The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.
Chapter XVII.
At the end of a dark passage through the house was the farmyard, to which five or six well-worn steps descended. To the left were the barn and the press; and to the right, the stables and the dove-cote, the dark shape of the last standing sharply outlined against the gray, misty sky. Opposite the door was the wash-house.
Not a sound was heard. Hullin, after the wild and stormy day, was impressed with the deep silence. He gazed at the tufts of straw hanging between the rafters of the barn, the harrows, the ploughs, the carts, half hidden in the gloom of the sheds, with an indefinable feeling of calmness and satisfaction. Fowl were roosting along the wall, and a cat fled by like a flash, and disappeared in the cellar. Hullin seemed waking from a dream.
After a few moments of silent reverie, he turned slowly toward the wash-house, the three windows of which shone through the darkness. The kitchen of the farm-house was not large enough to prepare food for three or four hundred men, and the work had been carried thither.
Master Jean-Claude heard the childish voice of Louise giving orders in a tone so resolute that it astonished him.
"Come, come, Katel, hurry. It is nearly time for supper, and the poor fellows must be hungry. Just to think—fighting since seven this morning, and not eating a morsel! Here, Lessele, move yourself. Salt! pepper!"
Jean-Claude's heart beat at that voice. He could not avoid peering through the glass before entering. The kitchen was large but low, and with white-washed walls. A huge fire of beech-logs crackled and blazed upon the hearth, in the midst of which appeared the black sides of an immense pot. The chimney, high and narrow, was scarcely large enough to carry off the billows of smoke that arose. Near the fire was the graceful figure of Louise, lit up by the brightest tints that flashed from the hearth, bustling, active, coming, going, tasting sauces, trying the meat, approving, and criticising.
The two daughters of the Anabaptist, one tall, dried up, and pale, with large, flat feet, cased in great shoes, hair bound with black ribbons into a little knot, and a long gown of blue stuff hanging down to her heels; the other, chubby, and waddling along much like a goose, formed a strange contrast with her.
The good Anabaptist himself, seated at the end of the room upon a wooden chair, with feet crossed, cotton cap pulled well down upon his head, and hands plunged into the depths of the pockets of his blouse, gazed on all that passed with an air of wonderment, and from time to time ejaculated sententiously:
"Lessele, Katel, do as you are told, my children. Let this be for your instruction; you have yet seen nothing of the world. Walk quicker."
"Yes, yes, you must move," added Louise. "What would become of us if we meditated days and weeks about putting a little seasoning in a sauce? You, Lessele, are the tallest; unhook that bundle of onions from the ceiling."
And the tall girl obeyed.
Hullin was proud and happy as a prince.
"How she makes them mind!" he chuckled. "What a little dragoon she is! a very puss-in-boots! Ha, ha, ha!"
And he waited full five minutes before entering."
Louise flung down the spoon she held, and rushed to him, crying:
"Father Jean-Claude! papa Jean-Claude! You are not hurt? you are not wounded?"
Poor Hullin could not speak for a moment. He folded her tenderly in his arms, and at length replied, in a voice whose tremor he could not repress:
"No, Louise, no; I am well and happy."
" Sit down, Jean-Claude," said the Anabaptist, seeing how his emotion affected him. "Here, take my chair."
Hullin seated himself, and Louise, placing her hands upon his shoulders, burst into tears.
"What is the matter, my child?" asked the old man in wonder. "A moment ago you were brave enough."
"Yes, I made believe, but I was very frightened. I thought—I thought, 'Why does he not come?'"
Then a sudden whim seemed to enter her little head; she seized her father's hand, and cried, laughing through her tears:
"Let us dance, papa Jean-Claude! Come, dance!"
And she pulled him around the room.
Hullin, smiling in spite of himself, turned to the Anabaptist, who saw all that passed without a change in his grave visage, and said:
"We are somewhat foolish, Louise and I; but don't let that astonish you, Pelsly."
"It does not, Master Hullin. Did not King David dance when he had smitten the Philistines hip and thigh?"
Jean-Claude, rather astounded at his resemblance to King David, made no reply.
"Well, Louise," said he, "you were frightened during the battle, were you?"
"Yes, at first; the cannon-shots and the din were fearful! But afterward I only thought of you and mother Lefevre."
Then she took him by the hand, and, leading him to a regiment of pots, kettles, and pans, ranged around the fire, enumerated her forces with the air of a conqueror:
"Here is the beef; here is General Jean-Claude's supper; and here is broth for the wounded. But that is not all. Here is our bread," she added, showing him a long pile of loaves on the table, and she was dragging him to the oven, when Catherine Lefevre entered.
"It is time to set the table," cried the old woman. "Everybody is waiting. Come, Katel, spread the cloth."
The stout girl departed, running; all followed to the great hall, where Doctors Lorquin and Despois, Marc-Dives, and Materne and his two sons, impatiently awaited the meal.
"How are the wounded, doctor?" cried Hullin.
"Rest easy, Master Jean-Claude; all are cared for. You have given us a hard day's work; but the weather is favorable, and fever or mortification need not be feared. Everything looks well."
Katel, Lessele, and Louise soon entered, bearing an enormous soup-dish, and two magnificent rounds of beef, which they placed upon the table. Sharp appetites left scant room for ceremony, and soon the rattling of knives and opening of bottles alone were heard. Without, the broad flames from the bivouac-fires flashed on the window-panes, and showed the mountaineers doing full justice to Louise's cheer.
At nine o'clock Marc-Dives started for Falkenstein with his prisoners. At ten, all in the house, or around the fires, were sleeping, and no sound broke the stillness save the passage of the rounds and the challenge of the sentries.
So ended the first day in which the mountaineers proved that the spirit of their fathers had not degenerated in them.
But other and not less stern trials were soon to follow those already past; for throughout man's life one obstacle is overcome only to make way for another. The world is like a stormy sea: wave follows wave, from age to age, in a flow that eternity alone may stay.
Chapter XVIII.
During the entire battle, until nightfall, the people of Grandfontaine saw the fool, Yegof, standing on the summit of Little Donon, his crown upon his head, his sceptre waving in his hand. There he stood, like a Merovingian king, issuing his orders to his imaginary armies. What feelings shook him as he saw the Germans beaten back, routed, no man may say. At the last echo of the cannon he disappeared. Whither had he gone? This is what the people of Tiefenbach say:
At the time of which I speak, two strange beings—sisters—lived on the Bocksberg. One was called Little Kateline; the other Tall Berbel. These two ragged creatures made their home in the cavern of Luitprand, so named, as old chronicles aver, from the fact that the King of the Germani, before descending into Alsace, buried beneath its immense vault of red stone the barbarian chiefs who had fallen at Blutfeld. The hot spring, which always bubbles and streams from the middle of the cave, secured the sisters from the fierce cold of mountain winters, and Daniel Horn, of Tiefenbach, the wood-cutter, had the charity to close the main entrance from without with great heaps of broom and brushwood. At the side of the hot spring was another spring, cold as ice and clear as crystal.
Kateline always drank at this spring, and was not more than four feet in height; but what she lacked in length she made up in rotund breadth; and her wondering look, round eyes, and enormous throat, gave her the appearance of a meditative matronly hen. Every Sunday she bore an osier basket to the village of Tiefenbach, and the good people there filled it with cooked potatoes, loaves of bread, and sometimes, on holidays, with cakes and other remnants of their festivities. Then the poor creature would make her way back to the cave, breathless, laughing, chattering, rejoicing.
But Tall Berbel was ever careful not to drink at the cold spring. She was bony, fleshless as a bat, and had lost an eye; her nose was flat, her ears large, and her single orb sparkled like a coal; she lived upon the fruits of her sister's sallies. She never left Bocksberg. But in July, when the heat was greatest, standing upon the height, she shook a withered thistle over the grain of those who had not regularly filled Kateline's basket; and fearful tempests, or hail, or swarms of rats or field-mice, ruined the budding harvest. The spells of Berbel were feared like pestilence; she was everywhere known as the Wetterhexe, or storm-witch, while little Kateline was esteemed the good fairy of Tiefenbach. In this way Berbel lived in idleness, and Kateline begged food for both.
Unfortunately for the two sisters, Yegof had for some years previously established his winter residence in the cavern of Luitprand. Thence he departed in the spring, to visit his numberless castles and to count his feudatories, as far as Geierstein in the Hundsruck. Every year, toward the end of November, after the first snows, he arrived with his raven—an event which the storm-witch always bitterly bemoaned.
"Again thy plaints," he was wont to say, as he tranquilly installed himself in the most comfortable spot the cave afforded; "do you not both live upon my domains? I am very good to suffer two valkyrs [Footnote 271] useless in the Valhalla of my fathers, to remain here."
[Footnote 271: Maidens of Odin, whom he sends to every battlefield to decide who shall fall and who shall be victorious. They also wait upon the heroes in Valhalla.]
Then would Berbel, aroused to fury, overwhelm him with reproach and insult, and Kateline look offended; but he, careless of the storm he raised, would only light his old boxwood pipe, and relate his far-off wanderings among the souls of the German warriors, who, for sixteen centuries, lay buried in the cavern, calling them by name, and speaking to them as to men yet living. You may imagine with what delight Berbel and Kateline looked forward to the coming of the fool with his dismal tales.
But this year, Yegof had not come, and the sisters believed him dead, and duly rejoiced over the prospect of seeing him no more. Nevertheless, the Wetterhexe had observed the agitation in the valleys, the crowds of men, musket on shoulder, leaving Falkenstein and Donon. Surely, something strange had happened; and the sorceress, calling to mind that the preceding year Yegof had related to the spirits of his warriors how his countless armies would soon invade the land, felt a vague uneasiness. She would fain have learned the cause of the movement around her; but Kateline having made her tour the Sunday before, would not again budge from her home for an empire, and no one ever climbed to the cavern.
In this frame of mind Berbel came and went, wandered restlessly about the cave, growing hourly more uneasy and irritable. But during Saturday she had enough to think on. From nine o'clock in the morning, heavy and deep peals rang like thunder over the mountain side, and awoke the thousand echoes of the valleys; far away toward Donon rapid flashes crossed what sky appeared between the peaks; and as night approached, yet louder sounds rolled through every gorge, and the hollow voices of Hengst, of Gantzlée, Giromani and Grossmann replied.
"What can all this be?" asked Berbel of herself, "can the day of doom have come?"
Then returning to the cavern and finding Kateline huddled in a corner munching a potato, she shook her rudely and hissed:
"Idiot! hearest thou nothing? Fearest thou nothing? Carest thou for nothing but eating and drinking?"
She dashed the potato furiously to the ground, and sat herself trembling by the hot spring, which sent its grey vapors to the roof. Half an hour later, the darkness growing deeper, and the cold intense, she lighted a fire of brushwood, which threw its pale flashes over the vault of red stone, and pierced to the end of the cavern, where Kateline slept with her feet buried in a heap of straw, and her chin resting on her knees. Without, all noise had ceased. The storm-witch pulled aside the briars at the entrance, and gazed down the mountain side; then she returned to her post by the fire, her thin lips set tightly together, and her eyelids closed; she drew an old woolen coverlet over her knees, and seemed to sleep. No sound broke the stillness but the dripping of the condensed steam falling from the vault back to its source with a melancholy plash.
So lasted the silence for hours. Midnight was nearing, when suddenly the sound of footsteps, mingled with discordant noises, started Berbel from her slumber. She listened, and heard the cry of a human voice. She arose trembling, and, armed with a huge thorn branch, glided to the opening; there, pushing aside the briars, she saw in the moonlight the fool Yegof advancing alone, but writhing as if in agony, and beating the air with his sceptre, as if thousands of invisible beings surrounded him.
"To the rescue, Roug, Bléd, Adelrick!" he shouted in tones that pierced the cold air like the clangor of an iron bell, his matted beard and hair waving the while, and his dog-skin cloak folded like a buckler around his left arm; "to the rescue! Follow me to the death! See you not who are coming, cleaving the skies like eagles? On, men of the red beards! Crush this race of dogs! Ah! Minan, Rochart, are ye here?"
And then he called with savage shouts, upon all the dead of Donon, defying them as if they were really there; then he recoiled step by step, still striking the air, hurling curses, urging unseen armies to the fight, and struggling as if surrounded by foes. A cold sweat poured from Berbel's brow, she felt her hair rise upon her head, and she would have fled; but at the moment a strange murmuring arose within the cave, and, to her horror, she saw the hot spring boiling fiercely, and masses of vapor rising from it and advancing to the entrance of the cave.
Like phantoms the thick clouds came slowly on, and suddenly Yegof appeared, crying in a husky voice,
"At last ye have heard me! ye are come!"
With a bound he darted to the opening. The icy air filled the vault, and the vapors pouring forth, twisted and wreathed beneath the vast vault of heaven, as if the dead of to-day and those of long gone centuries had begun a never-ending conflict.
The pale moonbeams shed a weird light over Yegof's face and form, as he stood with flashing eyes and sceptre outstretched, and beard falling over his breast, saluting each phantom and calling it by name.
"All hail, Bléd! Hail to thee, Roug! and to ye all, brave warriors! The hour which for centuries you have awaited is at hand; the eagles are whetting their beaks; the earth thirsts for blood! Remember Blutfeld!"
Berbel's senses had almost left her; fear alone kept her standing; but soon the last clouds escaped from the cavern and melted in the limitless blue.
Yegof entered the vault and sat upon the ground near the hot spring, his head resting upon his hands, and his elbows on his knees, gazing with haggard eyes on the bubbling waters.
Kateline awoke sobbing, and the storm-witch, more dead than alive, observed the fool from the darkest nook of the cave.
"They have all arisen from their graves," cried he suddenly; "all! all! not one remains behind. They will give life to the hearts of my young warriors, and teach them to despise death!"
He raised his face. A crushing sorrow seemed settled there.
"O woman!" he said, fixing his eyes upon the Wetterhexe with a wolfish glare, "O thou descendant of the Valkyrs, but who at the festal board hast never filled the deep cups of the warriors with mead, nor placed before them the smoking flesh of the boar Serimar, what canst thou do? Canst spin winding-sheets? To thy task then! Spin night and day, for thousands of bold warriors are stretched upon the snow. They fought valiantly. They did their work well, but the hour had not yet come. Now the ravens feed upon their flesh!"
Then in ungovernable fury, seizing his crown with both hands, and tearing it from his head, although with it came away handfuls of hair, he shouted:
"Accursed tribe! Will ye ever bar our way! But for ye we had long since conquered Europe; ay, we of the red beards had been masters of the world. And I humbled myself before this race of dogs! I asked his daughter of one of them, instead of bearing her off as the wolf does the lamb! Ah Huldrix! Huldrix! Listen, Valkyr," he suddenly added in a low tone, "listen!"
He raised his finger solemnly. The Wetterhexe listened; a blast arose without, and shook the old frost-laden forest. How often had the sorceress heard that sound before, during the long winter nights, without giving it a thought. Now, she was afraid.
And while she stood trembling, a hoarse cry smote her ear, and the raven Hans, sweeping beneath the rock, flew in circles round and round the cavern, flapping his wings as if in terror, and croaking mournfully.
Yegof became pale as death.
"Vod! Vod!" he cried in despairing tones, "what has thy son Luitprand done to thee? Why choose him rather than another?"
And for some seconds he seemed to have swooned; but soon, as if carried away by a savage enthusiasm, brandishing his sceptre, he darted from the cavern.
Wetterhexe, standing in the opening, followed him with an anxious eye.
He strode straight onward, with outstretched neck, like a wild beast rushing at its prey. Hans flew before, and they disappeared in the gorge of Blutfeld.
Chapter XIX.
Toward two o'clock that night the snow began to fall, and at daybreak it rested inches deep upon the men at the bivouacs.
The Germans had left Grandfontaine, Framont, and even Schirmeck, and black spots far away on the plains of Alsace showed where their battalions were in full retreat.
Hullin, roused at early dawn, inspected the bivouacs; he stopped for a few minutes to gaze at the plateau—the scene of Dives's charge at the cannon pointed down the mountain side, the partisans stretched around the fires, and the pacing sentries; then satisfied that all was well, he returned to the farm-house where Catherine and Louise were yet sleeping.
The gray morning was entering at the windows. A few wounded, whom the fires of fever had already seized, shrieked loudly for their wives and children. Then the hum of many voices arose, and at last Catherine and Louise appeared, and saw Jean-Claude seated in a corner of a window; ashamed to be thought more devoted to slumber than he, they hastened to bid him good morning.
"Well!" said Catherine inquiringly.
"They are gone, and we are masters of the road."
This assurance did not seem sufficient for the old woman. She gazed through the windows, and saw the Austrians far off in Alsace. Still her face bore the impress of an indefinable uneasiness.
Between eight and nine o'clock, Father Saumaize, the priest of the village of Charmes, arrived. A few mountaineers then descended to the foot of the slope, and collected the dead who lay there so thick. Then a long trench was dug, to the right of the farm-house, in which partisans and Kaiserliks, in their blouses, their slouched hats, their shakos, and their uniforms, were ranged side by side. The good priest, a tall old man, with locks white as snow, read the ancient prayers for the dead in that rapid and mysterious voice which pierces the very depths of the soul, and seems to summon long-past generations to greet the new-comers to their realms—which calls so vividly to the hearts of the living thoughts of the darkness and terrors of the grave, and of the light and mercy beyond.
All day wagons and sleds kept carrying the wounded to their villages; for Doctor Lorquin, fearing to increase their excitement, was forced to yield to their cries and prayers that they might again see their homes. Toward evening Catherine and Hullin found themselves alone in the great hall; Louise had gone to prepare supper. Great flakes of snow still continued to fall without, and from time to time a sled departed silently bearing its wounded owner buried in straw, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman, leading a horse by the bridle. Catherine, seated at the table, folded bandages with an absent air.
"What ails you, Mother Lefevre?" asked Jean-Claude. "Ever since morning you have been sad and thoughtful. Is this your rejoicing over victory?"
The old woman looked up, and slowly pushing the linen from her, replied:
"True, Jean-Claude; I am anxious."
"Anxious? About what? The enemy is in full retreat, and Frantz Materne, whom I sent to watch them, and all Pivrette's and Jerome's and Labarbe's couriers report that they are returning to Mutzig. Old Materne and Kasper, after having buried the dead, learned at Grandfontaine that not a white coat is to be seen toward Saint Blaize-la-Roche. All this proves that our dragoons of the Spanish wars gave them a warm reception on the Senones road, and they fear to be turned by way of Schirmeck. I see no reason for uneasiness, Catherine."
And Hullin gazed at her with a look of inquiry.
"You will laugh at me again, Jean-Claude," said she; "I have had a dream."
"A dream!"
"Yes; the same that I dreamed at Bois-de-Chênes."
Her voice grew louder, and, before Hullin could interrupt, she continued half angrily:
"Say what you will, Jean-Claude, a great peril hangs over us. Yes, yes, all this seems senseless, and is only a dream, but it was not a dream; it was what had passed and what I saw again and recognized in my sleep. Listen! We were as we were to-day—after a great victory—where I know not—in a sort of huge wooden hut, crossed by strong beams and defended by palisades. We were secure and careless. All whom I saw around me I knew. There were you, Marc Dives, Old Duchêne, and many others—old men long since dead—my father and old Hugo Rochart of Harberg, the uncle of him who has just died, all in gray blouses, and with long beards and bare necks. We were rejoicing and drinking from great vessels of red earth, when a cry arose, 'The enemy are returning!' And Yegof on horseback, his beard streaming in the wind, his crown surrounded with spikes, an axe in his hand, and his eyes glittering like a wolfs, appeared before me. I rushed at him with a stake; he awaited me, and I saw no more. But I felt a sharp pain at my throat; a cold blast struck my face, and it seemed as if my head were swinging at the end of a cord. Yegof had hung it to his saddle and was galloping away." The old woman ended her story in such a tone of belief that brave Jean-Claude shuddered.
There were a few moments of silence; then Hullin, rousing himself, replied:
"It was but a dream. I, too, often have horrible ones. It was the noise, the shrieks, the terror of yesterday tormenting you, Catherine."
"No!" she answered firmly, as she resumed her work; "it was not that. In good truth, during the whole of the battle—even when the cannon thundered upon us—I feared nothing; I was sure we would be victorious, for that too I had seen. But now I fear!"
"But the Austrians have evacuated Schirmeck; all the line of the Vosges is defended; we have more men than we need, and still more are arriving every moment."
"No matter!"
Hullin shrugged his shoulders.
"Come, come, Catherine! You are feverish. Try to calm yourself and dispel such gloomy thoughts. I laugh at all these dreams as I would at the Grand Turk with his pipe and blue stockings. We have men, munitions, and defences, and these are better than the rosiest-colored dreams."
"You mock me, Jean-Claude."
"No; but to hear a woman of sound sense, of courage and determination, talk as you do, makes one indeed think of Yegof, who boasts that he has been living sixteen hundred years."
"Who knows?" said the old woman obstinately. "He may remember what others have forgotten."
Hullin proceeded to relate his conversation of the day before with Yegof, at the bivouac, thinking thus to disperse her gloom; but seeing that she was inclined to agree with the fool on the score of the sixteen centuries, the good man at length ceased, and paced the room with bowed head and anxious brow. "She is becoming mad," he thought; "another shock, and her mind is gone."
Catherine, after a silence, seemed about again to speak, when Louise tripped into the room, crying:
"Mamma Lefevre, Mamma Lefevre, a letter from Gaspard!"
Then the old woman, whose lips had been pressed tight together in her indignation at Hullin's ridicule, lifted her head, and the sharp lines of her face softened.
She took the letter and gazing at the red seal, said to the young girl:
"Kiss me, Louise; it bears good tidings."
Hullin drew near, glad that something had happened to distract Catherine's thoughts, and Brainstein, the postman, his heavy shoes covered with snow and his hands resting upon his staff, stood with a weary and careworn air at the door.
Catherine put on her spectacles, opened the letter slowly, notwithstanding the impatient glances of Jean-Claude and Louise, and read aloud:
"This, my dear mother, is to inform you that all goes well, and I arrived Tuesday evening at Phalsbourg, just as they were closing the gates. The Cossacks were already on the Saverne side, and skirmishing was kept up all night with their advance. The next day a flag of truce summoned us to surrender the place. The commandant Meunier told the bearer to go and hang himself, and, three days after, a storm of shell and canister began to hail upon the city. The Russians have three batteries; but the hot shot do the most harm. They set fire to the houses and when the flames appear, showers of canister prevent our putting them out. The women and children keep within the blockhouse; the citizens fight with us on the ramparts. They are brave men, and among them are some veterans of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Italy and Egypt, who have not forgotten how to work the guns. It makes me sad to see their grey moustaches falling on the cannon as they aim. I will answer for it, they waste no powder; but it is hard to see men, who have made the world tremble, forced in their old age to defend their own homes and hearths."
"Hard indeed," said Catherine, drying her eyes. "It makes my heart bleed to think of it."
She continued:
"The day before yesterday the governor decided to attack the tile-kiln. You must know that these Russians break the ice to bathe in platoons of twenty or thirty, and afterward dry themselves there at the fire. About four in the afternoon, as evening was coming on, we made a sally through the arsenal postern, passing through the covered ways and filing along the path leading to the kiln. Ten minutes after, we began a rolling fire on it, and the Russians had scarcely time to seize their muskets and cartridge-boxes, and, half-dressed, to form ranks upon the snow. Nevertheless, they were ten times more numerous than we, and began a movement to the right, on the little chapel of Saint John, so as to surround us, when the guns of the arsenal opened a fire upon them, the like of which I never saw before, sweeping them down in long lanes. In less than a quarter of an hour they were in full flight to Quatre-Vents, without waiting to pick up their coats, their officers at their head, and round-shot from the town acting as file-closers. Father Jean-Claude would have laughed at their predicament. At night-fall we returned to the city, after destroying the kiln, and throwing two eight-pounders we captured into its well. So ended our first sortie. I write you from Bois-de-Chênes, which we have reached on a foraging expedition. The siege may last months.
"I should have told you that the Allies are passing through the valley of Dosenheim to Weschem, and flooding the roads to Paris by thousands. Ah! if God would only give the emperor the victory in Lorraine or Champagne, not one of them would return. But the trumpets are sounding the recall, and we have gathered a goodly number of oxen and cows and goats. We may have to fight our way back. Farewell, my dear mother, and Louise, and Father Jean-Claude. You are ever in my thoughts and my heart."
Catherine's eyes grew moist as she finished.
"What a brave fellow he is!" she murmured; "he knows only his duty. Well! well! Do you hear, Louise, how he remembers you?"
Louise threw herself into the old woman's arms, and Mother Catherine, despite the firmness of her character, could not restrain two great tears, which coursed down her furrowed cheeks; but she was soon herself again. "Come, come!" said she; "all is well. Come Brainstein, eat a morsel of bread and take a glass of wine, and here is a crown for your trouble; I wish I could give as much every week for such a letter."
The postman, well pleased at her bounty, followed her, and Jean-Claude hastened to question him as to the enemy's movements; but he learned nothing new, except that the Allies were besieging Bitche, and Lutzelstein, and that they had lost some hundreds of men in attempting to force the defile of Graufthal.
Chapter XX.
About ten o'clock that night Catherine Lefevre and Louise, after having bid Hullin good-night, retired to their chamber, which was situated over the great hall. In this room were two huge feather beds, with red and blue striped curtains rising to the ceiling.
"Sleep-well, my child," said the old woman. "I can no longer bear up against my weariness."
She threw herself upon her bed, and in a few minutes was in a deep slumber. Louise did not delay following her example.
This lasted mayhap two hours, when a fearful tumult broke upon them.
"To arms! to arms!" shouted fifty voices. "They are on us! To arms!"
Shots resounded, and the tramp of hurrying feet mingled with cries of alarm; but above all was heard Hullin's voice giving orders in short, resolute, ringing tones, and to the left of the farm, from the gorges of Grosmann rose a deep heavy murmur like that of an approaching storm.
"Louise! hearest thou, Louise?" cried Catherine.
"Yes, yes. Great Heaven! it is terrible?"
Catherine sprang from her bed.
"Arise, my child," she cried; "dress quickly."
The shots redoubled and the windows were lit up as if by constant flashes of lightning.
"Attention!" shouted the voice of Materne.
They heard the neighing of a horse without, and the rush of many feet below in the passage, the yard, and in front of the house, which shook to its foundations.
Suddenly shots were fired from the hall on the ground floor. A heavy step sounded on the stairs; the door opened, and Hullin, pale, his hair disordered and his lips quivering, appeared, bearing a lantern.
"Hasten," he cried, "we have not a moment to lose."
"What has happened?" asked Catherine.
The firing became louder and louder.
"Is this a time to explain?" he shouted. "Come on!"
The old woman covered her head with her hood and descended the stairs with Louise. By the fitful light of the shots, they saw Materne, bare-necked, and his son Kasper, firing from the doorway on the abatis, while ten others behind them loaded and passed the muskets to them. Three or four corpses, lying against the broken wall, added to the horrors of the fight, and thick smoke hung among the rafters.
As he reached the stairs, Hullin cried:
"Here they are, Heaven be thanked!"
And the brave fellows below shouted:
"Courage! courage, Mother Lefevre!"
Then the poor old woman, whose stout heart seemed at last broken, burst into tears. She leaned heavily on Jean-Claude's shoulder; but he lifted her like a feather and ran from the house, skirting the wall to the right. Louise followed, sobbing.
They could hear nothing but the whistling of bullets, or their dull thud as they flattened themselves on the rough east wall, scattering the plaster in showers, or as they hurled the tiles from the roof. In front, not three hundred paces distant, they saw a line of white uniforms, lighted up by their own fire in the black darkness. These the mountaineers on the other side of the ravine of Minières were assailing in flank.
Hullin turned the corner of the house; there all was darkness, and they could scarcely distinguish Doctor Lorquin, on horseback, before a sledge, swinging a long cavalry sabre in his hand and bearing two horse-pistols in his belt, and Frantz Materne, with a dozen men, the butt of his rifle resting on his foot and his lips foaming with rage. Hullin seated Catherine in the sledge and Louise by her side.
"Here at last!" cried the doctor, "God be thanked!"
And Frantz Materne added:
"If it were not for you, Mother Lefevre, you may be sure that not one of us would quit the plateau tonight; but for you—"
At this moment, a tall gaunt fellow, passed at full speed, shrieking as he ran:
"They are upon us! Every one for himself."
Hullin grew pale.
"It is the miller of Harberg," he muttered, grinding his teeth. "Traitor!"
Frantz said nothing, but brought his rifle to his shoulder, aimed and fired.
Louise saw the coward fling his arms in the air and fall face downward on the snow.
Frantz, with a strange smile, reloaded his piece.
"Comrades!" said Hullin; "here is your mother; she who gave you powder and food that you might defend your homes; and here is my child. Save them!"
And all answered:
"We will save them or die with them."
"And remember to warn Dives to remain at Falkenstein until further orders."
"We shall not fail."
"Then forward, doctor, forward," cried the brave old man.
"And you, Hullins?" asked Catherine.
"My place is here. Our position must be defended to the death."
"Father Jean-Claude!" cried Louise, stretching her arms toward him.
But he had, already turned the corner; the doctor whipped up his horse; the sledge crunched the snow, and behind it Frantz Materne and his men, their rifles on their shoulders, strode on, while the roll and clatter of the musketry continued. The old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes, remembering her dream, was silent. Louise dried her tears and threw a last long gaze on the plateau, which was lighted up as if by a fire. The horse galloped beneath the blows of the doctor, so that the mountaineers of the escort could scarcely keep up with it; but it was long ere the tumult, the shouts of battle, the clatter and crash of the shots, and the whistling of the balls, cutting through the branches of the trees, and growing more and more indistinct, were heard no more; then all seemed vanished like a dream.
The sledge had reached the other slope of the mountain and darted like an arrow through the darkness. The tramp of the horse's hoofs, the hard-drawn breath of the escort, and from time to time the call of the doctor, "Ho, Bruno, old fellow!" alone broke the deep stillness.
A rush of ice-cold air, rolling up from the valley of the Sarre, bore from afar, like a sigh, the never-ending plaint of the torrents and woods. The moon broke through a cloud and looked down on the dark forests of Blanru, with their tall, snow-laden firs. A few moments after, the sledge reached a corner of the woods, and Doctor Lorquin, turning in his saddle, cried:
"Now, Frantz, what are we to do? The path turns to the hills of Saint-Quirin, and here is another going down to Blanru. Which shall we take?"
Frantz and the men of the escort drew near. As they were then on the western side of the Donon, they began to catch glimpses once more of the German fusilade, and occasionally they heard the crash of a cannon-shot echo through the abysses. "The path to the hills of Saint-Quirin," replied Frantz, "is shorter if we wish to stop at Bois-de-Chênes; we shall gain at least three quarters of an hour by it."
"Yes," said the doctor, "but we risk being taken by the Kaiserliks who now hold the defile of the Sarre. They are already masters of the heights, and they have doubtless sent detachments to the Sarre-Ridge in order to turn Donon."
"Let us, take the Blanru path then," answered Frantz; "it is longer, but safer."
The sledge descended the mountain side to the left, along the skirts of the wood. The partisans in single file, their rifles slung on their backs, marched upon the top of the slope, and the doctor, on horseback, in the narrow way, broke through the snowdrifts. Above hung the long fir branches, burying road and travellers in deep shadow, beyond which streamed the pale moonlight. The scene was picturesque and majestic, and under other circumstances Catherine would have wondered at its weird beauty, and Louise would not have failed to admire the long icicles glittering like spars of crystal where the moonbeams fell; but now their hearts were full of unrest and fear, and soon the sledge entered the deep gorge, whence they could see no light but that which flooded the mountain peaks. Thus they pushed on in silence until at length Catherine, rousing herself from the gloomy thoughts in which she seemed plunged, spoke.
"Doctor Lorquin, now that you have us at the bottom of Blanru, will you explain why we have thus been carried off? Jean-Claude seized me, threw me on this truss of straw, and here I am."
"Ho, Bruno!" cried the doctor.
Then he answered gravely:
"To-night, Mother Catherine, the greatest of evils has befallen us. It cannot be laid to Jean-Claude; for by the fault of another we have lost the fruit of all our blood and toil."
"By whose fault?"
"Labarbe's, who did not guard the defile of Blutfeld. He died afterward doing his duty like a man; but his death could not repair his fault; and if Pivrette does not arrive in time to support Hullin, all is lost. We must then abandon the road and retreat."
"What! Blutfeld in possession of the enemy."
"Yes, Mother Catherine. But who would have thought that the Germans would have entered it? A defile almost impracticable for infantry, surrounded by pointed rocks, where the herdsmen themselves can scarcely descend with their flocks and goats? Well, they passed through it, two by two, turned Roche-Creuse, crushed Labarbe, and then fell upon Jerome, who defended himself like a lion until nine at night, but finally had to take to the woods and leave the road to the Kaiserliks. That is the whole story, and it is fearful enough. Some one must have been cowardly and treacherous enough to have guided the enemy to our rear—to have delivered us over bound hand and foot. O the wretch!" cried the doctor in a trembling voice; "I am not revengeful, but if ever he falls under my hand, how I will dissect him! Ho, Bruno! Ho, boy!"
The partisans still maintained their steady shadowy march, and no word was spoken.
The horse again began a gallop, but soon slackened his pace and breathed heavily.
Mother Lefevre was once more buried in thought.
"I begin to understand," said she at length; "we were attacked tonight in front and flank."
"Just so, Catherine; and, by good fortune, ten minutes before the attack, one of Marc-Dives's men—the smuggler Zimmer, an old dragoon—arrived at full speed to warn us. If he had not come, we were lost. He fell among our outposts after having passed through a detachment of Cossacks on the plateau of Grosmann. The poor fellow had received a terrible sabre-thrust, and the blood was pouring from his wound."
"And what did he say?" asked the old woman.
"He had only time to cry, 'To arms! We are turned! Jerome sent me—Labarbe is dead—the Germans passed through Blutfeld!'"
"He was a brave man!" murmured Catherine.
"Yes, a brave man!" replied Frantz, drooping his head.
All became silent, and thus for a long time the sledge kept on through the narrow, winding valley. From time to time they were forced to stop, so deep was the snow, and then three or four mountaineers took the horse by the bridle and pulled him on.
"No matter," exclaimed Catherine, emerging from her reverie, "Hullin might have told me—"
"But if he had told you of the two attacks," interrupted the doctor, "you would not have come away."
"And who dare hinder my doing as I wish? If it pleased me to descend from this sledge, am I not free to do so? I had forgiven Jean-Claude—I repent having done so!"
"O Mother Lefevre!" cried Louise; "if he should be killed, while you speak thus!"
"She is right, poor child!" thought Catherine—
And she continued:
"I said I repent of forgiving him; but he is a brave man, to whom I can wish no ill. I forgive him with all my heart. In his place I would have done as he has done."
Two or three hundred yards further on, they entered the defile of the Rocks. The snow had ceased falling and the moon shone brilliantly from between two great black and white clouds. The narrow gorge, bordered by pointed rocks, seemed to unroll its length to their view, and on its sides high firs rose, until lost in distance. Nothing broke the deep quiet of the woods; human turmoil seemed indeed far away. So profound was the silence that they heard every step of the horse in the soft snow, and even his weary breathing. Frantz Materne halted from time to time, cast a glance over the dark mountain sides, and then hastened to overtake the others.
And valleys succeeded valleys; the sled ascended, descended, turned to right and to left, and the partisans, with their cold blue bayonets fixed, followed steadily after.
Thus toward three in the morning they had reached the field of Brimbelles, where even yet may be seen an old oak standing in a turn of the valley. On the other side, to the left, in the midst of bushes white with snow, behind its little wall of loose stones and the palings of its little garden, the lodge of Cuny, the forester, began to outline itself against the mountain side, with its three bee-hives in a row on a plank, its old knotty vine climbing to the roof, and its little branch of fir hung over the door by way of sign; for in that solitude Cuny joined to his avocation of forester that of innkeeper.
Here, as the road runs along the edge of a bank several feet above the field, and the moon was obscured by a thick cloud, the doctor, fearing lest the sledge should be overset, halted beneath the oak.
"Another hour will see us to the end of our journey, Mother Lefevre," said he; "so be of good cheer—we have now plenty of time."
"Ay," said Frantz; "the worst is over, and we can breathe the horse."
The whole party gathered around the sledge, and the doctor dismounted. A few produced flint and steel to light their pipes, but nothing was said; all were thinking of Donon. Could Jean-Claude hold his own until the arrival of Pivrette? So many painful thoughts weighed upon the mind of each that no one cared to speak.
They were some five minutes under the old oak when the cloud slowly passed away and the pale moonlight streamed down the gorge. But what is that yonder, between the two firs? A beam of light falls upon it—upon a tall dark figure on horseback; it is a Cossack with his lambskin cap, and long lance hanging backward under his arm, slowly advancing; Frantz had already aimed, when behind appeared another lance, and another, and in the depths of the forest, under the deep blue sky, the little group saw only swallow-tailed pennons waving, lances flashing, and Cossacks advancing straight on toward the sledge, but without hurry, some looking around, others leaning forward in their saddles like people seeking something. They numbered more than thirty.
Catherine and Louise gazed upon each other. Another minute and the savages would be upon them. The mountaineers seemed stupefied. They could not turn the sledge in the narrow way, and on one side was the steep slope to the field, on the other, the steep mountain side. The old woman, in an agony of fear, seized Louise's arm and whispered in trembling tones:
"Let us fly to the woods!"
She tried to spring from the sled, but her shoe came off in the straw.
Suddenly, one of the Cossacks uttered a guttural exclamation which ran all along their line.
"We are discovered!" cried Doctor Lorquin, drawing his sabre.
Scarcely had he spoken, when twelve shots lit up the path. Wild yells replied. The Cossacks left the road and dashed with loose rein over the field, fleeing like deer, to the forest lodge.
"There they go," cried the doctor; "we are safe!"
But the brave surgeon was too hasty in his conclusion; the Cossacks, describing a circle in their career, massed their force, and then, with lance in rest, bending over their horses' necks, came right on the partisans, shouting "Hurrah! hurrah!"
Frantz and the others threw themselves before the sledge.
It was a terrible moment. Lance grated against bayonet; cries of rage replied to curses. Beneath the old oak, through the branches of which only a few scattered moonbeams fell, rearing horses, with manes erect, struggled up from the field to the path, bearing barbarous riders with blazing eyes and uplifted arms, striking furiously, advancing, recoiling, uttering yells that, might chill the stoutest hearts.
Louise and the old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes stood erect in the sledge, pale as death. Doctor Lorquin, before them, parried, lunged, and struck, crying the while:
"Down, down! Morbleu! Lie down!"
But they heard him not.
Louise, in the midst of the tumult, thought only of protecting Catherine, and Catherine—imagine her horror when she saw Yegof, on a tall, bony horse, among the assailants—Yegof, his crown upon his head, his unkempt beard and dogskin mantle floating on the wind, and a lance in his hand. She saw him there plainly, as if it were broad day, flourishing his long weapon not ten paces from her, and she saw his gleaming eyes fixed on hers.
The most resolute souls seem often utterly broken by the pursuit of a relentless and inflexible fate. What was to be done? Submit—yield to that fate. The old woman believed herself doomed; she saw the mingled combat—men striking and falling in the clear moonlight; she saw riderless horses dashing over the field; she saw the attic window of the forester's lodge open, and old Cuny aim without daring to fire into the mass. She saw all these things with strange distinctness, but she kept repeating to herself, "The fool has returned; whatever may happen, he will hang my head to his saddle-bow. My dream is true—true!"
And indeed, everything seemed to justify her fears. The mountaineers, too feeble in numbers, began to give way. Soon, like a whirlwind, the Cossacks burst upon the road, and a lance's point passed through the old woman's hair, so that she felt the cold steel pass across her neck.
"O wretches! wretches!" she cried, as she fell to the bottom of the sledge, still holding, however, the reins in both hands.
Doctor Lorquin, too, had fallen upon the sledge. Frantz and the others, surrounded by twenty Cossacks, could render no assistance. Louise felt a hand grasp her shoulder—the hand of the fool, mounted on his tall steed.
At this supreme moment, the poor girl, crazed with fear, uttered a shriek of distress; then she saw something flash in the darkness; it was the barrels of Lorquin's pistols, and, quick as lightning, she had torn them from the doctor's belt. Both flashed at once, burning Yegof's beard, and sending their bullets crashing through the skull of a Cossack who was bending toward her. She seized Catherine's whip, and standing erect, pale as a corpse, struck the horse's flanks with all her might. The animal bounded from the blow, and the sledge dashed through the bushes; it bent to the right—to the left; then there was a shock; Catherine, Louise, sledge and straw, rolled clown the steep road-side in the snow. The horse stopped short, flung back on his haunches and his mouth full of bloody foam. He had struck against an oak. Swift as was their fall, Louise had seen some shadows pass like the wind behind the copse. She heard a terrible voice—the voice of Dives—shout,
"Forward! Point! point!"
It seemed but an illusion—a mingled vision, such as at our latest hour passes before our glazing eyes; but as she rose, the poor girl doubted it not; sabres were clashing twenty paces from her, behind a curtain of trees, and Marc's voice still rang on the night:
"Bravely, boys, bravely! No quarter!"
Then she saw a dozen Cossacks climbing the slope opposite, in the midst of the bushes, like hares, and through an opening beneath, Yegof flying across the valley, in the clear moonlight like a frightened bird. Several shots resounded, but they did not reach the fool; and standing erect in his stirrups while his horse kept on at his utmost speed, he turned in the saddle, shook his lance defiantly, and shouted a "Hurrah!" in a voice like that of a heron escaping the eagle's talons. Two more shots flashed from the forester's lodge; a rag flew from the fool's waist, but he still held on his course, again and again hoarsely shouting his "Hurrah!" as he followed the path his comrades had taken.
And then the vision vanished.
When Louise again became conscious, Catherine was standing beside her. They gazed for a moment at each other, and then embraced in an ecstasy of joy.
"Saved! saved!" murmured Catherine, and they wept in each other's arms.
"You bore yourself well and bravely," said the old woman. "Jean-Claude, Gaspard, and I may well be proud of you."
Louise trembled from head to foot. The danger passed, her gentle nature asserted itself, and she could not understand her courage of a few moments before.
Then, finding themselves more composed, they tried to reach the road, when they saw the doctor and five or six partisans coming to meet them.
"Ah! you needn't cry, Louise," said Lorquin; "you are a dragoon, a little Amazon. Your heart seems now in your throat, but we saw all. And, by the by, where are my pistols?"
As he spoke, the thicket separated, and tall Marc-Dives, his sabre hanging from his wrist, appeared, crying,
"Ha! Mother Catherine! What a time? What luck that I happened to be on hand! How those beggars would have plundered you!"
"Yes," returned the old woman, pushing her gray hair beneath her hood, "it was indeed fortunate."
"I believe you. Not more than ten minutes ago I reached Father Cuny's with my wagon. 'Do not go to Donon,' said he; 'for the last hour the sky above it has been red; they are fighting there!' 'Do you think so?' said I. 'Ma foi! yes,' he replied. 'Then Joson will go ahead as a scout, and we will empty a glass while we wait for his return.' Scarcely had Joson started, when I heard shouts as if the fiends had broken loose. 'What is the matter, Cuny?' I cried. He did not know, so we pushed open the door and there saw the fight. Ha! we did not wait long. I was on Fox at a bound, and then, 'Forward!' was the word. What luck!"
"Ah!" said Catherine, "if we were only sure that matters were going as well on Donon, we might indeed rejoice."
"Yes; Frantz told me all about it; something is always going wrong," answered Marc. "But here we are standing in the snow. Let us hope that Pivrette will not let his comrades be crushed, and let us empty our glasses which are yet half full."
Four other smugglers came up, saying that the villain Yegof was likely to return with a swarm of thieves like himself.
"Very true," replied Dives. "We will return to Falkenstein, since Jean-Claude so orders; but we cannot bring our wagon with us; it would hinder our crossing the country, and in an hour all those wretches will be upon us. But let us go to Cuny's. Catherine and Louise will not object to a cup of wine, nor will the others. It will put back your hearts in the right place. Ho! Bruno!"
He took his horse by the bridle. Two wounded men were placed on the sledge. Two others killed, with seven or eight Cossacks, lay stretched upon the snow. They left them as they were, and all entered the old forester's house. Frantz was beginning to console himself for not being on Donon. He had run two Cossacks through the body, and the sight of the lodge put him in good humor. Before the door stood the wagon, laden with cartridges. Cuny came out crying,
"Welcome, Mother Lefevre. What a night for women to be out! Be seated. What is going on yonder?"
While they hastily emptied a bottle, everything had to be again explained. The good old man, dressed in a simple jacket and green knee-breeches, his face wrinkled and his head bald, listened with staring eyes, ever and anon clasping his hands as he cried,
"Great God! good God! in what days do we live! We cannot travel the high roads without fear of being attacked. It is worse than the old stories of the Swedes!"
And he shook his head.
"Come," said Dives, "time presses; forward!"
All went out; the smugglers drove the wagon, which contained several thousands of cartridges and two little casks of brandy, three hundred paces off, to the middle of the valley, and there unharnessed the horses.
"Forward, forward!" cried Marc; "we will overtake you in a few minutes."
"But what are you going to do with the wagon?" asked Frantz. "Since we have not time to bring it to Falkenstein, we had better leave it under Cuny's shed than to abandon it in the middle of the road."
"Yes, and have the poor old man hung when the Cossacks return, as they will in less than an hour," replied Dives. "Do not trouble yourself; I have a notion in my head."
Frantz rejoined the party around the sledge, who had gone on some distance. Soon they passed the sawmill of Marquis, and struck straight to the right, to reach the farm-house of Bois-de-Chênes, the high chimney of which appeared over the plateau, three quarters of a league away. When they were on the crest of the hill, Marc-Dives and his men came up, shouting,
"Halt! Stop a moment. Look yonder!"
And all, turning their eyes to the bottom of the gorge, saw the Cossacks caracoling about the wagon to the number of two or three hundred.
"They are coming! Let us fly!" cried Louise.
"Wait a moment," replied the smuggler; "we have nothing to fear."
He was yet speaking, when a sheet of flame spread its purple wings from one mountain to the other, lighting the woods to their topmost branches, and the rocks, and the forester's lodge fifteen hundred feet below; then followed a crash that shook the earth.
And while with dazzled eyes they gazed at each other, mute with horror, Marc's peal of laughter mingled in the sound that yet rang in their ears.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he shouted; "I knew the beggars would gather round the wagon to drink my brandy, and that the match would have time to reach the powder. Do you think they will follow us further? Their limbs adorn the firs. So perish all of their kind who have crossed the Rhine!"
The entire party, partisans, the doctor, everyone, had become silent. So many fearful scenes, scenes which common life knows not, gave all food for endless thought. Each one murmured to himself, "Why must men thus torture, tear, ruin one another? Why should they thus hate each other? And what ferocious spirit urges them to such deeds, if not the spirit of evil, the archdemon himself?"
Dives alone and his men were unmoved, and galloped on laughing and applauding what had been done.
"Ha, ha, ha!" cried the tall smuggler; "I never saw such a joke! I could laugh a thousand years at it."
Then he became gloomy, and said,
"Yegof is at the bottom of all this. One must be blind not to see that it was he who guided the Germans to Blutfeld. I would be sorry if he were finished by a piece of my wagon; I have something better in store for him. All that I wish is, that he may remain sound and healthy until I meet him some day in a corner of the woods. Let it be one, ten, or twenty years—only let it come! The longer I wait, the keener will be my appetite; good morsels are best cold, like wild-boar's cheek in white wine."
He said all this with a good-humored air; but those who knew him knew that beneath that lay danger for Yegof.
Half an hour after, all reached the field of Bois-de-Chênes.
Inscription On A Door.
Written By Theodulphus,
Bishop Of Orleans, A.D. 820.
Pauperibus pateat, Praesul, tua janua semper,
Cum miseris Christus intrat et ipse simul.
Deque tuis epulis pascatur pauper egenus,
Ut conviva queas lectus adesse Deo.
Translation.
Set wide thy portals ever to the poor,
So Christ shall enter with them at thy door.
And let the poor be feasted from thy board,
So mayest thou, blessed, banquet with thy Lord.
C. E. B.