"Duchene," said the good old woman, "go down to the village; they must not ill-treat you on my account."
The old servant, shaking his white head, replied with eyes full of tears:
"I might as well die here, Madame Lefevre. It is fifty years since I came to this house. Do not force me away; that would kill me."
"As you will, my poor Duchene," answered Catherine, much affected. "Here are the keys of the house."
The old man seated himself on a stool by the hearth, with eyes fixed and lips parted like one in some sad dream.
The others started for Falkenstein. Marc-Dives, on horseback, his long blade hanging from his wrist, formed the rear-guard. Frantz and Hullin, on the left, reconnoitered the plateau, and Jerome, on the right, the valley; Materne and the men of the escort surrounded the women. Strange! At every threshold, at every window of the village of Charmes appeared faces, young and old, gazing with curious eyes at the flight of Mother Lefevre, and evil tongues were not wanting. "Ah! driven from your nest at last," they cried. "You would meddle with what did not concern you!"
Others muttered aloud that Catherine had been rich long enough, and that all had their turn. As for the labor, the wisdom, the kindness of heart, the thousand virtues of the old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes, the patriotism of Jean-Claude, the courage of Jerome and the three Maternes, the unselfishness of Doctor Lorquin, the devotion of Marc-Dives—about all these things no one had a word to say: their owners were beaten!
Chapter XXII.
At the bottom of the valley of Bouleaux, two musket-shots from the village of Charmes, the little troop began slowly to ascend the path leading to the ancient burg. Hullin, remembering how he had taken the same path when he had gone to buy powder of Marc-Dives, could not repress his grief. Then, notwithstanding his visit to Phalsbourg, the sight of the wounded from Hanan and Leipsic, the story of the old sergeant, he despaired not; he kept all his energy alive, and never doubted the success of the defence. But now all was lost; the enemy were descending upon Lorraine, and the mountaineers flying. Marc-Dives rode along the wall in the snow; his great horse, accustomed to the journey, neighing, lifting his head and then dropping it beneath his chest. The smuggler turned from time to time to throw a glance at the opposite field of Bois-de-Chênes. Suddenly he cried: