y them. My whole worldly wealth consisted of
two hundred napoleons; and with this small pittance to begin life, I sat
myself down to think whither I should turn, or what course adopt.

The night passed over thus, and when day dawned, I had not closed my
eyes. About four o'clock the diligence in which I had secured a place
for Weimar drew up at my door. I hurried down, and mounting to a seat
beside the _conducteur_, I buried my face in the folds of my cloak, nor
dared to look up until we had passed beyond the precincts of the city,
and were travelling along on the vast plain of sand which surrounds
Berlin.

The _conducteur_ was a Prussian, and divining my military capacity in my
appearance, he maintained a cold and distant civility; never speaking,
except when spoken to, and even then in as few words as possible. This
was itself a relief to me; my heart was too full of its own sufferings
to find pleasure in conversation, and I dreamed away the hours till
nightfall.

CHAPTER XXVI. A FOREST PATH.

When I reached Wiemar I quitted the diligence, resolved to make the
remainder of the journey on foot; for thus I should both economize
the little means I possessed, and escape many of the questionings and
inquiries to which as a traveller by public conveyance I was exposed.
Knapsack on shoulder, then, and staff in hand, I plodded onward, and
although frequently coming up with others on their way homeward, I
avoided all companionship with those whom I could no longer think of as
comrades.

The two tides of population which met upon that great highway told the
whole history of war. Here came the young soldiers, fresh enrolled
in the conscription, glowing with ardor, and bounding with life and
buoyancy, and mingling their village songs with warlike chants. There,
footsore and weary, with tattered uniform and weather-beaten look,
toiled along the tired veteran, turning as he went a glance of
compassionate contempt on those whose wild _vivas_ burst forth in
greeting. As for me, I could neither partake of the high hopes of
the one, nor sympathize with the war-worn nature of the other.
Disappointment, bitter disappointment, in every cherished expectation,
had thrown a chill over me, and I wanted even the energy to become
reckless. In this state, I did not dare to face the future, but in moody
despondency reflected on the past. Was this the destiny Marie de Meudon
predicted for me? was the ever-present thought of my mind. Is it