"Good-morning, Monsieur Goulden. We have come for the conscription."
Then I saw how Catharine had been crying. Her eyes were red, and she threw her arms around my neck, while her mother turned to me.
Monsieur Goulden said:
"It will soon be the turn of the young men of the town."
"Yes, Monsieur Goulden," answered Catharine in a choking voice; "they have finished Harberg."
"Then it is time for you to go, Joseph," said he; "but do not grieve; do not be frightened. These drawings, you know, are only a matter of form. For a long while past none can escape; for if they escape one drawing, they are caught a year or two after. All the numbers are bad. When the council of exemption meets, we will see what is best to be done. To-day it is merely a sort of satisfaction they give the people to draw in the lottery; but every one loses."
"No matter," said Aunt Grédel; "Joseph will win."
"Yes, yes," replied Monsieur Goulden, smiling, "he cannot fail."
Then I sallied forth with Catharine and Aunt Grédel, and we went to the town square, where the crowd was. In all the shops, dozens of conscripts, purchasing ribbons, thronged around the counters, weeping and singing as if possessed. Others in the inns embraced, sobbing; but still they sang. Two or three musicians of the neighborhood—the Gipsy Walteufel, Rosselkasten, and George Adam—had arrived, and their pieces thundered in terrible and heart-rending strains.
Catharine squeezed my arm. Aunt Grédel followed.