A large detachment of captured and wounded French and Algerians came through our valley. The people from all the villages flocked to the high-road to see them pass. I feared that the people would show their irritation, and jeer these unfortunates: but, as if by a tacit agreement, every one kept aloof, and only words of sympathy were heard. It was only when the fantastic, and sometimes terrible-looking Africans appeared, that the dismay of the people showed itself, as they called out, "There they are, the men that were going to burn our towns and forests, the cannibals!"
Rothfuss, with my team of bays, was also in the procession. He halted a moment at the saw-mill near the bridge, and gave a merry account of the kind of load he was carrying. It consisted of wounded Turcos, and he laid great stress on the fact that the French would have nothing in common with these wicked apes. He had to keep on his way.
Great excitement was caused in the village when it was reported that Carl had returned. We all accompanied his mother and Marie down the valley, where he had halted with a squad of prisoners. Marie embraced him before us all, and the prisoners smiled, and imitated the sound of their smacking lips.
Carl had much to tell me, and could not find words to say all he wanted to, particularly in praise of the Pomeranian lancers. He said they were the right sort of fellows--as quiet and strong as the pine-trees; and it was strange to see, when they first saw the Rhine, about which so much had been sung and said, how, in their enthusiasm, they wanted to ride directly into the stream.
His mother and sweetheart accompanied him for some distance on the road, and when they turned to come back the old woman said, "Now I am satisfied; now no one shall hear me complain; I am sure that nothing will happen to him in this war."
We harvested our crops; we placed the green bough on the top of the new mill down in the valley; we began to cut wood in the forest; yet still the thunder of the bombardment of Strasburg continued.
The old meadow farmer lay at home very ill, and often said, "I shall be buried like a soldier; they will fire over my grave."
We buried the old fellow on the morning of September 2d. He had given orders that his St. Helena medal should be buried with him; but his son did not see fit to let this be done. He looked upon this so-called mark of distinction as a means of preservation, in case the French should come after all.
While we were standing at the open grave, Joseph came riding up the hill, his horse very much blown, and cried, "Napoleon is a prisoner!" We all hurried to the road where Joseph, still on horseback, read the extra aloud. It was the account of the capture of Napoleon at Sedan.
What strange coincidences occur in life! We had just buried the last man in our village who wore on his breast the badge of the infamy of our alliance with Napoleon; and now we had his successor and heir a prisoner in our hands.