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!"