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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.
