He turned the corner and entered the farm; every one followed him. Duchêne had just thrown a fresh log on to the fire. Those faces blackened with powder, still flushed with fighting, their garments torn by bayonets, some stained with blood, advancing from the shadowy darkness outside into the full light cast by the blazing fire, presented a singular and striking spectacle. Kasper had his forehead bound up with his handkerchief, having received a cut from a sabre. His bayonet, the front of his dress, and his long blue cloth gaiters were spotted with blood. As for old Materne, he, thanks to his imperturbable presence of mind, returned safe and sound from the strife and carnage. The remnants of the two troops of Jerôme and Hullin thus found themselves re-united.
There were the same wild figures, inspired by the same energy and the same spirit of vengeance; only the latter, harassed by fatigue, were sitting right and left, on logs of wood, on the edge of the sink, on the low stones of the hearth, with their head between their hands, their elbows on their knees. Others were staring vacantly about them, and not being able to convince themselves of the disappearance of Hans, and Joson, and Daniel, were exchanging questions, which were followed by long intervals of silence. Materne's two sons were holding each other by the arm, as if they were afraid of losing one another, and their father, behind them, leaning against the wall, with his elbow resting on his gun, was regarding them with a contented air. "There they are; I see them," he seemed to be saying to himself; "they are famous fellows! They have both come off with whole skins." And the worthy man coughed gently behind his hand. If any one came to him to ask about Pierre, or Jacques, or Nicolas, he would answer at random: "Yes, yes; there are plenty of them down below there lying on their backs. But what would you have? It's the fortune of war. Your Nicolas has done his duty. You must console yourself with that." And in the meanwhile he was thinking to himself: "Mine are not left in the lurch; that's what I care about most."
Catherine was laying the table, assisted by Louise. In a short time, Duchêne came up from the cellar with a barrel of wine on his shoulder, which he placed on the dresser; he tapped it, and then every one of the mountaineers brought his glass, his mug, or his jug, and filled it from the purple stream that glistened in the blazing light of the fire.
"Eat and drink!" cried the good farm-mistress; "it is not over yet, and you've still need of all your strength. Here, Frantz, take down those hams for me. Here is bread, knives; and now sit down, my children."
Frantz made a spit of his bayonet, and hung up the hams in the wide fire-place.
They drew the benches forward, they sat down, and, in spite of their grief, proceeded to eat with that vigorous appetite of which neither present griefs nor cares for the future can wholly deprive strong men. But that did not prevent a poignant sorrow clutching at the heart of these brave fellows, and first one and then another would suddenly stop, and, laying down his fork, quit the table, saying, "I have had enough."
While the mountaineers were thus repairing their strength, their leaders were assembled in the next room, making fresh dispositions for the defence. They were sitting round the table, lighted by a solitary tin lamp; Doctor Lorquin, with his great dog Pluto by his side, Jerôme in the angle of a window on the right, Hullin on the left, quite pale. Marc Divès, with his elbow on the table, his cheek on his hand, had his broad shoulders turned to the door: he only showed his brown profile and one of the corners of his long moustache. Materne alone remained standing, as usual, against the wall, behind Lorquin's chair, his gun at his feet. From the kitchen came the hum of voices.
When Catherine, sent for by Hullin, entered, she heard a sort of groaning sound which caused her to start. It was Hullin who was speaking.
"All those brave lads, all those fathers of families who fell one after the other," he was saying, in a tone of bitter grief, "do you think that it does not wring my very heart? Do you think that I would not rather a thousand times over have been massacred myself? Ah! You know not what I have suffered this night! To lose your own life is nothing, but to bear alone the weight of such a responsibility——!"