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."
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.
"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."
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."
"I dreaded as much. I was sure of it; but speak, Jean-Claude."
Hullin then, with his elbows on his knees, his great red ears between his hands, and lowering his voice, began to relate all that he had seen: the defences round the town, the formation of batteries on the ramparts, the publication of the state of siege, the carts filled with the wounded in front of the church, his meeting with the old sergeant at the house of Wittman, and the renewal of the campaign. From time to time he made a pause, and the old farm-mistress would slowly wink her eyes, as though to fix the facts in her memory. When Jean-Claude came to the wounded, the good woman murmured, in a low voice, "Gaspard has escaped that."
Then at the close of this dismal story there was a long silence, and they both looked at each other without uttering a word.
What reflections, what bitter feelings passed through their minds!
After a few moments the old woman strove to rouse herself from these thoughts.
"You see, Jean-Claude," said she, in a calm, grave tone, "Yégof was not wrong."
"No doubt, no doubt he was not wrong," replied Hullin; "but what does that prove? A fool—a maniac, who goes from village to village—who comes down from Alsace, goes back to Lorraine, wanders right and left—it would be very surprising if he saw nothing, and if there should not be from time to time a mixture of truth in his mad sayings. All kinds of things get mixed up in his head, and then people think they understand what he does not understand himself. But it is not now a question of a fool's babblings, Catherine. The Austrians are here. The question is, whether we shall allow them to pass, or whether we shall have the courage to defend ourselves."
"To defend ourselves!" exclaimed the old woman, her pale cheeks flushing with excitement; "whether we shall have the courage to defend ourselves! You must forget, Hullin, that it is to me you are speaking. What! are we then unworthy of our forefathers? Did they not defend themselves, even to the death—men, women, and children?"
"Then you are for fighting, Catherine?"
"Yes, yes, as long as a morsel of flesh is left on my bones! Let them come! The old woman is prepared!"
Her long gray hair seemed to stand erect upon her head; her pale and withered cheeks trembled, and her eyes flashed fire.
She was really grand to look upon, as she stood, flushed and excited, like that aged Margareth of whom Yégof had spoken. Hullin silently held out his hand to her, and smiled approvingly.
"Right!" said he; "right! The same as ever. You are like yourself, Catherine; your own true, brave self, as you stand there before me; but now be a little calm, and listen to me. We are going to fight, and with what means?"
"All and every means; all are good—hatchets, scythes, pitchforks."
"Truly, truly; but guns and bullets are best of all. We have guns: every dweller in the mountains hangs his own over his door; unluckily we have neither powder nor ball."
The old farm-mistress grew calm in a moment; pushing her gray locks back under her cap, she stood absently gazing straight before her, with a thoughtful look.
"Yes," she suddenly replied, in a sharp, short tone; "that is quite true; we have neither powder nor ball, but we soon will have. Marc Divès, the smuggler, has some. You shall go to him to-morrow from me. You will tell him that Catherine Lefévre buys of him all his powder and all his bullets, that she pays him for them, that she will sell all her cattle, her farm, her land, all—all—to procure some. Do you understand, Hullin?"
"I understand. This is well done of you, Catherine; it is splendid!"
"Stuff! splendid and well done!" sharply retorted the old woman; "it is only natural that I should avenge myself! These Austrians, these Prussians, these red men, who have already half destroyed us—well! I would pay them back. I hate them, father to son. Now, you see! Buy the powder; and this wandering beggar, this fool shall see if we will rebuild his castles!"
Hullin then perceived that she was still brooding over Yégof's stories; but seeing how exasperated she was, and that, besides, her having this notion contributed to the defence of the country, he made no remark on this subject, and simply said:
"Then, Catherine, it's agreed that I go to Divès to-morrow?"
"Yes: you will buy all his powder and his bullets. Some one must also go the round of all the villages in the mountain, to warn the people of what is going on, and arrange a signal with them for assembling in case of attack."
"Make your mind easy," said Jean-Claude; "I will undertake that, too."
They had both risen, and were proceeding towards the door. For the last half-hour the sounds in the kitchen had ceased: the farm people had gone to bed. The old woman placed her lamp in a corner of the hearth, and drew the bolts. Out of doors, it was cold and sharp, the air calm and clear. All the tops of the surrounding trees and the dark firs of the Jägerthal stood out against the sky in dark or luminous masses. Far off in the distance the shrill yelp of a fox resounded in the valley of the Blanru.
"Good night, Hullin," said Dame Lefévre.
"Good night, Catherine."
Jean-Claude rapidly descended the steep hill, and the farm-mistress, after having looked after him for a second, went in and shut the door.
I leave you to imagine the joy of Louise, when she learnt that Gaspard was safe and sound. The poor child, for the last two months, could hardly be said to have lived. Hullin was very careful not to show her the dark cloud that was slowly, but surely, moving towards them. All the night long he could hear her prattling to herself in her little room, talking low, as if congratulating herself upon her happiness, murmuring the name of Gaspard, and opening her drawers, her boxes; no doubt in search of some of her treasures to which she might whisper of her love.
Thus the little bird, who has been drenched by the storm, while still shivering with cold and wet, begins to sing and to hop from branch to branch at the faint glimmer of sunshine.
CHAPTER V
When Jean-Claude Hullin went the next morning in his shirt-sleeves to open his shutters, he saw all the neighbouring mountains—the Jägerthal, the Grosmann, the Donon—covered with snow. There is always something striking in this first aspect of winter, come upon the earth in our sleep; the old firs, the moss-covered rocks, still decked in verdure the evening before, and now sparkling with hoar-frost, fill the soul with an indefinable feeling of sadness. "Another year gone," we say to ourselves; "another rough winter to go through, before the return of the flowers!" And people hasten to provide their winter clothing, and lay in their store of fuel. While your humble dwelling is pleasant inside with warmth and light, you hear out of doors, for the first time, the sparrows—the poor sparrows—chirruping mournfully, as they nestle, with ruffled plumage, under the thatch, "No breakfast this morning—no breakfast!"
Hullin put on his strong iron-bound and doubled soled shoes, and his thick overcoat.
He heard Louise walking about in her little room overhead.
"Louise!" he called out; "I am off!"
"What! are you going out again to-day?"
"Yes, my child, I must: I have not finished my business."
Then, having put on his large, slouched hat, he went halfway up the stairs, and said, in a low tone:
"You will not expect me very soon, my child: I have a good distance to go, so do not be anxious about me. If anyone asks you where I am gone, you can say, 'To Cousin Mathias's, at Saverne.'"
"Won't you have your breakfast before you go?"
"No! I've put a crust of bread, and a little flask of brandy, in my pocket. Farewell, my child. Be happy. Dream of Gaspard."
And, without waiting for fresh questions, he took his stick, and quitted the house, directing his steps towards the hill of the Bouleaux,[6] to the left of the village. After about a quarter of an hour's brisk walking, he had passed it, and gained the footpath of the Three Fountains, which winds round by Falkenstein, with which a low stone wall runs parallel.
The first snows of winter, which are never long able to resist the damp of the valleys, were already beginning to melt away, and trickled slowly down the footpath. Hullin mounted the wall to make his footing surer, and as he chanced, by accident, to cast his eyes down on the village, at a distance of within two gun-shots, he saw the housewives busily engaged in sweeping the snow away from the front of their houses, whilst some old men, standing by, wished them good morning as they smoked their first pipe in their doorways. This profound calm, in presence of the thoughts that were stirring within him, moved him deeply; he continued on his way in a thoughtful mood, saying to himself: "How quietly and tranquilly their life flows on! They have no doubts and fears for the future; and yet, but a few days, and what clamour, what strife, may rend the air!"
As the first thing necessary was to procure the powder, Catherine Lefévre had very naturally cast her eyes upon Marc Divès, the smuggler, and his virtuous spouse, Hexe-Baizel.
These people lived on the other side of the Falkenstein, under the very shadow of the old ruinous burg. They had hollowed out for themselves in the rock a very convenient cavern which had only one entrance, and two apertures to admit light; but which, if report spoke true, had another outlet, leading to old subterranean passages of great extent. This the custom-house officers had never been able to discover, in spite of numberless visits paid with that object in view. Jean-Claude and Marc Divès had known each other from childhood—had rambled together as boys in search of hawks' and owls' nests, and, in after life, they met each other at least once nearly every week, at the great sawpits of the Valtin. Jean-Claude, therefore, believed himself sure of the smuggler, but he was not quite so certain of Madame Hexe-Baizel, a very discreet person, and who would not, perhaps, be greatly taken with the prospect of strife and warfare. "At any rate," said he, as he jogged steadily along, "we shall soon see."
He had lit his pipe, and from time to time he turned slowly round to gaze upon the broad landscape, whose limits kept growing wider and wider.
Nothing more beautiful in nature than these wooded mountains, rising one above the other in the pale heavens—these vast plains, stretching out of sight, all white with snow—these black ravines, half hidden among the woods, with their sluggish streams gurgling slowly over the smooth pebbles at the bottom.
And then the silence—that grand solemn silence of winter—the half-melted snow falling noiselessly from the tops of the tall firs on to the lower branches, gently bending beneath their weight; the birds of prey whirling in pairs over the forest, uttering their shrill war-cry. All this must be seen, for it cannot be described!
About an hour after he had left the village of Charmes, Hullin, climbing the summit of the steep mountain, reached the foot of rock of the Arbousiers. All around this huge mass of granite extends a sort of rocky terrace, three or four feet wide. This narrow footway, canopied by the tall tops of the slender mountain firs, looks dangerous, but it is safe; unless attacked by giddiness, you can walk along it without risk. Above rises the rocky and ruinous archway of the cavern.
Jean-Claude drew near the smuggler's retreat. He stopped a few moments on the terrace, put his pipe back in his pocket, then advanced along the path, which describes a half circle, and ends on the other side by a sudden gap.
At the very end, and almost on the edge of this gap, he perceived the two lattices of the cave, and the half-opened doorway, in front of which an immense heap of dung was piled.
At the same moment Hexe-Baizel made her appearance, sweeping the dung into the abyss with a large besom made of green broom. She was a little, withered woman, with red tangled locks, hollow cheeks, sharp nose, small eyes sparkling like stars, pinched mouth, amply furnished with very white teeth, and a ruddy complexion. As to her costume, it was composed of a very short and very dirty woollen petticoat, a coarse chemise, tolerably clean; her small, muscular arms, covered with a sort of yellow down, were bare to the elbows, in spite of the excessive cold of the atmosphere at this height. To complete her costume, the only coverings to her feet were a pair of old worn-out shoes, down at the heel.
"Ah! good morrow, Hexe-Baizel," exclaimed Jean-Claude, in a tone of mocking good humour. "You are as fat and comely as ever—I see, happy and contented! It does one good to see you."
Hexe-Baizel had started at the first sound of Jean-Claude's voice like a weasel caught in a trap; her red hair seemed to stand on end, and her little sparkling eyes flashed fire; but she instantly recovered herself, and exclaimed, in a short, sharp tone, as if speaking to herself:
"Hullin! the shoemaker! what does he want?"
"I have come to see my friend Marc, fair Hexe-Baizel," replied Jean-Claude; "we have some business to settle."
"What business?"
"Ah! that is our affair. Come, let me go in, that I may speak to him."
"Marc is asleep."
"Well, then, he must be awakened, for time presses."
So saying, Hullin stooped under the doorway, and entered a cavern, whose vaulted roof, instead of being round, was formed in irregular curves, furrowed with crevices. Quite close to the entrance, and two feet from the ground, the rock made a sort of natural hearth; on this hearth a few lumps of coal and some juniper branches were burning. All Hexe-Baizel's cooking utensils consisted of a copper saucepan, an earthenware porringer, two cracked plates, and three or four pewter spoons; all her furniture of a wooden bench, a wood-cutter's hatchet, a salt-box hung against the rock, and her large besom made of green broom. To the left of this kitchen was another cavern, with an uneven-shaped door, larger at the bottom than the top, and which shut by means of two planks and a cross-beam.
"Well, where is Marc?" said Hullin, as he seated himself beside the hearth.
"I've told you already he is asleep. He came home very late yesterday. My man must have his rest; do you understand?"
"I understand very well, Hexe-Baizel; but I've no time to wait."
"Begone, then."
"It's very easy to say 'Begone,' only I don't want to go. I've not come a whole league to go back with my hands in my pockets."
"Is that you, Hullin?" broke in a rough voice, issuing from the inner cave.
"Yes, Marc."
"Oh! here I am."
A sound like the rustling of straw was heard, then the wooden outworks were withdrawn, and a huge frame, three feet broad from one shoulder to the other, lean, bony, bent, the neck and ears of the colour of brickdust, and with thick, stubbly, brown hair, appeared, stooping through the opening, and Marc Divès, yawning and stretching his long arms with a stifled sigh, stood before Hullin.
At first sight, the aspect of Marc Divès seemed pacific enough; his broad and low forehead, short, curly hair, which came down in a point almost to his eyebrows, leaving his temples bare, his straight and pointed nose, and long chin, and, above all, the calm expression of his brown eyes, would have caused him to be classed rather among the ruminating than a fiercer tribe of animals; but those who so thought would have done wrong. Reports ran throughout the country that Marc Divès, in the event of an attack by the revenue officers, did not scruple to make use of his hatchet or carbine in case of need, and many serious accidents that had befallen the excise collectors were laid to his charge; but the proofs were always wanting, the smuggler, thanks to his profound knowledge of all the defiles of the mountain, and of every cross-road from Dagsburg to Sarrebrück, and from Raon-L'Etape to Bâle, in Switzerland, always contriving to put himself at fifteen leagues' distance from the place where an unlucky encounter had taken place. And then he had such a simple manner about him, and those who spread those evil reports were always sure to come to a bad end, which proves the justice of Providence in this world.
"If you'll believe me, Hullin," said Marc, after he had come out of his hole, "I was thinking of you only yesterday evening, and if you had not come I should have gone straight to the sawpits of the Valtin on purpose to meet you. Sit down; Hexe-Baizel, give Hullin a chair."
He then seated himself on the hearth, with his back to the fire, and his face to the open door, through which breathed the gales of Alsace and of Switzerland. Through this opening, too, a magnificent prospect might be enjoyed; you would have styled it a regular picture, framed in the rock, but still an immense picture, embracing the whole valley of the Rhine, and beyond that the mountains dissolving far in the hazy distance. And, to crown all, there was the fresh breeze of the mountain, and the bright fire, which, flickering and dancing in this owls' nest, was a pleasant sight to turn to, with its ruddy glow, forming such a striking contrast with the pale blue tinge of the distant scenery.
"Marc," said Hullin, after a moment's silence, "may I speak before your wife?"
"She and I are only one."
"Well, then, I have come here to buy of you powder and shot."
"To shoot hares, I suppose," said the smuggler, with a knowing wink.
"No; to fight the Germans and Russians."
There was a moment's silence.
"And you will want a great deal of powder and shot?"
"All you can supply me with."
"I can supply you to-day with three thousand francs' worth," said the smuggler.
"I will take it."
"And as much more in a week's time," added Marc, with the same calm tone and thoughtful eye.
"I will take it."
"You will take it!" exclaimed Hexe-Baizel; "you will take it! No doubt; but who's to pay for it?"
"Be silent!" said Marc, in a harsh tone; "Hullin shall have it; his word is enough for me."
Then, extending his huge hand, with a cordial expression:—"Jean-Claude, here is my hand; the powder and shot are yours; but I should like to have the spending of my share of them, you understand?"
"Yes, Marc; and one thing more. I purpose paying you at once."
"He is going to pay!" said Hexe-Baizel; "you hear?"
"Yes; I'm not deaf! Baizel, go and fetch us a bottle of brimbelle-wasser; that'll warm our hearts a bit. I am rejoiced at what Hullin has just told me. Those beggars of kaiserliks will not have it quite so much their own way as I thought. It seems we are going to defend ourselves, and with a good will."
"Yes, with a right good will."
"And there are those who will pay for it?"
"It is Catherine Lefévre who will pay for it, and it is she who has sent me," said Hullin.
Then Marc Divès rose, and in a solemn voice, and with his hand extended towards the summits of the steep mountains, he exclaimed:—"She is a woman as grand and as firm as that rock down below there, the Oxenstein, the largest I ever saw in my life. I drink to her health. Drink you, too, Jean-Claude."
Hullin drank, as did also the old woman.
"And now there is nothing more to be said," exclaimed Divès; "but, hark ye, Hullin; you must not fancy this will be an easy matter; all the hunters, all the ségares,[7] all the schlitteurs, all the woodcutters of the mountain, will not be too many for the work that is to be done. I have just come from the other side of the Rhine. There are Russians, Austrians, Bavarians, Prussians, Cossacks, Hussars. There are—why, the country swarms with them. They blacken the face of the land; they camp in the plains, in the valleys, on the heights, in the cities, in the open air, everywhere; they are everywhere."
At this moment a sharp cry resounded through the air.
"It is a buzzard on the wing," said Marc, interrupting himself.
But at the same moment a dark shadow passed over the rock. A cloud of greenfinches flew over the abyss, and hundreds of buzzards and hawks were seen taking their rapid, angular flight overhead, uttering harsh cries to frighten their prey, while the whole seemed struggling together in a compact mass that looked motionless by reason of its density. The regular movement of these thousands of wings produced in the stillness a sound like that of dead leaves stirred by the north wind.
"That is the flight of the greenfinches of Ardennes," said Hullin.
"Yes; it is their last passage. The earth is covered with snow, and the seed lies buried in its bosom. Well, look now; there are more men down below there than those birds can number. No matter, Jean-Claude, we will beat them, provided everyone puts his shoulder to the wheel. Hexe-Baizel, light the lantern; I will show Hullin our stores of powder and shot."
Hexe-Baizel, at this information, could not restrain a grimace.
"No one, for twenty years," said she, "has ever entered the cave. He can surely believe us on our word. We take his word that he is going to pay us. I shall not light the lantern, no!"
Marc, without a word, stretched out his hand, and seized a thick cudgel from the wood pile close by; then the old woman, bristling with rage, disappeared into the inner hole like a ferret, and came a few seconds after with a great horn lantern, which Divès quietly lit at the blazing hearth.
"Baizel," said the smuggler, replacing the stick in the corner, "you should know that Jean-Claude is the old friend of my childhood, and that I put a deal more trust in him than in you, old polecat; for if you were not afraid of being hung the same day as me, I should have dangled at the end of a rope long ago. Come, Hullin, follow me."
They went out, and the smuggler, turning to the left, went straight towards the gap which was yawning on the very edge of the Valtin, at the height of two hundred feet in the air. He put aside the foliage of a small oak growing up from below, strode over it, and disappeared as if suddenly launched into the abyss below. Jean-Claude shuddered; but almost immediately afterwards he saw, against the ledge of the rock, the head of Divès, who called to him:
"Hullin, place your hand to the left, you will find a hole; put your foot out boldly, you will feel a step, and then turn upon your heel."
Master Jean-Claude obeyed, not without trembling; he felt the hole in the rock, he encountered the step, and taking a half-turn, he found himself face to face with his companion, in a sort of arched niche, abutting formerly, no doubt, on some postern gate. At the bottom of the niche was a low vault.
"How on earth did you discover that?" exclaimed Hullin, quite thunderstruck.
"While looking for nests, thirty-five years ago. I was one day on the rock, and I often noticed, coming in and out of this nook, a grand duke and its mate, two magnificent birds, the head as large as my fist, and the wings six feet across. I heard the cry of their little ones, and I said to myself: 'They are near the cavern, at the end of the terrace. If I could take just one turn a little beyond the gap, I should have them!' By means of looking and leaning over, I managed to see the corner of a step just above the precipice. I found a strong holly tree beside it. I grasped the tree, put out my leg, and there I was! What a fight, Hullin! the old bird and his mate were ready to tear my eyes out. Luckily, it was daylight. They flew at me like fighting-cocks, pecking at me, and screaming horribly all the while; but the sun dazzled them. I kicked them with all my might. At last they fell down stunned over the top of that old fir tree down below there; and all the jays round about, the thrushes, the greenfinches, the tomtits, kept flying round about them till night-time, to strip them of their feathers. You can't imagine, Jean-Claude, the heap of bones, of skins of rats, leverets, of skeletons of all sorts, that I found in this nook. It was a regular pest-house. I lost no time in clearing it all out, and discovered this narrow passage. I must tell you there were two young ones. The first thing I did was to wring their necks, and stuff them into my bag; that done, I entered very quietly, and you shall see what I found. Come on."
They then crept along beneath the narrow and low vault formed by enormous blocks of red stone, and through which the lantern they carried cast a flickering light.
At the end of about thirty feet, a vast cavern of circular form, hollowed out of the solid rock, appeared before Hullin. At the bottom were ranged in pyramids about fifty little barrels, and at the sides a great number of bars of lead and bags of tobacco, with the strong odour of which the air was filled.
Marc left his lantern at the entrance of the vault, and now stood looking proudly on his den, while a smile curled his lips.
"This is what I found," said he; "the cave was empty, only in the middle of it there was the carcase of a beast as white as snow—no doubt some fox who had died there of old age—the beggar had found out the passage before me. He slept here soundly enough; who the devil would ever have thought of following him? At that time, Jean-Claude, I was only twelve years old. The thought instantly struck me that some day or other this hiding-place might be useful to me. I did not then know for what; but, in after-times, when I had my first bouts of smuggling at Landau, Kiel, and Bâle with Jacob Zimmer, and when all the custom-house officers were at my heels, the idea of my old cavern began to haunt me day and night. I had made the acquaintance of Hexe-Baizel, who was at that time servant at the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, where Catherine's father then lived. She brought me twenty-five louis as her marriage portion, and we came and settled ourselves in our cavern of Arbousiers."
Divès was silent, and Hullin, after musing a moment, said: "You are very fond of this hole, then, Marc?"
"Fond of it? I'll tell you what, I wouldn't change it for the finest house in Strasburg, with two thousand livres a year to boot. For twenty-three years have I hidden my merchandize here; sugar, coffee, gunpowder, tobacco, brandy, all finds its way here. I have eight horses always on the road."
"But you don't enjoy yourself."
"I don't enjoy myself! You think, then, it's nothing to trick the gendarmes, the custom-house officers, the excise; to spite them, gull them, hear them say everywhere, 'That beggar of a Marc, what a cunning rogue it is! what a dance he leads you! he sets the law and all its agents at defiance;' and so on, and so on. He! he! he! I'll answer for it, that it's the greatest pleasure in life. And then, the people all round adore you; I sell them everything at half-price. You can afford to be good to the poor, and keep your own belly warm."
"But what danger, what risks!"
"Bah! not an exciseman in the world will ever think of passing that gap."
"I believe you!" thought Hullin, as he reflected that he should have to make his way back over the precipice.
"But for all that," continued Marc, "you are not altogether wrong, Jean-Claude. In the beginning, when I had to come here with one of those little barrels on my shoulder, I used to sweat great drops of perspiration; but I am used to it now."
"And if your foot were to slip?"
"Well then all would be over. As well die spitted on a fir-tree as lie coughing whole days and nights upon a mattrass."
Divès then held up his lantern, and, by its light, the barrels of gunpowder, piled one upon another up to the roof of the vault, were plainly seen.
"It is the best English gunpowder," said he; "it flows like grains of silver over the hand, and makes a splendid charge. You don't want much of it; a thimbleful's enough. And here's some lead without the smallest particle of tin. From this very evening, Hexe-Baizel shall begin to cast bullets; she's a good hand at that—you will see."
They were preparing to return the same way they came, when all of a sudden they were startled by a confused humming sound of talking at no great distance from them. Marc blew out his lantern, and they remained plunged in darkness.
"There is some one walking above there," whispered the smuggler; "who the deuce has managed to climb up the Falkenstein this snowy weather?"
They listened in breathless silence, and with their eyes fixed on a pale streak of light which streamed through a narrow fissure at the end of the cavern. Around this cleft grew some shrubs sparking with hoar-frost, while higher up might be perceived the top of an old wall. As they stood thus anxiously watching in the most profound silence, there suddenly appeared at the foot of the wall a huge head covered with long matted hair, the sharp, lean face ending in a red pointed beard, the sharply-cut profile standing out in strong relief against the white wintry sky.
"It is the King of Diamonds," said Marc, with a laugh.
"Poor devil!" said Hullin, in a grave tone; "he has come to ramble about his castle, with his bare feet on the ice, and his tin crown on his head! Stay! see! he is speaking; he is giving his orders to his knights, to his court; he extends his sceptre to the north and to the south—all is his; he is lord of heaven and earth! Poor devil! only to see him with his thin drawers and his old sheepskin on his back, makes me shiver with cold."
"Yes, Jean-Claude, and me, too; it makes me feel like a burgomaster, or mayor of a village, with his round paunch and fat puffy cheeks, who says to himself: 'Me, I am Hans-Aden; I have ten acres of beautiful meadows, I have two houses, I have a vine, my orchard, my garden, hum! hum! I've this, and I've that!' The next day a little touch of colic carries him off, and—good bye! Ah, the fools! the fools! who is there that is not a fool? Come along, Hullin, the very sight of that poor fellow babbling to the wind, and his raven, who croaks of famine, makes my teeth chatter."
As they came out into the open day, Hullin was almost dazzled by the sudden change from the thick darkness. Fortunately, the tall stature of his companion, standing upright before him, preserved him from an attack of giddiness.
"Step firmly," said Marc; "imitate me—your right hand in the hole, the right foot forward on the step, one half turn round—here we are!"
They returned to the kitchen, where Hexe-Baizel told them that Yégof was in the ruins of the old burg.
"We know it," replied Marc; "we have just seen him taking the air up above there; every one to his taste."
At the same instant, the raven, Hans, hovering over the abyss, passed in front of the door, uttering a hoarse cry; they heard the rustling of the frost-covered bushes, and the fool appeared before them on the terrace. His looks were wild and haggard, and, casting a glance at the hearth, he exclaimed:
"Marc Divès, you must give up this place as soon as possible. I warn you; I am weary of this disorder. The fortifications of my domains must be free. I will not suffer vermin to harbour in them."
Then perceiving Jean-Claude his brow grew clear.
"You here, Hullin!" said he. "Can it be, that you are at length wise enough to accept the proposals I have deigned to make you? Do you feel that an alliance such as mine is the sole means of saving you from the total destruction of your race? If it be so, I congratulate you; you have shown more good sense than I expected of you."
Hullin could not help laughing.
"No, Yégof, no; Heaven has not yet enlightened me enough," said he, "for me to accept the honour you wish to do me; besides, Louise is not yet of an age to marry."
The fool had grown grave and gloomy again. Standing on the edge of the terrace, with his back to the abyss, he seemed on his own territory, and his raven, fluttering from right to left, had no power to disturb him. He raised his sceptre, knit his brow, and exclaimed:
"Then now, for the second time, Hullin, I reiterate my demand; and for the second time you dare to refuse me! Now I will renew it yet once more—once more, do you hear? and then let destiny be fulfilled!"
And so, turning gravely on his heel, his head high and erect, in spite of the extreme rapidity of the descent, he vanished quickly from their sight.
Hullin, Marc Divès, and even Hexe-Baizel herself, uttered loud peals of laughter.
"He is a great fool," said Hexe-Baizel.
"I think you are not altogether wrong," replied the smuggler. "That poor Yégof is certainly out of his mind. But never mind that now. Baizel, listen well to me; you must begin to cast bullets of all sizes; for my part, I am going to set out for Switzerland. In a week at the latest, the rest of our ammunition will be here. Give me my boots."
Then tying round his neck a thick red woollen comforter, he took down from the wall one of those cloaks of dark green such as shepherds wear, threw it over his shoulders, pulled his old slouched hat over his brows, took a stout cudgel, and exclaimed:
"Do not forget what I have just told you, old woman, or beware. Forward, Jean-Claude!"
Hullin followed him out upon the terrace without saying good-bye to Hexe-Baizel, who, for her part, did not even deign to come to the door to see them depart. As soon as they had arrived at the foot of the rock, Marc Divès stopped, and said:
"You are going into all the villages of the mountain, are you not, Hullin?"
"Yes, that is the first thing to be done; I must warn the woodcutters, the charcoal-burners, the bargemen of what is going on."
"Without doubt. Do not forget Materne of Hengst and his two boys, Labarbe of Dagsburg, Jerôme of Saint-Quirin. Tell them that there will be powder and ball; that we are in it heart and soul, Catherine Lefévre, I, Marc Divès, and all the honest people of the country."
"Make your mind easy, Marc; I know my men."
"Then good-bye for the present."
They wrung each other's hands and parted.
The smuggler took the path to the right, towards the Donon, Hullin that to the left, towards the Sarre.
They were both proceeding on their way at a good pace when Hullin called to his comrade:
"Halloo! Marc, as you pass Catherine Lefévre's, tell her that all goes well, and that I am gone to the villages in the mountain."
The other answered by a sign of his head that he understood, and then both continued their way.
