In about an hour we
arrived at St Nicholas, and after some difficulty obtained entrance into
a cabaret. "_Vive la France_!" said O'Brien, going up to the fire, and
throwing the snow off his hat. In a short time we were seated to a good
supper and very tolerable wine, the hostess sitting down by us, and
listening to the true narratives of the real conscripts, and the false
one of O'Brien. After supper the conscript who first addressed us pulled
out his printed paper, with the route laid down, and observed that we
were two days behind the others. O'Brien read it over, and laid it on
the table, at the same time calling for more wine, having already pushed
it round very freely. We did not drink much ourselves, but plied them
hard, and at last the conscript commenced the whole history of his
intended marriage and his disappointment, tearing his hair, and crying
now and then. "Never mind," interrupted O'Brien, every two or three
minutes, "_buvons un autre coup pour la gloire_!" and thus he continued
to make them both drink until they reeled away to bed, forgetting their
printed paper, which O'Brien had some time before slipped away from the
table. We also retired to our room, when O'Brien observed to me. "Peter,
this description is as much like me as I am to Old Nick; but that's of
no consequence, as nobody goes willingly as a conscript, and therefore
they will never have a doubt but that it is all right. We must be off
early to-morrow, while these good people are in bed, and steal a long
march upon them.
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