"Franz says:—'We are in quarters here at a tavern, but it has few customers, and we are obliged to seek for what we need. It is, in fact, almost an empty house, dismantled, half burnt, and with a good many shot holes. Still we keep up our spirits. We have begun to hold our Christmas already, for we have a long table and a few chairs, and somebody last night found a great milk-pan in the half-ruined dairy of the inn, and, having on hand a few bottles of very good red wine, we made a fine bowl of grog-au-vin, with the aid of a wood fire and an old saucepan. In came Hofer and gave us a toast and a song, and then they called on me, and I gave them the old Lied, that thou hast so often played, and for a toast, 'Fifine.' If Fifine had been there she would have been lying on my shoulder, but since I rescued her from the teasing of a big drum-major she has grown shy and doesn't like company; and though she would soon be a pet with most of our men, keeps her love for me alone, and would be a very charming companion if I had time to devote to her pretty ways.' So you see Franz and Hofer are in France," says the old man, taking off his spectacles.
My heart has grown cold and heavy all in a moment, and I have to lean on the back of a chair for support.
"Who, then, is Fifine?" I ask, under my breath.
"Aha!" cries the Herr postmaster, "who, indeed? but what is it to thee? I now, his father, might well ask; but there it is, no sooner does a young honest fellow go out of Germany than he is thrown into the company of these cats of Frenchwomen, and then—but I must say good-night. Good-night, madam. Good-night, girls."
So he is gone, and the dear mistress and I look in each other's face, and both cry "Oh!" but say no more.
So I go not to watch by the wall; but Bertha goes, and still she says it is Hofer will bring the dear master home. The child, we say, is gone silly with sitting on the wall in the cold, for sometimes she will come in without her cloak; but yet we have not the heart to forbid her going thither.
One, two, three, four days, and it is the blessed eve. We are all so still, and our hearts are heavy, so we go about softly, as though some one were sick or dead, when it is but our own hearts, or hopes, or fancies, that seem dead. The dear little ones are quiet now, for we are in the small room by the window, and as the last chime of sundown sounds from the church, the candles on the Christmas-tree are lighted, and shine on the pretty gifts that hang upon the branches. The dear mother hugs the children to her heart; outside the twinkle and beaming of the candles makes a short track of light upon the snow; the signal is all a-glow. Will the wanderer return to-night? Where is Bertha? What is this white-armed, loose-haired figure, flying up the path? Her hand is on the door-latch, and as she stands there, wan and panting, she cries, "They come! they come! The ox-wagon is now upon the hill. I saw it coming through the snow, and the lantern shone upon the epaulette and the buttons." She speaks and is gone, and we, the dear mistress and I, go to the kitchen, where I stand, with a heart of lead and hands of ice.
There is a tramp of feet, a shout, the door bursts open—the dear mistress is in her husband's arms—the little ones are clinging to him. "Take care of my leg, darlings," he says; "the bone has not grown too strong just yet, and I doubt if ever I shall bend the knee again. As to Franz here, he, as you see, has his arm in a sling yet. He caught me up in the wood, me and Hofer. Ah! that dear Hofer, he was in hospital, just getting over a sabre cut in the cheek when I was taken there, and he has been my good nurse ever since."
I am standing still, with downcast eyes, and there stands Franz staring at me, with his one arm ready to take me to his heart.
"And where is Fifine?" say I, bursting into tears.