The post-master showed some little hesitation, saying that the road we proposed to go was directly that to the head-quarters of the army, and that we were none of us military people. “But I am the wife of a soldier,” replied Madame de Salins, at once, and with a tone of dignity, “and these letters are for the surgeons-general of that army, to whom I must deliver them.” She laid her hand upon the packet of letters which she possessed, as she spoke, and the post-master replied in a more deferential tone—“Very well, citoyenne, I dare say it is all right, and I can send you to the frontier; but whether you can get horses beyond or not, I can’t tell. Mind, I am not responsible beyond the frontier.” The next morning at the hour appointed the horses were put to the carriage. They were three in number—we had previously had four—and they were harnessed, as was very common then in France, and is now, abreast. The postillion, instead of getting into his great jack-boots, as I had always previously seen, got upon the front seat of the carriage, gathered up the reins, and with the crack of a long whip set out toward the frontier. He was a sullen-looking, dull, uncommunicative person of that peculiar race found in the neighborhood of Liege, and called Walloons; and I, who was sitting with my shoulder close to his, though with my back toward him, and with nothing to intercept our communication—for the carriage was open in front—endeavored in vain to make him speak a word or two, addressing him frequently but obtaining no reply. At first I supposed that he could speak no French, and at last gave up the undertaking. But I soon found that he could speak French enough when it suited his purpose. We drove along for about seven miles without meeting a single human being, and seeing very few cultivated fields; for as frontier districts generally are, the land was left nearly untended, nobody caring much to plant harvests that they were never sure of reaping. We at length came to a rude stone pillar, upon as bleak and desolate a spot as I ever remember to have seen. The ground was elevated, but sloped gently down to the neighboring country both before and behind us. At least three miles of desolate marsh, which retained its moisture, heaven knows how, swept around us on every side, and the only object which denoted human habitation was the outline of a village, with some trees, seen at the distance of some four or five miles on the plain which lay a little below us in advance. When we reached the rude sort of obelisk I have mentioned, the driver drew in his reins, and the horses stopped to breathe, as I supposed, after climbing the hill: but the next moment the man got down from the front seat, and approaching the side at which Father Bonneville sat, demanded his drink-money. “I will give it you when we reach the next post-house,” said Father Bonneville.