in the pillion on which she sat.

The peasants whom they met from time to time asked them hundreds of questions about the war.  Many of the men of the district were already gone, and their wives and children were anxious to follow them, but the poor creatures did not know which way to turn.  They did not know where the army was, or in what quarter they would be most secure.  They had an undefined fear that the blues were coming upon them with fire and slaughter, and that they would be no longer safe, even in their own humble cottages.

One person told them that Chaudron was distant only two leagues, and hearing this they plucked up their courage, and made an effort to rouse that of their steeds.  Another, however, soon assured them that it was at the very least a long five leagues to Chaudron, and again their spirits sank in despair.  A third had never heard the name of the place, and at last a fourth informed them, that whatever the distance might be, they were increasing it every moment, and that their horses’ heads were turned exactly in the wrong direction.  Then at length their young guide confessed that he must have lost his way, and excused himself by declaring that the turnings were so like one another that it was impossible for any one in that country really to remember his way at a distance of more than two leagues from his own home.

“And what village are we nearest to, my friend?” said Chapeau, inquiring of the man who had given the above unwelcome information.