CHAPTER XV.
We met Annette, whose presence had greatly improved Bertha's spirits.
Annette took us into an out-of-the-way room, and there said, "I have for a long time called you father from mere sentiment. You allowed me, but now I dare to do so because it is my right."
She gave me a letter from Richard, from head quarters, and the letter was addressed, "My beloved bride."
Annette kissed my trembling hands, and she kissed me again and again, when I told her that my wife in her dying hour had called out, "Richard will marry her after all."
Annette added that they did not intend to get married until peace was concluded.
"Of course," said Bertha, as if addressing me, "you will understand that we can give no expression to our joy just now."
Annette, indeed, did not permit us to linger long over this joyful message. She said that her patients now claimed all her time, and only while we were descending the steps, she once stopped and quietly related to us how her old custom of pouring out her feelings with every new experience had suddenly opened the hearts that had so long been as if sealed towards each other. She had said to Richard, who recently passed through here, "So long as men are well, they are all alike. When they are wounded or sick, each one displays the traits that are peculiar to him." Then Richard replied, "You speak from my mother's soul;" and on that day they were betrothed.
"Now I no more need," said Annette, as we went on, "to chloroform my soul with religion. I have learned to apply the real chloroform, and in helping others we help ourselves also."
Annette invited us to go with her to the patients; she might thereby make the tedious hours of watching more easy for Bertha. She first conducted us to a handsome young man with a full, blond beard, whose thigh had been fractured. Her mere appearance seemed to revive the sick man.
It was a pathetic look with which he gazed upon her, and stretched his thin hand towards her.
Annette introduced him to us as an artist of great repute, and, assuming a merry tone of voice, she said, "He has painted me in other colors. He does not like the dull and sombre black; indeed, the silver-gray dress with the white apron is much more cheerful. And why should we not be cheerful?"
The face of the young man brightened, and Annette bade Bertha to read something to him. In going the rounds, she made us acquainted with a wounded German officer, who never ceased heaping extravagant praises upon his nurse. Annette bade me to come quickly to a man from my village, for whom I could perhaps do something, and, with a trembling voice, mentioned Carl's name to me.
We approached his bed. He gazed upon me with staring eyes, and cried, in heart-rending tones, "Mother, mother!" I spoke to him; I asked him if he knew me. But he continually exclaimed, "Mother, mother, mother!"
The surgeon came and bade us leave the patient. Then he said to Annette, "Have a screen placed here. This young man may die at any moment, and the others should neither see nor know of it."
Just as the screen was put in its place, the door opened, and a voice was heard, "My child! my child! Carl! my child! Carl!"
"Mother, mother!" cried the wounded man, and he raised himself up, and mother and son were folded in each other's arms. Then Carl cried out, "Marie! you too! you too, there! Come!"
He then fell back.
The surgeon then approached and said, "He is extremely weak, and in a critical condition!" Restoratives were applied and he opened his eyes.
After a while he said, "How did you know that I--"
"Be quiet! don't speak so much! Don't exert yourself too much. Your eyes have already told me everything. And now, yes, it was the vicar, Waldfried's grandson, who wrote me where you were."
"I am hungry. Give me something to eat!"
"I have brought you one of our hens; I brought it all the way from home," said the old woman.
"I must eat, I must eat!" exclaimed Carl. His strength, wasted and exhausted through loss of blood, appeared to return, and he seemed rescued by the magic of love.
His mother ought to have left him, but she would not obey the surgeon. She obeyed me, however. When she saw Bertha, she cried out, "My son, my Carl, my child lives! Bertha! I tell you, your husband who lies there--Bertha, your husband is saved too: he will be saved."
"Bertha!" We heard a call from the adjoining room; it was the voice of the colonel.
Bertha almost swooned; I caught her in my arms. She collected herself and hurried towards the door; it was closed. Annette called to us from within, that we should wait quietly, for it was a critical moment.
What anxious moments were those, while we stood at the door listening to the movements and groans within.
After a while, the surgeon hastily opened the door, and said, "Now go away softly! There has been a hemorrhage, and the ball has come with it. There is now a chance of his recovery, but I must insist on perfect quiet!"
Bertha sank to the floor, while she placed her finger on her lips, and motioned me to be silent. They say that we were only waiting a quarter of an hour. But oh! how long it seemed! Then the surgeon opened the door again, and, seeing Bertha on the floor, said, "You may go in now and shake hands with the Colonel, but do not say anything to him, as he is not allowed to speak for the present."
Bertha went in. She reached her hand to her husband. He moved his eyes in recognition; then the surgeon motioned us to depart.
We went away. From afar, we could hear the rattle of musketry and the roar of artillery, and the reports constantly became louder and more frequent.