He at least could reply, “I do not know,” with comparative assurance. But the others? Old Graff especially was an object of pity. He seemed as though he would go mad. One evening he had gone out bareheaded into the streets, when the weather was icy cold, saying to all he met, “If Antoine does not come back, I shall have been his murderer. Why did I send him to the war; he was not even of age? He ought to be here by my side. All this time they have been fighting around Paris. A presentiment comes to me that my son is dead!” and he wept bitterly. They were obliged to take him back home by force, whilst little Catherine hid herself behind her mother’s skirts. Moses congratulated himself for the prudent resolution he had imposed on Elias, though he did his best to lament with the rest on the dangers run by this brave and valiant band of youth gone out in defence of their country.
One evening, on returning homey the inhabitants of the district around the cathedral found ambulance carriages in the streets and assistants carrying wounded men into private houses. No more beds were to be had at the hospitals. All the untenanted houses had been requisitioned, and now the military authorities appealed to the patriotism of the inhabitants of Metz for lodging the victims of the last sortie. A captain of light infantry belonging to the Guards had just been carried to the house of Moses, and Graff had taken in a captain of artillery, named M. de Trémont. As he was bringing back his battery from the hills of Servigny, the young officer had received a ball in the thigh.
Anxiety for the health of his patient, the remedies he needed, and other little attentions, caused a happy diversion to the ever-present anxiety of Antoine’s father. As he saw this handsome young officer, who had fought so heroically, and who under such solicitous care, was about to recover his health under his roof, Graff began to hope once more. He said to himself, “If my own son is wounded, why should not he also be so fortunate as Captain de Trémont? He has been brought a long distance, with his wounded thigh, but he will be quite well again in less than a couple of months. They do not all die who are wounded in war. I feel sure Antoine will come back now.” And his spirits returned with renewed hope. The captain, well cared for by Graff and his wife, was soon able to leave his bed, and after dinner, at night, he would relate to them his campaigns in Algeria and Mexico. He explained to his hosts the reasons why France was coming off the worst in this disastrous campaign, attributing all the advantages of the Germans to their remarkable organizing capacity, and the perfection of their artillery.
“You see, the whole future of war consists in war material. We have to give way before breech-loading cannons, which have, from the very first, given proof of a marked superiority over our grooved arms. The moral effect on our troops has been decisive. The first thing to be done after the war, will be to investigate a new kind of cannon and explosives of a terribly destructive power. The question of explosives will be of capital importance. This ought to be the main end of our efforts in the artillery.”
With remarkable clearness he explained all that modern chemistry offered in cunning combinations, such as would guarantee victory to that adversary which could most scientifically assure massacre and death. So, in the evening silence in that large town, besieged by the conquering enemy, the conquered were already engaged in thinking of preparations for revenge.
The siege came to an end, and all the brave soldiers who would have defended Metz to the death were surrendered alive to the enemy. The flags, a prey to famine, were carried off to form trophies of victory in Germany. Paris fell in her turn, then the final armies of France, driven back across the snow, stained with blood, not so tired of death as exhausted with the fight, stopped at the country’s call. And on that immense battlefield, two hundred leagues square, the victors’ shout of triumph mingled with the despairing cry of the vanquished. By degrees news arrived, bringing sorrow to some and joy to others. Among the brave young fellows who had gone forth to fight, so ardent and proud, many never returned, whilst the numbers of prisoners and wounded will never be known.
One morning, Graff, in the dining-room, was taking breakfast with his family and Captain de Trémont, who was still a convalescent in Metz, when the outside door was opened, a rapid step was heard on the staircase, and father, mother, and little Catherine, looked at one another with pale faces. Not a word was uttered as they listened tremblingly to this quick, seemingly joyful ascent. They had all been struck by the same thought; he who comes hastening to us in this way, without asking any questions, who enters as though he were master of the house, and mounts the well-known steps four at a time, must be Antoine! Before they had time to give expression to their thoughts the door opened, and a tall, bearded young man, so thin and terrible that they did not recognize him, but whose eyes were instantly flooded with tears, appeared before them.
“Father! Catherine! Mother!”
They all rose to their feet, mad with joy, for they could not mistake the voice, and the long-expected child for whom so many tears had been shed, was taken in their arms and covered with kisses, amid the cries and sobs, questions and exclamations, of parents and servants, whilst the Captain looked on with a smile at this family scene. Finally, Antoine escaped from their arms, and his first words were the following—
“Good heavens! How hungry I am!”