FOOTNOTES:
[6] The Birch Trees.
[7] Workers in a sawpit.
CHAPTER VI.
An extraordinary agitation prevailed at this time over all the line of the Vosges; the report of an expected invasion spread from village to village, even to the very farms and cottages of the Hengst and the Nideck. The hawkers, the carriers, the tinkers, all the floating population that roves incessantly from the mountain to the plain, and from the plain to the mountain, brought every day from Alsace and the borders of the Rhine a lot of strange news.
"Every place," said these folks, "is being put in a state of defence; foraging parties are constantly engaged in provisioning them with corn and meat. The roads from Metz, from Nancy, from Huningen, and from Strasbourg, are filled with convoys. In every direction you meet waggons full of ammunition, cavalry, infantry, artillery, all hurrying to their posts. Marshal Victor, with his twelve thousand men, is already engaged in keeping the road to Saverne, but the drawbridges are always raised from seven o'clock every evening till eight the next morning."
Every one was of opinion that all this boded no good. Nevertheless, if many felt serious alarm at the near prospect of war, if old women lifted their hands to heaven and prayed to all the saints in the calendar, the greater number thought only of the means of defence. Under such circumstances, Jean-Claude Hullin, you may be sure, was well received everywhere.
That very day, about five o'clock in the evening, he reached the summit of the Hengst, and stopped at the dwelling of the patriarch of the forest rangers, old Materne. It was there that he passed the night; for, in winter time, the days are short and the roads bad. Materne promised to undertake the charge of the defile of the Zorn with his two sons, Kasper and Frantz, and to reply to the first signal that should be made to him from the Falkenstein.
The next day Jean-Claude repaired betimes to Dagsburg, to consult with his friend Labarbe, the wood-cutter. They went together to visit the neighbouring hamlets, to try and inspire every heart with the love of their country; and the day following, Labarbe accompanied Hullin to the house of the Anabaptist, Christ-Nickel, the farmer of Painbach, a respectable and very sensible man, but whom they could not succeed in winning over to their glorious enterprise. Christ-Nickel had but one reply to every observation:
"It is right, it is just; but the Gospel says, 'Put up thy sword in its place; he who slays with the sword shall perish by the sword.'" He promised them, however, his best wishes for the good cause; this was all they could obtain.
They went from thence to Walsch, to exchange firm hand-grips with Daniel Hirsch, an old naval gunner, who promised them his support, and that of all the people of his commonalty. At this place Labarbe left Jean-Claude to continue his way alone. For a whole week longer he did nothing but work his way to and from the mountain, from Soldatenthal to Léonsberg, to Meienthâl, to Abreschwiller, Voyer, Loëttenbach, Cirey, Petit-Mont, Saint-Sauveur, and on the ninth day he found himself at the house of the shoemaker, Jerôme, at Saint-Quirin. Together they visited the defile of the Blanru, after which Hullin, satisfied with his journey and its results, at length took his way back to the village.
He had proceeded for about two hours at a steady pace, picturing to himself camp life, the bivouac, the attack, the marches and countermarches, all the episodes in a soldier's life which filled him with enthusiasm, when afar off, still at a great distance, he discovered in the pale twilight the hamlet of Charmes, and his own little modest tenement, from the chimney of which rose a wreath of smoke so thin as to be almost imperceptible, the little gardens surrounded with wooden palings, the shingly roofs, and, to the left, the large farm of Bois-de-Chênes, with the sawpit of the Valtin at the other end half-hidden in the already dark ravine.
Then, suddenly, and without knowing why, a deep sadness fell upon him.
He relaxed his pace, as he mused upon the calm, peaceful life that he was about to lose, perhaps for ever; of his own little room, so cosy in winter, so fresh and gay in spring, when he threw open the casements, and inhaled the fresh breeze from the woods; of the drowsy ticking of the old clock, and, above all, of Louise, his dear little Louise, spinning quietly in the twilight, with downcast eyelids, and singing some old song in her clear, pure voice in the quiet evening hour, when a feeling of peace and repose stole over them both. This recollection came upon him so forcibly that the smallest objects, every humble implement of his own trade, the long, shining straps, the short-handled hatchet, the mallets, the little stove, the old cupboard, the glazed earthen porringers, the antique image of Saint Michael nailed to the wall, the old canopied bed at the end of the alcove, the bench, the trunk, the little copper lamp—all came back to his mind like a living picture, and the tears stood in his eyes.
But it was, above all, Louise, his beloved child, whom he most pitied. What tears would she not shed! how she would pray of him to give up the thoughts of fighting! how she would cling about his neck, saying, "Oh! do not leave me, dear, dear father! Oh! I will love you so! Oh! say you will not leave me!"
And the honest fellow saw her beautiful eyes bathed in tears; he felt her arms about his neck. For a moment the idea came into his head to deceive her, to make her believe something else—no matter what—to account for his absence, and console her; but such modes of dealing were foreign to his nature, and he grew more and more sad.
As he was passing by the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, he went in to tell Catherine Lefévre that all was going well, and that the mountaineers only awaited the signal.
A quarter of an hour later, Master Jean-Claude, descending the footpath to the house, stood opposite his own modest dwelling.
CHAPTER VII.
Before pushing open the creaking door, the idea struck Jean-Claude to see what Louise was doing at that moment. So he took a peep through the casement into the little room, and there he saw Louise standing by the curtains in the alcove; she seemed very busily employed in folding and unfolding some clothes spread out upon the bed. Her sweet face beamed with happiness, and her large blue eyes shone with a sort of enthusiasm; she was speaking aloud to herself at the same time. Hullin listened, but a cart that happened to be passing just at that moment prevented his hearing what she said.
So, taking his resolution boldly, he entered, saying, in a firm voice; "Well, Louise, here I am back again."
In an instant, the young girl, radiant with joy, and bounding like a fawn, was in his arms.
"Ah! it is you, father dear; I was expecting you. Oh! what a time you have been away, but here you are at last!"
"Because, my child," replied the brave man, in a tone a trifle less firm, placing his stick behind the door, and his hat upon the table; "because——"
He could say no more.
"Oh! yes, yes, because you have been to see our friends," said Louise, with a smile; "I know all; Mother Lefévre has told me everything."
"What! you know all, and yet you are the same as usual? So much the better; it shows your good sense. And I, who was dreading to see your tears!"
"Tears! and why, Father Jean-Claude? That shows you do not know me; you shall find I have courage."
The resolute air with which she uttered these words made Hullin smile; but the smile very quickly vanished when she added: "We are going to war, we are going to fight, we are going into the mountain."
"Heyday! hoity-toity! 'We are going, we are going!' what's all this?" exclaimed the good man, quite wonderstruck.
"Yes. Are we not going, then?" said she, in a tone of regret.
"Well—that is to say—I shall have to leave you for some time, my child."
"To leave me! Oh! no. I shall go with you, that's settled. Stay, see, my little bundle is ready already, and I am preparing yours. Don't you trouble yourself about anything; leave it all to me, and it will be all right."
Hullin could not recover from his surprise.
"But, Louise," he exclaimed, "you cannot be thinking of it. Only consider. Why, you would have to pass whole nights out of doors, marching, running; and then the cold, the snow, and, above all, the firing! It cannot be."
"Pray, now," said the young girl, in a voice that shook with emotion, as she threw herself into his arms, "don't make me unhappy; you are jesting with your little Louise; you cannot mean to leave her!"
"But you will be much better here. You will be warm and comfortable. You shall hear from me every day."
"No, no; I will not stay behind; I will go with you. I don't mind the cold. I've been shut up too long; I want a little change of air, too. The birds don't stay at home. The robin redbreasts are out of doors all the winter long. Did I not have to bear the cold when I was quite a little thing, and hunger, too?"
She stamped impatiently with her foot, and then, for the third time, threw her arms round Jean-Claude's neck.
"Come, Papa Hullin," said she, in a coaxing voice, "Mother Lefévre has said 'Yes.' Will you be less kind than she? Ah! if you but knew how I love you!"
The honest fellow, touched beyond measure, had sat himself down, and turned aside his head to hide his emotion and avoid her persuasive caresses.
"Oh! how unkind and naughty you are to-day, Papa Jean-Claude!"
"It is for your sake, my child."
"So much the worse, then, for I shall run away; I shall run after you. The cold, indeed! What do I care for the cold? And if you are wounded, and if you ask to see your little Louise for the last time, and she is not there close to you, to tend you, to love you to the last? Oh! you must think me very hard-hearted!"
She sobbed and cried. Hullin could restrain himself no longer.
"Is it really true that Mother Lefévre consents?" he asked.
"Oh! yes; oh! yes; she told me so. She said, 'Try to persuade Papa Jean-Claude; for my part, I ask no better; I am quite willing.'"
"In that case, what can I do against you both? You shall come with us. It is settled."
There was then a shriek of joy that made the whole house echo.
"Oh! how good and kind you are!" and with a brush of the hand the tears were dried up.
"We are going away, to ramble over the mountains, and make war," was now the joyful cry.
"Ha!" said Hullin, with a shake of the head; "I see now you are still the same little heimathslôs as ever. As well try and tame a swallow." Then, drawing her to his knee: "Ah! Louise," said he, "it is now twelve years since I found you in the snow; you were quite blue with the cold, poor little thing! And when we got home to the little cabin, and the warm fire brought you gently round, the first thing you did was to smile upon me. And from that time I have always done whatever you wanted. With that smile you have led me by the nose."
Then Louise began to smile upon him again, and they embraced each other very lovingly.
"And now, then, let us look at the bundles," said the good man with a sigh. "Are they well packed up, eh, child?"
He approached the bed, and stood quite surprised to see his warm clothing, his flannel waistcoats, all well brushed, well folded, and well packed up. Then came Louise's bundle, with her best frocks, her petticoats and thick shoes, all in good order. He could not help laughing at last, and exclaiming:
"Oh! heimathslôs, heimathslôs! there are none like you for packing up, when once you've set your mind upon it!"
Louise smiled.
"You are pleased?"
"I must be so! But all this time, while you have been so busy about this work, you never thought, I suppose, of preparing my supper?"
"Oh! that is soon done! I did not know, Papa Jean-Claude, that you were coming back this evening."
"That is true, my child. Cook me, then, something—no matter what, but quickly, for I've a good appetite. In the meanwhile, I'll smoke a pipe."
He seated himself in his old corner, and lit his pipe in an absent, thoughtful manner. Louise bustled about, right and left, like a frisky sprite, now stirring the fire, now breaking eggs into the pan, and tossing up an omelet in the twinkling of an eye. Never had she seemed so gay, so smiling, so pretty. Hullin, with his elbow on the table, his cheek in his hand, sat gravely watching her, and thinking what will, firmness, and resolution there was in that fragile creature, light as a fairy, and determined as a hussar. In another moment she had brought him his omelet on a large-patterned dish, along with the bread, a glass and bottle.
"Now then, Papa Jean-Claude, feast away."
She watched him fondly as he ate his meal.
The fire blazed brightly in the stove, reflecting its warm light on the low rafters, the wooden staircase just visible in the gloom, the great bed at the bottom of the alcove, all the little details of the home so often cheered by the gay humour of the shoemaker, the songs of his daughter, and the pleasant bustle of work. And all this Louise could quit without a sigh of regret; she thought of nothing but the woods, the snowy path across the endless chain of mountains from their village to Switzerland, and farther still. Ah! Master Jean-Claude had, indeed, good reason to exclaim, "Heimathslôs! Heimathslôs!" The swallow cannot be tamed!—she needs the open air, the boundless sky, the eternal voyage over the wide expanse of waters! She fears neither storm nor wind, nor torrents of rain, as the hour of departure approaches. Henceforth, she has but one thought, one sigh, one cry: "On! on!"
The meal over, Hullin rose, and said to his daughter:
"I am tired, my child; kiss me, and let us go to bed."
"Yes; but don't forget to wake me, Papa Jean-Claude, if you go before daybreak."
"Be easy. It's settled; you shall come with us."
Then, as he looked after her as she ascended the narrow wooden staircase, and disappeared within her own little attic—"Is she afraid of being left alone in the nest?" said he to himself.
Out of doors the silence was so great that it might almost be said to be heard. The village clock had just struck eleven. The good man sat down to take off his shoes. Just at that moment his eye happened to fall upon his gun, suspended over the door. He took it down, wiped it slowly, and tried the lock. He had thrown his whole soul into the business before him.
"There's work in the old gun still," he murmured to himself; and then added in a grave voice:
"It's droll, it's droll; the last time I used it—at Marengo—that's fourteen years ago—it seems to me but yesterday!"
All at once, outside, the crisp snow crackled beneath a rapid footstep. He listened—there was some one. And almost immediately after he heard two little taps at the window. He ran and opened it. The rough head of Marc Divès, with his broad-brimmed hat quite stiff with frost, was visible in the gloom.
"Well, Marc, what news?"
"Have you warned the mountaineers—Materne, Jerôme, Labarbe?"
"Yes, all."
"It is but just in time: the enemy has passed."
"Passed?"
"Yes, along the whole line. I have come fifteen leagues through the snow since morning to tell you."
"Good! we must give the signal—a large bonfire on the Falkenstein."
Hullin was very pale. He put on his shoes again. Two minutes after, with his thick great-coat flung over his shoulders, and his stick in his hand, he softly opened the door, and was following Marc with hasty strides along the footpath of the Falkenstein.
CHAPTER VIII.
From midnight until six o'clock in the morning, a bright flame shone through the darkness on the summit of the Falkenstein, and the whole mountain was astir.
All the friends of Hullin, of Marc Divès, and of Dame Lefévre, their legs encased in long gaiters, their old guns slung over their shoulders, were silently marching through the woods in the deep stillness of the night towards the gorges of the Valtin. The thought of the enemy crossing the plains of Alsace to come and surprise the dwellers in the defiles and mountains was uppermost in the minds of all. The tocsins of Dagsburg, of Abreschwiller, of Walsch, of Saint-Quirin, and of all the other villages, never ceased summoning the defenders of their country to arms.
You must now picture to yourself the Jägerthal at the foot of the old burg during the period of an extraordinary fall of snow, at that early hour of the morning when the tall shadows of the trees begin to be visible through the gloom, and the piercing cold of the night is lessened at the approach of dawn. You must picture to yourself the old saw-works, with its broad flat roof, its heavy wheel loaded with icicles, the low interior dimly lit up by a fire of fir-logs, whose glow is beginning to pale in the faint but clear light of early morning; and all around this fire is a confused jumble of seal-skin caps, felt hats, dark profiles towering one above the other, and pressed close together like a living wall. Farther on, the whole length of the woods, in all the windings of the valley, other beacon-fires lighted up, in their crimson glow, groups of men and women huddling together in the snow.
The agitation was beginning to grow calmer. As the daylight grew stronger and stronger, people began to recognise each other.
"Holloa! cousin Daniel of Soldatenthal! you are here too, then?"
"Why, yes, as you see, Heinrich, and my wife, too."
"What, Cousin Nanette! Why, where is she, then?"
"Down below there, near the great oak, by Uncle Hans's fire."
There were hearty hand-shakings everywhere. Some were giving vent to long and loud yawns, while others again were engaged in throwing sticks and logs of wood on the fire. Some were handing flasks about to each other, while others were drawing back from the circle round the fire to make room for their neighbours, who were shivering with the cold. But in spite of these various means of passing the time, signs of impatience began to show themselves among the crowd.
"But, I say," exclaimed one, "we didn't come here to warm the soles of our feet, did we? It's time to look about, to understand each other."
"Yes, yes," was the general response; "let us come to an understanding; let us appoint our leaders."
"No! everyone is not here yet. Look; there are some from Dagsburg and St. Quirin arriving now."
In fact, as the day grew lighter, it served to show more and more people arriving by all the different paths of the mountain. There were then already several hundred men in the valley: woodcutters, charcoal burners, watermen, without reckoning the women and children.
Nothing more picturesque can be imagined than this halt in the midst of the snow, in the deep defiles, surrounded by tall pines towering to the skies; to the right, valleys linked with each other, stretching away far out of sight; to the left, the cloud-capp'd ruins of Falkenstein. At a distance, they might have been taken for large flocks of cranes herding together for comfort, 'mid the snow and ice; but, on a nearer view, you could then behold these rough men, with beards bristling like the skin of the wild boar, stern eyes, broad square shoulders, and horny hands. Some among them, taller than the rest, belonged to that fiery red race with white skins, hairy to the very finger-ends, and strong enough to uproot oaks. Of this number were Materne of Hengst, and his two sons Frantz and Kasper. These stalwart fellows, all three armed with long carbines, from Inspruck, wearing long gaiters of blue cloth, with leather buttons, reaching high above the knee, a sort of tunic made of goat-skin, and their hats pushed to the very back of the head, had not even deigned to approach the fire. For the last hour they had been sitting together on the trunk of a felled tree by the river's edge, with watchful eye and keen scent, like hunters lying in ambush, with their feet on the snow.
From time to time the old man would say to his sons: "What are they shivering about, down there? I never knew a milder night for the season. It's like a spring night; the rivers are not even touched by the frost!"
All the forest-rangers of the country round, as they passed, gave them a hearty shake of the hand, and then closed in around them, so that they formed, in a manner, a band apart. These people spoke but little, being used to keeping silence for whole days and nights together, for fear of frightening the game.
Marc Divès, standing in the midst of another group, over which he towered by a whole head, was talking and gesticulating, and pointing sometimes to one point of the mountain, and sometimes to another. Opposite him stood the old shepherd, Lagarmitte, in his long grey smock, his wooden sheep-horn on his shoulder, listening open-mouthed, and from time to time silently bowing his grizzled head. For the most part, all the band seemed attentive; it was principally composed of woodcutters and bargemen, with whom the smuggler was almost daily brought into contact. Between the sawpit and the first fire was seated the shoemaker, Jerôme of Saint-Quirin, a man of about fifty or sixty, with a long face, brown complexion, hollow eyes, big nose, a seal-skin cap pulled over his ears, and his yellow beard descending in a point to his waist. His hands, covered with thick woollen gloves, were leaning on an enormous knotted stick. He wore a long hooded cloak of coarse cloth, and might well have passed for a hermit. Any time a fresh rumour arose in some part or another, old Jerôme turned his head slowly round, and listened intently with knitted brows.
Jean Labarbe, with his elbow on his axe, sat passively looking on. He was a man with pale cheeks, aquiline nose, and thin lips. He had great influence over the men of Dagsburg, owing to his firmness and strength of mind. When everyone was shouting around him:
"We must deliberate; we can't stay doing nothing here!" he simply confined himself to saying: "Stop, Hullin has not come yet, nor Catherine Lefévre." Then all were silent, and contented themselves with looking eagerly towards the path leading from the Charmes.
The ségare,[8] Piorette, a little dry, lean, nervous man with black eyebrows meeting in front, the stump of a pipe between his lips, stood in front of his shed, watching, with an eye at once keen and thoughtful, the strange scene around him.
The general impatience was, however, increasing from minute to minute. Some village mayors, in square-cut coats and three-cornered hats, proceeded towards the sawpit, and called upon the men of their districts to deliberate. Very luckily, the cart of Catherine Lefévre at length appeared in sight coming along the pathway, and immediately a thousand enthusiastic shouts rose on all sides.
"Here they are! here they are! they have come!"
There was a great stir and bustle among the crowd. The groups who were at a distance drew near, everyone came running up, and a sort of shudder of impatience seemed to run through the whole vast assembly. No sooner was a distinct view caught of the old farm-mistress, whip in hand, sitting on her truss of straw with Louise by her side, than cries and shouts rent the air of "Vive la France! Hurrah for Dame Catherine!"
A little way behind came Hullin, striding along across the meadow of the Eichmath, distributing hearty hand-grips, his broad-brimmed hat at the back of his head, his gun slung over his shoulder.
"Good day, Daniel. Good day, Colon. Good day, good day."
"Ah! ha! it's growing warm, Hullin."
"Yes, yes; we shall hear the chestnuts burst in the fire this winter. Good day, old Jerôme; we are engaged in a great enterprise now."
"True, Jean-Claude. We must hope to accomplish it, with the blessing of God."
Catherine, as soon as she reached the sawpit, then told Labarbe to deposit on the ground a little keg of brandy which she had brought from the farm, and to borrow a jug from the sawyer in the shed.
A little while after, Hullin, coming up to the fire, met Materne and his two sons.
"You are late," said the old huntsman to him.
"Well, yes; what would you have? First, we had to descend from the Falkenstein, take our guns, and get the women-kind in marching order. However, here we are at last, so don't let us lose any more time. Give us a blast of your horn, Lagarmitte, to call all the people together. The first thing of all is to lay our plans, to appoint our leaders."
In an instant, Lagarmitte was blowing away at his long horn, with his cheeks inflated to his very ears, and the bands of men, who were still dispersed along the footpaths, and on the outskirts of the woods, hastened their steps to arrive in time. In a short time all the brave fellows were assembled in front of the sawpit.
Hullin, now grave and stern, mounted a heap of trunks of trees, and casting a look of serious meaning on the crowd that surrounded him, said, in the midst of the deepest silence:—"The enemy crossed the Rhine the evening before last; he is now marching over the mountains to enter Lorraine; Strasbourg and Huningen are in a state of blockade. We must expect to see the Germans and the Russians in three or four days."
There was a general ringing cry of "Vive la France!"
"Yes, Vive la France!" replied Jean-Claude; "for if the Allies enter Paris, they will be masters of everything. They may, if they please, re-establish tithes, taxes, convents, privileges, and gibbets. If you wish to see all this again, you have only to let them pass by."
Words cannot describe the gloomy rage depicted in every countenance at these words.
"That is what I had to say to you," cried Hullin, sternly, and pale as death. "You are here, and you are here to fight."
"Yes, yes."
"That is well; but listen to me. I do not wish to take you unawares. There are fathers of families among you. We shall be one against ten, against fifty. We must expect to perish. Therefore, let such as have not well reflected on the matter, as have not the heart and the courage to do their duty to the very end, depart. We will have none of them. Everyone is free."
Then he was silent, and looked on all around him Everyone stood still and motionless; so, with a still firmer voice, he continued:—"No one stirs. All, all are resolved to fight to the last. Well, it delights me to see that there is not a single dastard among us. Now we must appoint a leader. In great perils, the first thing is order, discipline. The leader whom you will appoint will have all the rights of command and of obedience. So, reflect well, for on this man will depend the fate of all."
Having thus spoken, Jean-Claude descended from his elevation, and all was bustle and excitement. Each village deliberated separately, each mayor proposed his man, and in the meanwhile time was going on. Catherine Lefévre was burning with impatience. At length, unable to contain herself any longer, she stood up on her seat, and made a sign that she wished to speak.
Catherine was held in the highest estimation. At first some, then a greater number, drew near to learn what she had to say to them.
"My friends," said she, "we are losing too much time. What is it you require? A trusty leader, is it not? A soldier, who has been used to war, and who knows how to turn our positions to the best account? Well, then, why do you not choose Hullin? Is there one among you who can find a better man? If so, let him speak at once, that we may decide. For my part, I propose Jean-Claude Hullin. Do you hear, down below there? If this goes on much longer, the Austrians will be here before we have chosen a leader."
"Yes! yes! Hullin!" exclaimed Labarbe, Divès, Jerôme, and several others.
"Come, let us collect the votes for or against."
Then Marc Divès, climbing on to the trunks of timber, exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, "Let those who do not desire to have Jean-Claude Hullin for a leader hold up their hand."
Not a hand appeared.
"Let those who desire to have Jean-Claude Hullin for a leader hold up their hand."
Every hand was in the air.
"Jean-Claude," said the smuggler, "come up here, and look around. It is you whom they demand for a leader."
Master Jean-Claude, having done as desired, saw that he was appointed, and at once spoke in a firm tone, and said:—"Good. You appoint me your leader. I accept the post. Let the elder Materne, Labarbe of Dagsburg, Jerôme of Saint-Quirin, Marc Divès, Piorette the sawyer, and Catherine Lefévre, go into the sawpit. We will hold a council. In a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes I will issue orders. Meanwhile, let each village supply two men to Marc Divès for the transport of powder and ball to Falkenstein."
