It was around twilight the following evening when, as everyone had expected, the Prince de Condé's men finally showed up in Sainte-Menehould. A handful of yellow-coated men, they were escorting a pair of carriages. One was a two-horse cabriolet, painted Condé yellow, but the second vehicle was truly remarkable. It was a huge berline, drawn by six horses, and piled high with luggage - boxes and chests and bags of who-knows-what. The berline had been painted black, with a yellow frame, and two footmen rode on the back. These footmen, along with two mounted guards, all in matching coats, formed the party.

The two carriages rumbled into my relay-post. In a trice the stable boys and post-riders were unhitching the horses and leading them away, only to replace them with fresh animals from the stables. As I walked over to view their progress, the mounted guards both wandered off. The moved as if they had no particular goal, but very soon they were at the far end of the square, talKing to the commander of the cavalry unit. It seemed that the few representatives of the town still standing in the square had taken note as well; they disappeared, only to return shortly, accompanied by men of the town militia.

As casually as I could manage, I walked out into the Place Royale. To my surprise, the cavalry commander ushered the two yellow-coated men around the corner of a shop-building. Apparently, he did not care to have their conversation overheard, not by the cavalrymen, not by the few militia members still guarding the square, and not by me.

Odd, I thought to myself. Very odd. First, troops in National uniform, and now the Prince de Condé's men had shown up in our little down. And, oddest of all, they appeared to be conspiring together!

Quietly, I pressed my body against the rough, sun-warmed bricks, and strained to hear what the men around the corner were saying.

“So far all has been quiet,” a voice said. It was very close to me, and thus I took it to belong to the man in the yellow coat. It continued, “Thank God that we have not been stopped or questioned.”

There was a slight rustle, and a voice from further away – and higher up, as if the height of a man on horseback – replied. I was confident that this had to be the voice of the cavalryman. “Things are under control for the moment. I'm glad you have finally brought us the parcel. Had it taken much longer to get here, we might have had a very complex situation on our hands.”

The parcel? But what did the payroll for the national army have to do with the Prince de Condé's men?! And surely there was no strongbox in the hodgepodge of personal effects perched precariously on the berline! It was at that exact moment that the truth hit me with the power of a thunderclap – Condé had nothing to do with this.

The yellow coats of the newly arrived footmen resembled the livery of the Most Serene House of Condé, yes, but they lacked the Prince's coat of arms. If the men had been sent by Condé, why didn't they bear his full livery? If Condé had sent them, but in secret, why put them in those Condé-yellow coats? The only solution was that Condé had not sent them. Someone else had. I tried to will my heart to beat more quietly as I strained to hear the yellow-coated man's response.

“You should talk to them,” the yellow-coated man told the commander, “tell them what you have seen.”

The next thing I knew, the commander had walked past me and back out into the square. At a reasonable distance, and walking in what I hoped was a casual manner, I followed him. He crossed the Place Royal, his boots quiet on the cobblestones, and turned towards my relay-post. He walked past the cabriolet, and up to the berline.

I followed, shouting pointless orders at the boys and the post-riders. A few looked askance at me, but nobody said anything – I was the boss, after all. I paused to look into the cabriolet. Two nervous-looking women sat within, peering about like owls. The older woman was well-dressed, looking as wealthy as a baroness. The younger was dressed like a servant, in a short cape with matching cap. The cavalry commander, however, had ignored them, and so I did too.

I stood to the side as my boys fixed the fresh horses in their traces. The commander leaned into the window of the berline, then stopped suddenly, and saluted someone within.

“I am sorry; plans have not worked out!” The commander stammered, and he turned, and as quickly as he could, walked away.

I was now terribly curious. Who, I wondered, was in this second carriage? Who would be worthy of a salute, followed by an awkward retreat? But before I could go closer to investigate, young Philippe, appeared, apparently out of nowhere. In mere seconds, two grubby hands were resting on the window frame of the berline, and the boy was precariously standing on tip-toe, talking to someone within. I cursed whatever impish inclination had inspired him to make an attempt at customer service.

Philippe's upturned face was soon met by that of a pretty woman who leaned out the window to speak to him. I watched in fascination. There was something familiar about the woman. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and nervous. Her hand plucked at the window frame as she frowned at the boy. She was dressed in an outfit almost identical to that of the serving woman in the cabriolet – a simple dress, a short cape, a matching cap – but she picked at the clothing as if it did not suit her. I soon became possessed with the feeling that I knew her from somewhere, that I had seen her before – though dressed completely differently.

Philippe asked the woman if she had any news – Sainte-Menehould is a small town, and we were always interested in news from the capital or other parts of the country.

The woman sighed theatrically, then, holding aloft a delicate handkerchief, replied, “There is nothing new except what has been forgotten.”

Though dressed like a French woman, she spoke with a German accent, and her voice, like her appearance, was oddly familiar to me. Still, I could not place it.

The last of the horses was now in his traces, and Philippe stepped away from the berline's window. As he came to stand by me, I caught sight of two children, and then a man inside the carriage. Portly, starting to slide into middle age, and dressed in a merchant's brown waistcoat, he looked as familiar as the woman had. But I had seen him – or rather, a picture of him – more recently.

“Philippe!” I hissed, as one of my post-riders mounted the lead horse, “Do you still have that livre note I gave you?”

 Philippe looked up at me suspiciously. “I do, Monsieur Drouet, but you did give it to me and say I could spend it on whatever I wished!”

“Hush, child, I am not going to take it. Just let me see it.”

As the cabriolet and then the berline both rumbled away from the relay-post and out of town, Philippe pulled a slightly stained bill out from his breeches pocket and held it up for my inspection.

I looked at the portrait on the small sheet of paper, and gasped.

“That was the King!” I exclaimed, excitedly, “The King and Queen, escaping to the border!”

Things suddenly began to move rather quickly.