“Come,” cried Monsieur Tuck-of-Drum suddenly. He donned the great bearskin, the others followed his example, Bergeret fumbling foolishly with its heavy chain. His baby face expressed wonder rather than the alarm, the bitter disappointment, the wrath, written on the faces of Madame Héloïse and Laplume and Dufour. Tuck-of-Drum girded on his sword and slung the straps of his drum over his old bent shoulders. He thrust Bergeret’s musket into the Sergeant’s hand. Dufour motioned to Pierre, and hobbled out; the boy followed him. Madame Héloïse Laplume ran to the door to intercept them. “Where are you going, grandfather? Where are you going?” she gasped.
“Stand back, Héloïse. We go to call the village. Stay here; stay with the little Josephine.”
She paused irresolute. After all, though they could do no good, what harm could they do—these three old men? They were going to call the village. Yet there was a look on the ancient soldier’s face she had not seen since the day of the first great reverse, when he had gone, with his head erect and old fires flashing in his dim blue eyes, to offer his feeble services to France.
Suddenly, loud and distinct above the distant booming of the guns, his drum sounded—beating an assembly in the quiet village street. She put her hand to her breast and ran out. If the Germans were really coming——
She clutched his arm.
“Are you mad, grandfather?” she gasped. “Come in; come in and finish your wine and pipes together. There are only boys and women and old men in the village. They can do nothing——”
He shook her off.
Well, even the enemy, cruel though they were, could never harm men so old, so feeble and defenseless. They would ride through, laughing in their beards, mouthing their uncouth jokes at the faded uniforms from which their sires had once fled in terror; but—no, they would never harm them. Josephine was crying softly within. She turned back to the house.
Up the centre of the village street marched Tuck-of-Drum, drumming, drumming with an energy surprising and pathetic, as though he could call from their weed-grown graves the lads who had once jumped so smartly to the rattle of the parchment.
“Rat-a-plan! rat-a-plan!” sounded the summons; his hands had not lost their cunning, though they ached and grew weary with the unwonted strain. Behind him staggered Bergeret, his great bearskin toppling forward over the fat, smooth, foolish face; Dufour hobbled in the rear, his stick and wooden leg tapping the cobbles; little Pierre, beside him, dragged the heavy musket.