Between the saw-mills and the first fire, on the bridge over the dam, sat the bootmaker Jérome of St. Quirin—a man of from fifty to sixty years of age, with a long brown face, hollow eyes, big nose—his ears covered with a badger-skin cap—and a yellow beard reaching to his waist in a peak. His hands, enveloped in great green woollen gloves, were clasped over an immense stick of knotty service-tree. He wore a long sackcloth hood; and might easily have been taken for a hermit. At every rumor that arose, Father Jérome would slowly turn his head, and try to catch what it was, frowning.
Jean Labarbe, grasping his axe, remained immovable. He was a white-faced man, with an aquiline nose and thin lips. He exercised great influence over the men of Dagsburg, owing to his resolution and the clearness of his ideas. When they shouted around him, "We must deliberate; we cannot stay here doing nothing," he simply contented himself with saying, "Let us wait: Hullin has not arrived, nor Catherine Lefèvre. There is no hurry." Everybody then was silenced, and looked impatiently toward the path from Charmes.
The sawyer Piorette—a small, brisk, thin, energetic man, whose black eyebrows met above his eyes—stood on the threshold of his hut, with his pipe between his teeth, contemplating the general appearance of this scene.
Meanwhile, the impatience increased every moment. Some village mayors—in square-cut coats and three-cornered hats—advanced in the direction of the saw-mills, calling on their communes to come and decide what was to be done. Most fortunately, at last Catherine Lefèvre's cart appeared, and a thousand enthusiastic shouts arose on all sides:
"There they are! they come!"
Old Materne gravely mounted on a trunk and quietly descended, saying, "It is they."
Great agitation showed itself. The farthest groups gathered together in one crowd. A sort of impatient shiver passed over the mass. Scarcely has the old farmer's wife become visible, whip in hand, on her straw box with little Louise, than from all parts came cries of "Vive la France! Vive la mère Catherine!"
Hullin, who had remained behind, his broad hat pushed back, his musket slung across his shoulder, was now crossing the meadow of Eichmath, distributing vigorous shakes of the hand: "Good-day, Daniel; good-day, Colon. Good-day—good-day!"
"Ah! it is going to be warm, Hullin."
"Yes—yes; we are going to hear the chestnuts popping this winter. Good-day, my old Jérome! We have serious business on hand."