  Title: The Great Invasion of 1813-14 or, After Leipzig Author: Erckmann-Chatrian Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 E-text prepared by Brian Coe, Graeme Mackreth, |
| Note: | Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/greatinvasionof00erckiala |
illustration
MM. ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN.
THE
GREAT INVASION
OF 1813-14;
OR,
AFTER LEIPZIG.
BY
MM. ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN,
AUTHORS OF "WATERLOO," "THE CONSCRIPT," "THE BLOCKADE," "ETC."
BEING
A STORY OF THE ENTRY OF THE ALLIED FORCES INTO ALSACE AND LORRAINE, AND THEIR MARCH UPON PARIS AFTER THE BATTLE OF LEIPZIG, CALLED THE BATTLE OF THE KINGS AND NATIONS.
WARD, LOCK AND CO.
LONDON: WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK: BOND STREET.
THE
GREAT INVASION;
OR
AFTER LEIPZIG.
CHAPTER I.
If you would like to know the story of the Great Invasion of 1814, just as it was told me by the old huntsman, Frantz du Hengst, you must come with me to the village of Charmes, in that province of France called the Vosges. About thirty little houses, with stuccoed fronts, and their roofs covered with dark green moss, are dotted along the borders of the Sarre; you can see their gables round which the ivy creeps and the honeysuckle twines—the honeysuckle withered now, for winter is near—the beehives closed with wisps of straw, the little gardens, the wooden palings, the hedge-rows that divide them from each other. To the left, on a high mountain, stand the ruins of the ancient castle of Falkenstein, destroyed two hundred years ago by the Swedes. It is now nothing but a heap of ruins, over-run with brambles and weeds. The approach to it is by an old, worn pathway, called a schlitte[1] road, of which you can catch a glimpse through the fir-trees. To the right, on the hillside, is seen the farm of Bois-de-ChÊnes, a large building, with granaries, stables, and outhouses, the flat roof weighted with huge stones to resist the keen north wind. Cows are grazing on the common, and a few goats are climbing the steep rocks.
All is calm and silent.
Some children, in drawers made of a sort of gray cloth, their heads and feet bare, are warming themselves round their little fires on the outskirts of the wood. If you watch the light blue columns of smoke as they disperse in the air, or hang motionless in white and gray clouds over the valley, you will discover behind these clouds the barren tops of the Grosmann and the Donon.
How, you must know that the last house of the village, whose square front is pierced by two glazed casements, and whose low door opens on to the muddy street, belonged in 1813 to Jean-Claude Hullin, an old volunteer of '92, but at that time a shoemaker in the village of Charmes, and held in high esteem among the simple mountaineers. Hullin was a short, stout, thick-set man, with gray eyes, thick lips, a short nose, with a strongly-marked division at the end, and thick, grayish eyebrows. He was a jovial, good-natured fellow, and didn't know how to refuse anything to his daughter, Louise, a child whom he had rescued from a troop of those wretched heimatshlos—half-tinkers, half-blacksmiths[2]—who travel from village to village, soldering saucepans, melting spoons, and mending broken crockery. He looked upon her as his own daughter, and had completely forgotten that she was not of his blood.
Besides Louise, the worthy man had other objects of affection. He loved, above all, his cousin, the old mistress of the farm of Bois-de-ChÊnes, Catherine LefÉvre, and her son, Gaspard, drawn in that year's conscription, a handsome young fellow, betrothed to Louise, and whose return at the end of the campaign was anxiously expected by all the family.
Hullin always dwelt proudly on the memory of his campaigns of Sambro-et-Meuse, of Italy, and Egypt. Sometimes of an evening, when his day's work was done, he would set off to the great saw-works at Valtin, formed of the trunks of trees still covered with their bark, and which you can perceive down below there at the bottom of the gorge. There, seated in the midst of the woodcutters, charcoal-burners, and schlitteurs,[3] opposite the great fire made of sawdust and shavings, and whilst the heavy wheel went for ever round, amid the never-ceasing thunder of the mill-dam and the constant grinding of the saw, with his elbow on his knee, and pipe in mouth, he would talk to them of Hoche, of Kleber, and finally, of General Bonaparte, whom he had seen a hundred times, and whose spare figure, piercing eyes, and eagle glance he could paint to the very life.
Such was Jean-Claude Hullin.
He was a man of the old Gallic stock, loving extraordinary adventures and hair-breadth 'scapes, but sticking to work from a principle of duty, from year's end to year's end.
As for Louise, that waif snatched from the travelling tinkers, she had a slender, lithe figure, long delicate hands, eyes of so deep and tender a blue that they went straight to the very bottom of your soul, a complexion like snow, hair of a light straw colour, soft and fine as silk, shoulders a little rounded like those of a kneeling maid at prayer. Her innocent smile, her pensive brow, in short, her whole presence reminded you of the old lied[4] of the minnesinger,[5] Erhart, where he says, "I have beheld a ray of light; my eyes are still dazzled with its brightness. Was it the moon's beam through the foliage? Was it Aurora's smile in the depth of the woods? No; it was the beautiful Edith, my love, who passed. I have seen her, and my eyes are still dazzled."
Louise dearly loved the fields, gardens, and flowers. In spring, the first note of the lark caused her to shed tears of tender pleasure. She delighted to watch the first opening of the blue-bells and sweet-scented May that blossomed on the hillside; and eagerly awaited the return of the swallows to build their snug little nests under the eaves. She was still the child of a wandering race, only a little less wild; but Hullin made excuses for everything; he understood her nature, and would sometimes say, with a smile:
"My poor Louise, if we had nothing to live on but what you bring us—your pretty handfuls of wild flowers—we should be starved to death in three days."
Upon which she would throw her arms round his neck, and smile upon him so sweetly that he would set contentedly to work again, saying:
"Ah! What business have I to scold her? She's quite right; she loves the sun and the green fields, poor child. Gaspard must work for two; he'll have happiness enough for four. I don't pity him, not I. There's plenty of women to work, and it does not improve their looks: but women who love and are kind to you—what a chance to meet with one—what a chance!"
Thus reasoned the worthy man, and days, weeks, and months went by in the near prospect of Gaspard's return.
Gaspard's mother, widow LefÉvre, a woman of marvellous industry and energy, shared Hullin's ideas on the subject of Louise. "I," she would say, "only want a daughter who will love us; I don't want her to meddle with my housekeeping. Only let her make herself happy! You'll not disagree with me, will you, Louise?"
And then the two would fall to kissing and hugging each other!
But still Gaspard did not return, and for the last two months no news had been heard of him.
Now on a certain day, towards the middle of the month of December, 1813, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, Hullin, squatted on his bench, was busily engaged in finishing off a pair of iron-bound sabots for the wood-cutter, Rochart. Louise had just placed a little earthen pipkin on the brazen stove, the fire in which was crackling and roaring with a plaintive sound, while the old clock marked the seconds with its monotonous tick. Outside, all along the street, were to be seen pools of water covered with a thin white coating of ice, showing that winter was near at hand. At intervals was heard the sound of thick sabots on the hard ground, and then a felt hat, a hood, or a white cap would go by, and all would be still again, the silence only broken by the gentle hum of Louise's spinning-wheel, and the singing of the marmite on the stove. This had lasted for about two hours, when Hullin, happening to cast a glance through the little glazed window-panes, suddenly left off working, and remained staring with his eyes wide open as if struck by an unusual sight.
In fact, at the turning of the street, just opposite the inn of the "Three Pigeons," there was seen coming, in the midst of a troop of urchins, whistling, hooting, leaping, and yelling—"The King of Diamonds! the King of Diamonds!"—there was seen coming, I say, the strangest figure it is possible to imagine. Just picture to yourself a man with red hair and beard, a grave face, sullen eye, straight nose, his eyebrows joined in the middle of his forehead, a circlet of tin on his head; a long-haired, iron-gray sheepskin floating from his back, the two fore-paws of which formed the fastening around his neck; a number of little copper crosses hanging like charms on his breast; his legs encased in a sort of drawers made of gray cloth, fastened above the ankle, and his feet bare. An enormous raven, his coal-black wings relieved by a few feathers of dazzling whiteness, was perched upon his shoulder. At first sight of him, and his stately presence, you would have thought him one of those ancient Merovingian kings depicted in the paintings of MontbÉliard; he held in his left hand a short thick stick, cut in the form of a sceptre, and with his right hand he made fantastic gestures, raising his finger to heaven, and seeming to address his suite.
Every door flew open as he passed—curious faces were pressed against every window-pane. Some old women, from the outer steps of the doors, called to the madman, who did not deign to turn aside his head; others came down into the street, and tried to bar his way, but he, with head erect and raised eyebrow, with a gesture and a word, forced them to stand aside.
"See," said Hullin, "here is YÉgof. I did not expect to see him again this winter. It is not his usual custom. What the devil can bring him back in such weather as this?"
And Louise, laying down her distaff, ran hastily out to look at the "King of Diamonds." The arrival of the fool YÉgof at the beginning of winter was quite an event; some were delighted at it, hoping to keep him and make him tell stories of his fortune and glories, by the inn firesides; others, and especially the women, felt a sort of uneasiness, for madmen, as everybody knows, have dealings with the world of spirits; they know the past and the future, and are inspired by God; the only thing is to be able to understand them, their words having always two meanings—one common, for vulgar people, the other deep, for refined and cultivated minds.
And this fool besides, had, above all others, really extraordinary and sublime ideas. No one knew either where he came from, where he went, or what he wanted; for YÉgof wandered about the country like a troubled spirit; he would talk of races now extinct, and claimed to be himself Emperor of Austrasia, Polynesia, and other places. Large volumes might have been written about his castles, his palaces, and his strongholds; he knew the numbers, situation, and architecture of them all, and celebrated their grandeur, beauty, and riches with a simple and modest air. He would speak of his stables, his hunting exploits, the officers of his crown, his ministers, his counsellors, the superintendents of his provinces; he never mistook their names or their rank, but he complained bitterly of having been dethroned by the accursed race, and the old midwife, Sapience Coquelin, every time she heard him groaning over this subject, would shed a shower of tears, as would many others too. Then he, pointing with his finger to heaven, would exclaim:
"Oh! women! oh, women! remember! The hour is near. The spirit of darkness flies. The old race—the masters of your masters—advance like the waves of the sea!"
And every spring he was in the habit of making a tour among the old owls' nests—those antique ruins that crown the wooded summits of the Vosges, Nideck, Geroldseck, Lutzelbourg, Turkestein, saying that he was going to visit his fiefs, and talking of re-establishing the ancient splendour of his States, and bringing back his revolted subjects into slavery, with the help of the grand Golo, his cousin.
Jean-Claude Hullin used to laugh at these things, not having a mind high enough to enter into the invisible spheres; but they had a great effect upon Louise; above all, when the great raven flapped his wings, and uttered his hoarse croak.
YÉgof was coming down the street without stopping anywhere, and Louise, quite in a fright at seeing that he was fixing his eyes upon their little house, said hastily:
"Papa Jean-Claude, I think he is coming here."
"Very likely," was Jean Hullin's reply. "The poor fellow must be in great want of a pair of strong sabots, now the cold weather is coming, and if he asks me, I should find it hard to refuse him."
"Oh, how good and kind you are!" said the young girl, with a loving kiss.
"Yes, yes; you coax me finely," said he, with a laugh, "because I do just whatever you like; and who's to pay me for my wood and work, I should like to know? Not YÉgof, that's very certain!"
Louise gave him another kiss, and a tear stood in Hullin's eye as he looked at her, and murmured:
"That's the pay I like best of all."
YÉgof was at that time about fifty paces off their house, and the noise and tumult grew louder and louder.
The street urchins, hanging on to his tattered robes, kept shouting: "Diamonds! spades! clubs!" All of a sudden he turned round, raising his sceptre, and, with a proud, though furious air, exclaimed:
"Begone, accursed race! Begone! Deafen me no more with your cries, or I will let loose my pack upon you."
The only effect of this threat was to redouble the hisses and shouts of laughter; but at this juncture Hullin appeared at his door, with his long strap in his hand, and picking out five or six of the most riotous, threatened to give them a taste of it for their supper—a thing which the worthy man had often done before, with the full consent of their parents—when all the troop dispersed helter-skelter. Then, turning towards the maniac:
"Come in, YÉgof," said the shoemaker: "come in, and warm yourself by the fire."
"My name is not YÉgof," replied the poor fellow, with an offended air: "my name is Luitprand, King of Austrasia and Polynesia."
"Yes, yes, I know," said Jean-Claude, "I know; you have told me all that before; but no matter whether your name is YÉgof or Luitprand, come in all the same. It is cold; try and warm yourself."
"I will come in," replied the fool, "but it is on a very serious affair—an affair of state: it is to form an indissoluble alliance between the Germans and the Triboques."
"Very good—we will talk about it."
Then YÉgof, stooping under the portal, entered, in a dreamy absent manner, and made a profound bow to Louise, at the same time lowering his sceptre; but the raven would not come in. Spreading his immense wings, he swept in a vast circle round the dwelling, and wound up his flight by beating himself against the window panes furiously enough to break them.
"Hans," cried the fool, "take care! I'll come to you!"
But the bird would not detach his sharp claws from the leaden staples, and continued to flap his great wings against the casement as long as his master stayed in the house. Louise never took her eyes off him; she was afraid of him. As for YÉgof, he took his seat in the old leathern arm-chair behind the stove, with his legs extended as if on a throne—and, casting a haughty look around him, said:
"I come from Jerome in a straight line to conclude an alliance with you, Hullin. You are not ignorant that I have deigned to cast my eyes on your daughter, and I come to ask her of you in marriage."
Louise, at this proposal, blushed up to her ears, and Hullin burst into a peal of loud laughter.
"You laugh!" cried the fool, in a hollow voice. "Well, you are wrong to laugh. This alliance can alone save you from the ruin that threatens you—you, and your house, and all that is yours. At this very moment my armies are advancing—they are innumerable—they cover the earth. What can you do against me? You will be conquered, destroyed, or reduced to slavery, as you have already been during many ages; for I, Luitprand, King of Austrasia and Polynesia, have resolved all shall return to the ancient order of things. Remember!"
Here the fool solemnly raised his finger.
"Remember what happened before!—You were beaten!—And we, the old races of the North—we put our foot on your necks. We laid the heaviest stones on your backs, to build our strong castles, and our subterranean prisons. We harnessed you to our carts—you were before us as the straw before the hurricane. Remember, remember, Triboque—and tremble!"
"I remember very well," said Hullin, still laughing; "but we took our revenge—you know."
"Yes, yes," interrupted the fool, with a frown; "but that time is past. My warriors are more numerous than the leaves of the forest; and your blood flows like the water of the brooks. You! I know you—I have known you during more than a thousand years!"
"Bah!" was Hullin's reply.
"Yes, it is this hand, do you hear—this hand that subdued you, when we arrived for the first time in the midst of your forests!—it bowed your head beneath the yoke, and it will bow it again! Because you are brave, you think yourselves for ever masters of this country and of all France. Well, well, you are wrong! We have shared your country, and will share it again. We will restore Alsace and Lorraine to Germany, Brittany and Normandy to the men of the North, and Flanders and the South to Spain. We will make a little kingdom of France round Paris—quite a little kingdom, with a descendant of the old race at your head, and you shall not stir any more—you shall be very quiet. He! he! he!" and YÉgof laughed.
Hullin, who knew very little of history, was surprised that the fool should know so many names.
"Bah! have done, YÉgof," said he, "and take a little soup to warm your stomach."
"I do not ask for your soup—I ask of you this girl in marriage—the handsomest in my States. Give her to me willingly, and I will raise you to the steps of my throne; if not, my armies will take her by force, and you shall not have the honour of having given her to me."
As he spoke, the unhappy man regarded Louise with a look of profound admiration.
"How lovely she is!" said he; "I destine her to the highest honours. Rejoice, young girl, rejoice—you shall be queen of Austrasia!"
"Listen, YÉgof," said Hullin: "I am much flattered by your offer—it proves that you appreciate beauty! That is very right; but my daughter is already betrothed to Gaspard LefÉvre."
"But I," exclaimed the fool, in an angry tone, "will not listen to that." Then rising, "Hullin," said he, resuming his solemn air, "this is my first offer. I shall renew it twice. Do you hear? Twice! And if you persist in your obstinacy, woe! woe to you and to your race!"
"What! will you not eat your soup?"
"No! no!" yelled the fool. "I will accept nothing from you till you have consented. Nothing! nothing!"
And as he went towards the door, to the great joy of Louise, who kept watching the raven flap his wings against the window-panes, he said, raising his sceptre, "Twice more!" and went out.
Hullin burst into a loud laugh.
"Poor devil!" said he. "In spite of himself, his mouth watered for the soup. His stomach is empty—his teeth chattered with cold and hunger. Well, folly is stronger than either."
"Oh, how he did frighten me," said Louise.
"Well, well, my child, never mind; he is gone. He can see you are pretty, fool as he is. There is nothing in that to be afraid of."
But in spite of these words, and the departure of the fool, Louise still trembled, and felt herself blush as she thought of the looks the wretched being had cast on her.
In the meantime, YÉgof had retaken the road to Valtin. He could be seen walking gravely away, his raven perched upon his shoulder, and making strange signs and gestures, although there was no one near him. Night was at hand, and soon the tall form of the King of Diamonds blended with the gray tints of the winter twilight, and finally disappeared.
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FOOTNOTES:
[1] Roads to which the trunks of trees felled or blown down in the forest are conveyed are called schlitte, or sledge, roads.
[2] Without home or fireside.
[3] Properly tree-fellers.
[4] Song.
[5] Poet, minstrel.
CHAPTER II.
On the evening of the same day, after supper, Louise, having taken her spinning-wheel, had gone to spend the evening with Dame Rochart, at whose cottage all the old gossips and young girls of the neighbourhood were in the habit of assembling, relating old legends, chatting about the rain, the weather, marriages, christenings, the departure or the return of the conscripts, and what not—all of which helped to pass away the time in a very agreeable manner.
Hullin sat alone, opposite his little copper lamp, repairing the old wood-cutter's sabots. Already he thought no more of the fool, YÉgof; his hammer went up and down, hitting the big nails into the thick wooden soles, and all mechanically, and from force of habit. A thousand thoughts, however, passed through his head; he was a dreamer without knowing why.
At times he thought of Gaspard, who, for a long while, had given no sign of life; then of the campaign, which was being indefinitely prolonged. The lamp lit up with its yellowish flame the little smoky cabin. Outside not a sound was to be heard. The fire was almost out; Jean-Claude rose to throw on a fresh log, then sat down again, murmuring:
"Bah! this cannot go on much longer. We shall have a letter one of these days."
The old clock began to strike nine; and as Hullin resumed his work, the door opened, and Catherine LefÉvre, the mistress of the Bois-de-ChÊnes farm, appeared on the threshold, to the great surprise of the shoemaker, for it was not usual for her to leave her home at such an hour.
Catherine LefÉvre might be about sixty years of age, but she was as upright and straight as at thirty. Her clear gray eyes and hooked nose gave to her face some-what the look of a bird of prey; her sunken cheeks, and the corners of her mouth, drawn down by thought, added something of a gloomy and bitter expression; two or three thick locks of grizzled hair hung down on each side of her temples; on her head she wore a striped brown hood, which covered her shoulders also down to her elbows; in short, her whole aspect denoted a character firm to obstinacy, mingled with something of grandeur and sadness which inspired at once respect and fear.
"You, Catherine!" said Hullin, surprised out of himself.
"Yes, it is I," replied the old farm-mistress, in a calm tone. "I am come to talk a little with you, Jean-Claude. Is Louise gone out?"
"She is spending the evening with Madeline Rochart."
"That is well."
Then Catherine threw back her hood, and came and sat down beside the bench. Hullin looked at her steadfastly; he was struck by an appearance of something at once extraordinary and mysterious.
"What is the matter?" said he, laying down his hammer.
Instead of replying to this question, the old woman, looking towards the door, seemed to be listening; then, hearing nothing, she resumed her musing look.
"The fool YÉgof passed last night at the farm," said she.
"He came to see me, too, this afternoon," said Hullin, without attaching any importance to this fact, which seemed to him of no moment.
"Yes," replied the old woman, in a low tone, "he passed the night at our house, and yesterday evening, at this hour, in the kitchen, before everybody, that man, that madman, related the most fearful things to us!"
She was silent, and the corners of her mouth seemed to be drawn down lower than usual.
"Fearful things!" murmured the shoemaker, more and more surprised, for he had never seen the farm-mistress in such a state before, "but what sort, Catherine, what sort?"
"Dreams that I have had!"
"Dreams! you must be laughing at me, surely!"
"No."
Then, after a moment's silence, looking at the wonderstruck Hullin, she went on slowly:
"Yesterday evening, then, after supper, all our people were assembled in the kitchen, round the fire. The table was still covered with the empty bowls, platters, and spoons. YÉgof had supped with us, and been diverting us with the history of his treasures, his castles, and his provinces. It might be then about nine o'clock—the fool had just seated himself in the corner, beside the blazing hearth. DuchÊne, my labourer, was botching Bruno's saddle; the shepherd, Robin, was weaving a basket; Annette was arranging her pots and pans on the dresser, while I had brought my wheel to the fire to spin a hank before going to bed. Out of doors, the dogs were barking at the moon; it must have been very cold. Well, there we all were, talking about the winter that was coming; DuchÊne was saying that it would be very hard, for he had seen large flocks of wild geese, which is a sure sign: and YÉgof's raven, perched on the edge of the chimney-piece, his great head buried in his ruffled plumes, seemed to be asleep; but from time to time he stretched out his neck, preened a feather or two with his bill, then looked at us, listening for a second, and again plunged his head between his shoulders."
The farm-mistress was silent for a moment, as if to collect her thoughts. She cast down her eyes; her long, hooked nose bent itself almost to her lips, and a strange paleness seemed to spread over her face.
"What on earth is she driving at?" said Hullin to himself.
The old woman went on:
"YÉgof, beside the blazing hearth, with his tin crown on his head, his short staff between his knees, was dreaming of something. He looked at the great black fire-place, the large stone chimney-piece, with figures and trees carved upon it, and the smoke which was rising in heavy wreaths round the flitches of bacon. All at once, when we were least thinking of it, he struck the end of his staff upon the stones, and cried out, like one in a dream: 'Yes, yes; I have seen all that. It is a long time ago—a long time.' And as we all looked at him, struck with surprise—'At that time,' he went on, 'the fir forests were forests of oak—the Nideck the Dagsberg, the Falkenstein, the Geroldseck; none of those old castles, now in ruins, existed then. At that time they used to hunt the wild oxen in the woods, fish for salmon in the Sarre; and you—you fair-skinned men, buried in the snow six months in the year—you lived upon milk and cheese; for you had large flocks and herds on the Hengst, the Schneeberg, the Grosmann, and the Donon. In summer, you hunted; you came trooping down to the banks of the Rhine, the Moselle, the Meuse. Oh, yes; I remember all that.'
"Strange to say, Jean-Claude, while the fool continued speaking, I seemed to see again all those countries of former times, and to remember them as a dream. I had let fall my distaff, and old DuchÊne, Robin, Jeanne—in short, every one, was listening eagerly. 'Yes, it is a long time ago,' the fool began again. 'In those times, too, you used to build these huge fire-places; and all around, at two or three hundred paces, you used to fix your palings fifteen feet high, and inside of them you used to keep your great dogs, with hanging dewlaps, who barked night and day.'
"Whatever he said, Jean-Claude, we saw. As for him, he seemed to pay no heed to us, but kept looking at the figures on the chimney-piece, with his mouth wide open; but at the end of a moment, having turned his head towards us, and seeing us all attentive, he began to laugh with that wild laugh of his, exclaiming: 'And at that time—oh! fair-haired men with blue eyes and white skins, fed on milk and cheese, and only drinking blood in the autumn, at the great hunts—you believed yourselves masters of the plain and of the mountain, when we, the red men with green eyes, sprung from the sea; we, who drank blood always, and loved nothing but war, arrived one fine morning, with our axes and our spears, coming up the Sarre under shadow of the old oaks. Ah! it was a cruel war, and one that lasted weeks and months. And the old woman, there,' said he, pointing to me, with a strange smile, 'the Margareth of the clan of the Kilberix, that old woman with the hooked nose—within her palisades, in the midst of her dogs and her warriors, defended herself like a she-wolf. But at the end of five moons hunger came: the gates of her palisades opened for flight, and we—in ambush in the stream—we massacred all—all, except the children and the beautiful young girls. The old woman alone, with her nails and her teeth, defended herself to the last. And I, Luitprand—I cleft her gray head, and I took her father, the blind man, the aged of many days, and chained him to the gate of my strong castle like a dog.'
"Then, Hullin," continued the farm-mistress, bowing down her head—"then the fool began to sing a long song—the complaint of the old man chained to his gate. Wait while I try and remember it. It was sad—sad as a miserere. I cannot recollect it, Jean-Claude; but I seem to hear it still: it froze the marrow in my bones. And as he kept laughing all the while, our people at last grew furious. With a terrible cry, DuchÊne sprang at the throat of the fool to strangle him; but he, stronger than you would think, repulsed him, and raising his staff threateningly, exclaimed:
"'On your knees, slaves—on your knees! My armies are advancing. Do you hear them? The earth trembles beneath their tread. Those castles—the Nideck, the Haut-Barr, the Dagsberg, the Turkestein—you will have to rebuild them. On your knees!'
"Never in my life did I see a countenance more terrific than that of YÉgof at this moment; but, for the second time seeing my people about to rush upon him, I felt bound to defend him.
"'He is a madman,' said I. 'Are you not ashamed to take heed of the words of a fool?' They stopped on account of what I said; but for my own part I could not close an eye the whole night long. I lay awake hour after hour, thinking of what the wretched creature had said. I seemed to hear the song of the old man, the barking of the dogs, and the sounds of battle. It is long since I have felt so disturbed and unhappy. That is why I have come to see you. What do you think of all this, Hullin?"
"I!" said the shoemaker, whose full, red face betrayed a sort of sad scorn mixed with pity; "if I did not know you as well as I do, Catherine, I should say that you had gone out of your mind—you, DuchÊne, Robin, and all the rest of them. It all sounds to me like one of the tales of Genevieve de Brabant—a story made to frighten little children, and which shows us the folly of our ancestors."
"Because you do not understand these things," said the old farm-mistress, in a calm and grave tone; "you never had any ideas of this sort."
"Then you believe what YÉgof sang to you?"
"Yes, I believe it."
"What, you, Catherine—a woman of your sense? If it were Dame Rochart, I should think nothing of it. But you!—--"
He rose quite indignant, took off his apron, shrugged his shoulders, and then abruptly sat down again, saying, "Do you know who this raving maniac is? Well, I will tell you. You may be sure he is one of those German schoolmasters who puzzle their brain over an old story of Mother Goose, and discuss it gravely with you. By dint of studying dreaming, pondering, looking for knots in a bulrush, their brain gets bewildered—they have visions, distorted dreams, and take those dreams for gospel. I have always looked upon YÉgof as one of those poor creatures, he knows a host of names; he talks of Brittany and Austrasia, of Polynesia and the Nideck; and then of the Geroldseck, the Turkestein, the borders of the Rhine: in short, of everything, at random till at length there seems to be something in it, while in truth there is nothing. At another time, you would think with me, Catherine; but you are in trouble at not having had any news from Gaspard. These rumours of war, of invasion, that are going about, torment you, disturb your rest. You cannot sleep, and so you come to look upon the babble of a fool as the words of Holy Writ."
"No, Hullin—it is not so. You, yourself, if you had heard YÉgof——"
"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed the honest man. "If I had heard it I should have laughed in his face, as just now—— By the way, do you know that he came to ask Louise's hand of me, to make her Queen of Austrasia?"
Catherine LefÉvre could not restrain a smile; but immediately resuming her serious manner: "All your reasons, Jean-Claude," said she, "do not convince me; but I confess Gaspard's silence alarms me. I know my son. I am certain he has written to me. Why, then, have not his letters reached me? The war is going badly, Hullin; we have the whole world against us. They will have none of our revolution; you know that as well as me. As long as we had the upper hand, and gained victory upon victory, they were hand-and-glove with us; but, since our disasters in Russia, things have taken another turn."
"Ah! ha! Catherine, how your head wanders. You look always on the black side of things."
"Yes, I do look on the black side of things, and I am right. What troubles me most is that we get no news from the outer world; we live here like a nation of savages, and know nothing of what is going on around us. The Austrians and the Cossacks may fall upon us from one day to the next, before we know where we are."
Hullin observed the growing excitement of the old woman, and was infected, in spite of himself, by the influence of her fears.
"Listen, Catherine," said he, all at once; "when you talk in a rational way, it is not for me to contradict you. All that you say now is possible. Not that I believe it; still, there is no knowing I was intending to go to Phalsbourg in about a week, to buy some sheepskin to line my sabots. I will go to-morrow. At Phalsbourg, a fortified place, and a post-town, moreover, there must be some reliable news to be had. Will you believe what I bring you from there?"
"Yes."
"Good; then that is settled. I will set out early to-morrow. It is five leagues; about six o'clock I shall be back. You will see, Catherine, that your gloomy ideas are against all common sense."
"I hope so," replied the farm-mistress, rising; "I hope so. You have comforted me a little, Hullin. And now I will go back to the farm, and, I hope, sleep better than I did last night. Good night, Jean-Claude."
illustration
CHAPTER III.
On the morrow, at daybreak, Hullin, attired in his Sunday pantaloons of thick blue cloth, his ample brown velvet surcoat, his red waistcoat with metal buttons, and a broad-brimmed felt hat on his head, which, looped up in front like a cockade, exposed to view his rubicund face, set out on his way to Phalsbourg, with a stout walking-stick in his hand.
Phalsbourg is a little fortified place on the high road between Strasbourg and Paris. It commands the borders of Saverne, the defiles of the upper Barr, of Roche-Plate, of Bonne Fontaine, and of the Graufthal. Its bastions, its outworks, its half-moons, are carved in zig-zag on a rocky platform. At a distance, it seems as if you could clear the walls with a single stride; but, as you approach, you discover the ditch, which is a hundred feet broad and thirty feet deep, and the gloomy ramparts cut in the rock opposite. That brings you to a stand. For the rest, with the exception of the church, the commune hall, the two gates of France and Germany in form of a mitre, and the belfreys of the two powder-mills, all is hidden behind the glacis. Such is the little town of Phalsbourg, which is not wanting in a certain character of grandeur, especially when you cross its bridges, and enter beneath its low massive portals and bristling portcullises. In the interior, the houses are built at regular intervals; they are low, well-constructed buildings, built of hewn stone: everything about the place has a military look.
Hullin, inclined, by his sturdy nature and jovial disposition, never to give himself unnecessary alarm about the future, considered all the reports of retreat and invasion that were flying about the country as so many lies spread by scandal. You may, therefore, judge his surprise when, on quitting the mountain, and arrived at the outskirts of the forests, he saw the suburbs of the town razed to the ground; not a garden, not an orchard, not a walk, not a tree, not a shrub was left: all had been levelled that was within reach of gun-shot. A few poor wretches were trying to collect the scattered fragments of their habitations, and were carrying them to the town. Nothing was visible on the horizon but the long, gloomy line of ramparts towering overhead. Jean-Claude felt as if struck by a thunderbolt; for a few minutes he could not utter a single word, or take a single step.
"Oh, ho!" said he, at length, "this looks bad—this looks very bad! They are expecting the enemy!"
And then his warlike instincts began quickly to get the upper hand of him, and his brown cheeks grew crimson.
"And it is those beggars of Austrians, Prussians, and Russians, and all the scum collected from one end of Europe to the other, that are the cause of this," he exclaimed, flourishing his stick; "but let them beware! we will make them pay dearly for it!"
He was in a sort of white rage, such as honest men feel when urged beyond bounds. Woe to any one who had thwarted him at that moment!
About twenty minutes afterwards he entered the town at the end of a long file of vehicles, to which five and even six horses were harnessed, and who were drawing with great efforts enormous trunks of trees, destined to form block-houses. Among the drivers, the country people, and the horses, neighing, rearing, and stamping, gravely rode a mounted gendarme named Kels, who seemed to take no note of anything, and only said in a bluff voice: "Courage, courage, my friends—we have two more stages to do by the evening. You will have deserved well of your country!"
Jean-Claude passed over the bridge.
In the town a fresh spectacle presented itself to his eyes. There all were ardently preparing for its defence, every door was open, and men, women, and children were coming and going in every direction, to assist in the transport of gunpowder and projectiles. At times they collected in groups of three, four, and six, to gather the news.
"Hey! neighbour!"
"What now?"
"A courier has just arrived at full gallop; he came in by the French gate."
"Then he comes to announce the arrival of the National Guard from Nancy."
"Or, perhaps, a convoy from Metz."
"You are right—we are short of sixteen-pound shot, and also want grape-shot. They are going to cast a lot."
Some honest citizens in shirt-sleeves, mounted on tables along the footpaths, were busily engaged in blocking up their windows with thick planks of wood and mattrasses. Others were rolling water-barrels in front of their doors. Hullin felt reassured at witnessing so much enthusiasm.
illustration
"HE ENTERED THE TOWN AT THE END OF A LONG FILE OF VEHICLES."
"All right!" he exclaimed; "everybody seems to be making holiday here. The Allies will meet with a warm reception."
Opposite the college the shrill voice of the town-crier, Harmentier, was heard proclaiming: "This is to give notice that the casemates will be thrown open, in order that every one may be able to transport thither a mattrass and two coverlets for his own personal use; and that the commissioners are to commence their tour of inspection, to ascertain that every inhabitant has three months' provisions laid up in store, the which he is to certify.—This 20th of December, 1813. Jean-Pierre Meunier, Governor."
All this Hullin heard and saw in less than a minute, for the whole town seemed to have turned out. Strange, serious, and comic scenes followed close upon each other without interruption.
Some National Guards were dragging a twenty-four pounder in the direction of the arsenal. These brave fellows had a steep ascent to climb, and their strength was nearly exhausted. "Hoy!—all together! A thousand thunders! Put your shoulder to it! Forward!" Thus shouting all together, and pushing with all their strength at the wheels, the great cannon, stretching out its long, bronze neck over its immense carriage, which rose above everything, rolled slowly over the pavement, trembling beneath its weight.
Hullin was in such a state of delight that he was no longer like the same man. His martial instincts—the recollection of the camp, the march, the fire, and the battle—all returned at full speed; his eye sparkled, his heart beat quicker, and already ideas of defence, entrenchments, death-struggles, whirled rapidly through his brain.
"Upon my word!" said he to himself, "all this looks well! I have made sabots enough in my life-time; and since I have a chance of shouldering a musket again, well and good!—so much the better; we will show the Prussians and Austrians that we have not forgotten our old trade."
So reasoned the brave man, carried away by warlike recollections; but his joy was not of long duration.
In the square in front of the church were stationed fifteen or twenty carts filled with the wounded that kept arriving from Leipzig and Hanau. These unfortunates—pale, wan, with fast glazing eye; some whose limbs had been already amputated, others whose wounds had not been even dressed—were patiently awaiting death. Beside them stood some old, worn-out horses, munching their meagre allowance; while their drivers, poor devils taken into employ at Alsace, wrapped in their ragged cloaks, were sleeping, with their hats pulled over their brows, and their arms folded across their breasts, on the steps of the church. It made one shudder to see these wretched groups of human beings, in their large gray coats, as they lay jumbled together upon the bloody straw; one supporting his broken arm upon his knees; another with his head bandaged with an old handkerchief; a third, already dead, serving as a seat for the living—his blackened hands hanging over the side of the cart. Hullin stood rooted to the ground in the presence of this dismal spectacle. He could not turn his eyes aside. It is in the power of great human griefs to fascinate us thus; we have a morbid wish to see how men perish—how they face death: the best of us are not free from this frightful curiosity. It seems as if eternity was revealing its secrets to us.
There, too, near the shafts of the first cart, to the right of the file, were squatted two carbineers in sky-blue tunics—two real Colossuses, whose iron frames were bowed beneath the pressure of hardship. They might have been taken for two caryatides, crushed beneath the weight of an enormous mass. One with thick red moustaches, and hollow cheeks, gazed around with lustreless eyes, as if just awakening from a frightful dream. The other, bent double, his shoulder torn by a grape-shot wound, was gradually growing weaker and weaker, at times raising himself up with a start, and talking low, as if dreaming. Behind lay, stretched in couples, infantry soldiers, most of them struck by a ball, and with a broken arm or leg. They seemed to endure their fate with more firmness than the giants. These unfortunates did not speak a word, with the exception of a few among the youngest, who passionately cried for water and bread. And in one of the carts, a plaintive voice, the voice of a conscript, was heard calling, "Mother! mother!"—whilst some of the older ones smiled gloomily, as much as to say: "Your mother!—oh! yes, she will be sure to come!" This was what their looks said; perhaps, in reality, they were past thinking of anything.
From time to time a sort of shudder ran through this sad assemblage of human beings. That was when several of the wounded half raised themselves, and instantly fell back again, as if Death, at that precise moment, had been going his rounds among them.
Then all was silent again!
And as Hullin stood watching all this, and feeling his very heart sicken within him,—just at that moment a shopkeeper in the Square, SÔme the baker, came out of his house, carrying a large saucepan filled with soup. It was then a sight, to behold all those ghosts move restlessly on their straw, their eyes sparkling, their nostrils dilating; new life seemed to be given them, for the poor wretches were dying of hunger.
The good baker, SÔme, with tears in his eyes, approached, saying:
"Here I am, my children!—a little patience! It's I—you know me?"
But he had no sooner reached the first cart than the huge carbineer with hollow cheeks plunged his arm up to the elbow in the boiling soup, seized the meat, and hid it under his coat; all this was done with the rapidity of lightning. Immediately, savage yells broke forth on all sides. Those who had strength to move seemed as if they would have devoured their comrade; while he, with his two arms crossed upon his breast, his teeth fixed in his prey, and his squinting eye looking both ways at once, seemed deaf to their threats. On hearing the uproar, an old soldier, a sergeant, rushed out of a neighbouring inn. He was an old campaigner; he saw at a glance what was the matter, and, without loss of time, snatched the meat from the ferocious beast, saying:
"You deserve to have none at all. It is going to be divided. We shall cut it into ten rations!"
"There are only eight of us!" said one of the wounded—very calm in appearance, but whose eye glared with feverish excitement.
"How, eight?"
"You can see, sergeant, that these two are going to kick the bucket—it'd be wasting good provisions!"
The old sergeant cast a look at the cart.
"He is right," said he; "divide it into eight portions!"
Hullin could see no more; he withdrew to the house of the innkeeper, Wittman, opposite, as pale as death. Wittman was also a dealer in leather and furs. On seeing him enter, he exclaimed:
"What! is that you, Master Jean-Claude?—you come earlier than usual; I did not expect you till next week."
Then, seeing him stagger, he continued:
"But, what is it? There is something the matter?"
"I have just been seeing the wounded."
"Oh! I see; the first time—I know it makes you feel queer; but if you had seen fifteen thousand of them go by, as we have, you'd think nothing of it."
"A pint of wine—quick!" said Hullin, who felt himself turning sick. "Oh, men, men—and we call ourselves brothers!"
"Yes, brothers; as far as the pocket is considered," replied Wittman. "Here, take a drink, it will set you right."
"And do you mean to tell me you have seen fifteen thousand such go by?"
"At the very least, during the last two months, to say nothing of those who are left in Alsace and the other side of the Rhine; for, you see, they couldn't find carts enough for all, and then some of them weren't worth the trouble of carrying away."
"Oh! yes, I see! but why are these unfortunate men there? Why do they not take them to the hospital?"
"The hospital! what is the good of a hospital—of ten hospitals—for fifty thousand wounded? All the hospitals, from Mayence and Coblentz to Phalsbourg, are crowded. And besides, that terrible malady, the typhus fever, do you see, Hullin, kills more than the cannon-ball. All the villages of the plain for twenty leagues round are infected; they are dying off everywhere like flies. Luckily, the town has been in a state of siege for the last three days, the gates are going to be shut, no person will be allowed to enter. Why, I myself have lost my uncle Christian and my aunt Lisbeth—both as well and hearty as you and I are at this present moment, Master Jean-Claude. And now the cold has come at last. There was a white frost last night."
"And were the wounded left out in the open air all night?"
"No, they arrived from Saverne this morning; in an hour or two, just time to give the horses a little rest, they will set out for Sarrebourg."
At this moment, the old sergeant, who had been settling affairs with the wounded in the carts, entered, rubbing his hands.
"Ha! ha!" said he, "it's sharp weather, Master Wittman; and you have done wisely to light the fire in the stove. A little sup of brandy, just to keep the fog out. Hum! hum!"
In spite of his little puckered-up eyes and hatchet-shaped nose, the countenance of the old soldier beamed with good humour and joviality. His whole figure was martial, his face bronzed by exposure to the open air, frank and open, though tinged with an expression of sly humour; his tall shako, large great-coat of grayish-blue, the belt, the very epaulette, all seemed part and parcel of himself. He could not have been sketched otherwise. He kept striding up and down the room, rubbing his hands, while Wittman poured him out a dram of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had instantly noticed the number of his regiment—6th Light Infantry. Gaspard, son of the farm-mistress LefÉvre, served in this regiment. Jean-Claude could now hear news of Louise's betrothed; but just as he was about to speak, his heart nearly failed him: "If Gaspard were dead; if he had perished, like so many others!"
The worthy sabot-maker felt as if he were choking. He was silent. "Better," thought he, "to know nothing at all."
And yet, in a few minutes' time, he was unable to restrain himself.
"Sergeant," said he, in a hoarse voice, "you belong to the 6th Light?"
"Yes, neighbour," said the other, returning to the middle of the room.
"Do you happen to know a young man named Gaspard LefÉvre?"
"Gaspard LefÉvre, of the 2nd division of the 1st—do I know him? Why, I taught him his drill: a brave soldier, by all that's blue! hard as iron. If we had about a hundred thousand of his mettle——"
"Then he is alive?—he is well?"
"Yes, friend. That is to say, he was on Dec. 15th, when I quitted the regiment at Fredericsthal, to escort this convoy of wounded; but in such times as these, you see, we can't answer for anything; from one moment to the next we are each of us liable to be sent to our account. But a week ago, at Fredericsthal, Gaspard LefÉvre answered to the muster-roll."
Jean-Claude drew a long breath.
"But, sergeant," said he, "do me the favour to tell me why Gaspard has not written home for two months?"
The old soldier smiled, and winked his little twinkling eyes.
"What the deuce, my good friend," said he; "do you think people have nothing better to do in war time than write letters?"
"No; for I served myself in the campaigns of Sambre-et-Meuse, Italy, and Egypt; but that did not prevent my writing home to let them know how I was getting on."
"One moment, comrade," interrupted the sergeant; "I, too, have served in Italy and Egypt; but the campaign we have just ended is not like either of those; it's quite another sort of thing."
"It has been very severe, then?"
"Severe! I believe you! All may thank their lucky stars who have not left their bones to bleach there. Everything was against us. Sickness, traitors, the peasants, the shopkeepers, our Allies—in short, everything. Of our company, which left Phalsbourg in full marching order on the 21st of last January, there have returned only thirty-two men. I think Gaspard LefÉvre is the only one of the conscripts left. Poor fellows! they fought well; but they were not used to starving, and they melted away like butter on a stove."
So saying, the old soldier approached the counter, and tossed off his brandy at a single draught.
"Your health, friend. Are you, by chance, the father of Gaspard?"
"No; I am a relation."
"Well, you have reason to be proud of him. What a fine young fellow for twenty! Yes, in spite of all, he has kept his post while others gave in by dozens."
"But still," pursued Hullin, after a moment's silence, "I'm at a loss to see what there was in this last campaign so different to all others; for we also had sicknesses—traitors to encounter."
"Different!" exclaimed the sergeant; "everything was different. Formerly, if you fought with us in Germany, you must remember that after one or two victories it was all over; people received you well; you drank wine and ate sour-krout and ham with the worthy citizens, or danced with their fat wives. The husbands and grandpapas shook their sides with laughing, and when the regiment took its departure, everybody was ready to cry their eyes out. But this time, after Lutzen and Bautzen, instead of coming round, the people only made wry faces at you; you could get nothing, except by force, till you would almost have thought yourself in Spain or La Vendee. I don't know what they had taken into their heads against us. Again, if we had been nothing but Frenchmen, and hadn't had heaps of Saxons and other allies, who were only waiting the opportunity to spring at our throats, we should have gained the day all the same, one against five; but the Allies!—never talk to me of allies again! Why, look now at Leipzig, the 18th of last October, in the very midst of the battle, our Allies turned against us, and fired at us from behind: those were our fine friends, the Saxons. A week after, our once excellent friends, the Bavarians, came and threw themselves in the way of our retreat. We had to cut our way through them at Hanau. The next day, close to Frankfort, another column of good friends present themselves. They had to be crushed. In short, the more of them you kill, the more spring up in your path. And now, here we are on this side of the Rhine. Well, rest assured we have yet more of these good friends all the way from Moscow on our track. Oh, if we could only have foreseen this after Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, and Wagram!"
Hullin had grown quite thoughtful.
"And what is the state of things with us now?" he asked.
"The state of things is, that we have been obliged to re-cross the Rhine, and that all our strong places on the other side are besieged. The 10th of last November, the Prince of NeufchÂtel reviewed the regiment at Bleckheim. The soldiers of the third battalion were transferred to the second, and the skeleton of the regiment was to hold itself in readiness to set out for the depÔt. The skeletons exist sure enough, but where are the men? No wonder there are none, bled as they have been at every pore. All Europe is up in arms. The Emperor is at Paris; he is preparing his plan of campaign. Let them only give us breathing-time till spring!"
Just at this moment, Wittman, who was standing by the window, said:—"Here comes the Governor—he has been examining the abattis and defences round the town."
And they saw the commandant, Jean-Pierre Meunier, his head adorned with a large three-cornered hat, and wearing a tricolour scarf round his waist, crossing the square.
"Ah," said the sergeant, "I must go and get him to sign the order of march. Excuse me, friend, I must leave you."
"Good-bye, sergeant, and thank you. If you see Gaspard again, tell him that Jean-Claude Hullin desires to be remembered to him, and that all in his village are anxiously expecting to hear from him."
"Certainly, certainly. I will not fail." The sergeant went out, and Hullin sat thoughtfully and silently finishing his pint of wine.
"Neighbour Wittman," said he, after a moment's pause, "where is my parcel?"
"It is ready, Master Jean-Claude."
Then, looking in at the kitchen door, he called out:—"GrÉdel, GrÉdel, bring Master Hullin's parcel!"
A little woman appeared at this summons, and placed on the table a bundle of sheepskins. Jean-Claude passed his stick through the bundle, and put it on his shoulder.
"What, are you going to start directly?"
"Yes, neighbour Wittman; the days are short, and it is bad travelling through the woods after six o'clock. I must get home betimes."
"A safe journey to you, then, Master Jean-Claude."
Hullin went out, and crossed the square, keeping his eyes turned aside from the convoy of wounded and dying, who were still stationed in front of the church.
And the innkeeper, as he watched him from his window setting off at a good round pace, said to himself—
"How pale he was when he came in; he could scarcely stand upon his legs. It's droll now, a rough man, an old soldier like him, to be so upset, while I could see fifty regiments of wounded go by in carts without thinking more about it than my morning pipe."
illustration
CHAPTER IV.
Whilst Hullin, informed of the disasters that had befallen our armies, was walking with downcast head and knitted brows towards the village of Charmes, all was going on as usual at the farm of Bois-de-ChÊnes. The fantastic stories of YÉgof—the rumours of war—were alike forgotten for the present; old DuchÊne led his oxen to the water, the shepherd Robin foddered his cattle, and Annette and Jeanne skimmed their pans of milk, and made their curds-and-whey. Catherine LefÉvre alone, gloomy and silent, mused continually on the past, while, at the same time, overlooking with an impassive face the doings of her household. She was too old, and of too serious a nature, to forget from one day to the next anything that had so greatly moved her.
When night came, after the evening meal, she went into the inner apartment, where her people heard her take the heavy ledger from the cupboard, and lay it on the table, to make up her accounts, as it was her custom to do.
They immediately began to load the heavy cart with corn, vegetables, and poultry, for on the morrow it was market-day at Sarrebourg, and DuchÊne was to set out at daybreak.
Picture to yourself this large kitchen, and all these honest people making haste to finish their work before going to bed; the big black pan smoking on an immense fire made of fir cones, and glowing with crimson heat; the dishes, pots, and porringers shining like suns upon the dresser; the bunches of garlic and golden onions hanging in rows from the brown rafters of the ceiling, among the hams and flitches of bacon; Jeanne, with her bright blue head-dress and short scarlet petticoat, stirring the contents of the pan with a great wooden spoon; large wicker hencoops, with the clucking fowls, and the great red cock thrusting his head between the bars, and watching the fire with a surprised eye, and head twisted on one side; the mastiff, Michel, with flat head and hanging jaws, prowling about in quest of some stray morsel; Dubourg descending the creaking staircase on the left, with bent back, a sack on his shoulder, and his other hand placed archwise on his hip; whilst outside, in the darkness of the night, old DuchÊne, standing upright in the cart, holds up his lantern, and calls out:—"That makes the fifteenth, Dubourg; two more."
There was also hanging against the wall an old brown hare brought by the huntsman Heinrich to be sold in the market, and a fine grouse, his green and red feathers glistening in the firelight, with glazed eye, and a drop of blood at the tip of his beak.
It was about half-past seven when the sound of footsteps was heard in the court-yard. The mastiff went growling towards the door. He listened, sniffed the night air, and then quietly returned to his place by the fire.
"It is some one belonging to the farm," said Annette. "Michel does not stir."
Directly after, old DuchÊne was heard outside, saying, "Good night, Master Jean-Claude. Is it you?"
"Yes; I have just arrived from Phalsbourg, and I have come to rest for a moment before going down to the village. Is Catherine in?"
And as he spoke, the honest man appeared in the bright firelight, standing at the door, his broad-brimmed hat pushed back on to the nape of his neck, and his bundle of sheepskins on his shoulder.
"Good night, my children," said he; "good night; always at work?"
"Yes, Master Hullin, as you see," replied Jeanne, with a smile. "If one had nothing to do, life would be very tedious."
"True, my pretty girl, true; there is nothing like work to give you those fresh cheeks and large bright eyes."
Jeanne was going to reply when the inner door opened, and Catherine LefÉvre entered, casting a searching look at Hullin as if to guess beforehand the news he brought.
"Well, Jean-Claude, you are back again."
"Yes, Catherine. There is both good and bad news."
They went into the inner room, a high and spacious apartment, wainscoted to the very ceiling, with its cupboards of old oak with bright locks, its porcelain stove, its old clock marking the seconds in its walnut case, and its large arm-chair of embossed leather, which had been in use for ten generations. Jean-Claude never went into this room without thinking of Catherine's grandfather, whom he seemed still to see sitting in the shadow behind the stove.
"Well!" inquired the farm-mistress, offering a seat to the sabot-maker, who had just placed his bundle on the table.
"Well, of Gaspard, the news is good; the lad is well. He has seen some hardships—so much the better; that is the making of a young man; but for the rest, Catherine, everything is very bad. War! war!"
He shook his head, and the old woman, with compressed lips, sat opposite to him, upright in her arm-chair, her eyes fixed, and listening eagerly.
"So everything is going wrong; we shall have wars at our very doors?"
"Yes, Catherine, from one day to the next we may expect to see the Allies in our mountains."