"I have had enough."
While the partisans thus recruited their strength, their chiefs met in the neighboring hall to make their last determinations relative to the defence. There were seated round the table, lighted by a tin lamp, Doctor Lorquin—his great dog Pluto near him, watching with uplifted muzzle; Jerome in the recess of a window to the right; Hullin at the left, very pale. Marc-Dives, with his elbow on the table and cheek resting in his hand, sat with his back to the door, and showed only his brown profile and one of the ends of his long moustache. Materne alone was standing, as was his habit, leaning against the wall behind Lorquin's chair, his rifle resting upon his foot. A murmur of voices came from the kitchen.
When Catherine, who was called by Jean-Claude, entered, she heard a sort of groan which made her tremble. It was Hullin speaking.
"Do you think," he cried, in a burst of wild grief, "that the fate of those brave sons, those white-haired fathers, moved not my heart? Would I not gladly have died a thousand times that they might live? You know not the woes with which this night has overwhelmed me. To lose life is but little; but to bear alone the burden of such a trust!"
He was silent, but his trembling lip, the tear that coursed slowly down his cheek, showed how heavily that trust weighed upon him, in a position where conscience itself hesitates and seeks support. Catherine noiselessly seated herself in the large arm-chair on his left. After a few moments' pause, Hullin proceeded more calmly:
"Between eleven o'clock and midnight, Zimmer came crying that we were turned; that the Germans were coming down from Grossmann; Labarbe was crushed; Jerome could hold out no longer. He said no more. What was to be done? Could I retreat—abandon a position which had cost us so much blood—the Donon road, the way to Paris? I were a wretch indeed to do so; but I had only three hundred against the four thousand at Grandfontaine, and I know not how many descending the mountain. But cost what it might, I determined to hold out; it was our duty to do so. I thought that life is nothing void of honor; we might all die, but never would it be said that we yielded the road to France! Never, never, never!"
His voice again trembled, and his eyes filled with tears as he added:
"We held it—for more than two hours—my brave boys held it. I saw them fall; they died crying, 'God save France!' When the battle began, I sent word to Pivrette. He, with fifty men, came up—too late! too late! The enemy flanked us right and left; they held three fourths of the plateau, and we were driven among the firs toward Blanru, their fire crashing into our bosoms. All that I could do was to collect the wounded who could yet drag themselves along, and place them under the escort of Pivrette; a hundred men joined him. I kept only fifty to occupy Falkenstein. We cut through the Germans, who tried to cut off our retreat. Happily the night was dark, otherwise not one of us would have escaped. We are here, and all is lost. Falkenstein alone remains, and we are reduced to three hundred. Now we must try who will dare the bitter end. I tell you that my burden presses heavily upon me. While the Donon road was to be defended, our duty was clear; every man's life belonged to his country: but that road is lost; ten thousand men would be needed to regain it, and even now the enemy are entering Lorraine. What is to be done?"
"Resist to the last!" replied Jerome.
"To the last!" repeated the others.