The series of strange events grew even stranger that evening. A dusty black carriage, rolled into town from the Paris road, drawn by an exhausted horse. To my eyes, it resembled a fiacre of the type a Parisian cab-driver would use – but we were more than a day's drive from Paris, too far for even the most dedicated cabbie. I jumped to my feet, ordering the stable-boys to change the horse. Then I went to speak to the passenger.

I found myself facing a man of about my own age, his face tired but lit with a a mixture of fear and excitement. Before I could speak with him, he stepped down from the carriage, pushing past me. Naturally, I followed him, though at a safe distance.

As if he knew where he was going, the man pushed his way through the knot of cavalrymen who had assembled in the town square for the second day running. I stayed at the edge of the square, watching. The man soon found what he was looKing for – the commander of the unit – and set to telling him something. Alas, I was too far to hear what was said, but the man gesticulated wildly. He pointed towards his carriage, gestured in the direction whence he had arrived, and threw an arm in the direction of the road that led to the distant border with the Austrian Netherlands.

I walked into the square, dodging a staggering, drunken officer. I cursed him, but pressed on, hoping to hear what the newly arrived man and the commander were discussing. But alas, it was already too late.

The two men had finished their conversation, and the newly-arrived man was soon the newly-gone man. My boys were done changing the horse, and he was in his cheap carriage and gone. I returned to my office, my stomach churning.