"There, there, Catherine; you are wandering; everything is black to you. What disturbs me most is not receiving any news from without; we are living here as in a country of savages; we know nothing of what is going on abroad. The Austrians or the Cossacks might fall upon us at any moment, and we be taken completely by surprise."
Hullin observed that as he spoke the old woman's look became anxious, and despite himself he felt the influence of the fears she spoke of.
"Listen, Catherine," said he suddenly; "as long as you talk reasonably I shall not gainsay you. You speak now of things that are possible. I do not believe they will attack us, but it is better to set our hearts at ease. I intended going to Phalsbourg this week. I shall set out to-morrow. In such a city—one which is, moreover, a post-station—they should have certain tidings of what is going on. Will you believe the news I bring back?"
"I will."
"Then it is understood. I will start early to-morrow morning. It is five leagues off. I shall have returned by about six in the evening, and you shall see, Catherine, that your mournful notions lack reason."
"I hope so," said she, rising; "indeed I hope so. You have somewhat reassured me, Jean-Claude, and I may sleep better than I did last night. Good-night, Jean-Claude."
Chapter III.
The next morning at daybreak, Hullin, in his gray-cloth Sunday small-clothes, his ample brown velvet coat, his red vest with its copper buttons, his head covered with his mountaineer's slouched hat, the broad brim turned up in front over his ruddy face, took the road to Phalsbourg, a stout staff in his hand.
Phalsbourg is a small fortified city on the imperial road from Strasbourg to Paris. It commands the slope of Saverne, the defiles of Haut-Barr, of Roche-Plate, Bonne-Fontaine, and Graufthal. Its bastions, advanced works, and demi-lunes run zigzag over a rocky plateau; afar off you would think you could clear the walls at a bound; a nearer approach shows a ditch, a hundred feet wide and thirty deep, and beyond the dark ramparts cut in the rock itself. All the rest of the city, save the town-hall, the two gates of France and Germany with their pointed arches, and the tops of the two magazines, is concealed behind the glacis. Such is the little city, which is not lacking in a certain kind of grandeur, especially when we cross its bridges, and pass its heavy gates, studded with iron spikes. Within the walls, the houses are low, regularly built of cut stone in straight streets. A military atmosphere pervades everything.
Hullin, whose robust health and joyous nature gave him little care for the future, pushed gayly onward, regarding the stories of defeat and invasion which filled the air as so many malicious inventions. Judge, then, of his stupefaction when, on coming in sight of the town, he saw that the clock-tower stood no longer, not a garden or an orchard, not a walk or a bush could he see; everything within cannon-shot was utterly destroyed. A few wretches were collecting the remaining pieces of their cottages to carry them to the city. Nothing could be seen to the verge of the horizon but the lines of the ramparts. Jean-Claude was thunder-struck; for a few moments he could neither utter a word nor advance a step.