THE VILLAGE.
On the 1st of January, 1814, it was known that foreign forces had
invaded France. It was a terrible surprise when fugitives passed through
the villages crying, "Save yourselves, while there is yet time!"
Mothers wept for their sons, wives for their husbands, sisters for their
brothers!
The winter was a severe one. The Vosges mountains and the villages in
the valleys were alike wrapped in snow.
The inn which our readers already know at Leigoutte, presented a most
picturesque appearance. The snow had been so heavy for several days that
the woodcutters had not been up the mountains to bring down the wood,
but this morning they had determined to make an attempt, and had
gathered before the inn with their long light sledges on their
shoulders. They seemed to be waiting for some one. "Can Simon be sick?"
asked one of these men, finally.
"Not he!" answered another. "He is at the school-room with the children,
and he never knows when to leave them."
"Oh! that is very well," grumbled a third, "but I think we had better
go in and get a glass of wine, than wait here all this time."
"Have a little patience, friend; if Simon teaches our children, it is
that they may be better off than their fathers, and not like them be
compelled to die with cold and fatigue some day among the mountains!"
"Well said, friend, well said!" called out a full rich voice.
Every one turned. The door of the school-room was open, and he who had
spoken was standing with arms outspread to prevent the children from
rushing out too hastily on the slippery ice.
"Not so quick, children," he cried. "You can't fly over the snow like
lapwings."
A boy of about ten repeated these words to the smaller children.
"That is right, Jacques," said Simon, "begin early, for you may have
this school some day yourself!"
"Good morning, Master Simon," said one of the woodcutters, taking off
his hat, "we were just saying that we should like something warm before
we started."
"And you are right. I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I was
just telling the children about a battle of the Republic at Valmy."
"Take my arm, sir," cried one of the woodcutters. "That wooden leg of
yours is not very safe on the ice."
"Am I not here?" asked Jacques, in a vexed voice, "can I not look out
for my father?"
Simon laughed.
"But why," he asked, "have you not asked for wine at the inn?"
"Because we heard that the little girl was ill, sir--"
"Oh! it is nothing of any consequence--there she is, as rosy and smiling
as ever."
When Simon's voice was heard, the inn awoke from its silence. A woman
appeared on the threshold holding in her arms a pretty little creature
about six years old.
The mother was a simple peasant woman, wearing a peasant's dress. She
began to fill glasses for these woodcutters, who addressed her with a
cordial good morning.
At this moment the door was hastily opened, and a man appeared on the
threshold. The woodcutters uttered a cry of surprise. The man was a
soldier, who leaned against the wall and did not speak.
Simon hurried forward. "You are welcome, comrade," he exclaimed.
The man turned pale, and but for Simon's support, he would have fallen
on the floor.
"Francoise, a chair!" cried the innkeeper.
The soldier had his head wrapped in a blue handkerchief, and drops of
blood were upon his cheek. His uniform was in rags, and a linen bandage
was wrapped around one leg.
The men looked on with terrified respect while Simon tried to make him
drink a glass of wine, and signed to Jacques to take off the soldier's
shoes, now covered with snow.
The soldier uttered a deep sigh of relief. He was a peasant of about
forty, although his moustache was gray. His features bore the traces of
suffering and privations.
"Some brandy!" he gasped.
Little Francinette carried the glass to him. He drank it, looking the
while at the child with admiration and sad envy. Then taking her on his
knee, he looked around him at the honest faces, and said:
"My name is Michel--Michel Charmoze. There are thirty of us down on the
road, all wounded, in a big wagon. The horses have fallen, one is dead,
and we have come for help."
The woodcutters looked from one to the other in amazement.
"What!" cried the soldier, "do you know nothing in this land of snow? I
have been fighting three months on the Rhine. The Emperor has deserted
us. All is over!"
The peasants listened in a stupefied sort of way. Only the vaguest
rumors had as yet reached the peasants that Napoleon's star had begun to
pale. Simon knew it, but he had held his peace.
"Where are the wounded?" he asked, quietly.
"A quarter of a league down the road."
"My friends," said Simon, "we have no horses, but your arms are strong.
You must save these Frenchmen!"
"We are ready!" shouted twenty voices.
"Father, may I go, too?" asked Jacques, eagerly.
"Yes," said Simon, kindly. "You may go, and take some brandy with you."
The woodcutters took also shovels, sticks and ropes.
"When they come back," said Simon to his wife, "you must have a good
meal ready. Carry straw into the school-room, tear up your old sheets
into bandages, and send to Wisembach for the doctor."
"But the child--what am I to do with her?" asked Francoise, timidly.
"Oh! I will look out for her," cried the soldier. "I had a little girl
of my own, but since I have been away, both mother and child have died!"
Simon and Michel were alone for a few moments. The little girl still sat
on the soldier's knee, gravely enlarging one of the holes in his uniform
with her busy little fingers.
"Then the invaders are in France?" said Simon.
"They are, indeed, but they won't stay long--be sure of that!"
"What army is it that is advancing in this direction?" asked Simon.
"Schwartzemberg's, with Russians, Prussians and Austrians."
"How far off are they?"
"Not more than ten leagues. We were nearly overtaken by them. They would
not have got thus far had we not been betrayed by everybody. Those dogs
of Royalists have felt no shame to be seen with these enemies of
France!"
Simon started.
"Do you mean," he asked sternly, "that the emigres have dared----"
"Yes, they have dared to do just that!" and Michel swore a frightful
oath. "I believe that there are Frenchmen who would lead these savages
on, to roast and kill their own mothers!"
Simon had become deadly pale.
"Yes," continued the soldier. "Let me tell you about this wound." And he
tore off the handkerchief around his head. His eyes at that moment fell
on Simon's wooden leg, which he had not before seen. "Ah! you are one of
us, then?" exclaimed Michel.
Simon nodded. "Go on with your story, my friend," he said.
"Well, we had just crossed the Rhine, and were getting on famously when
we saw the detachment that had attacked us. I knew by their caps that
they were Russians. We sheltered ourselves behind a wall, and then we
let fly. I tell you, that was a fight! In front of me was a tall fellow
who fought like the very devil. I pricked him with a bayonet, and he
opened his arms wide and yelled--good Lord! I hear that yell now--'I am
killed! Here! help for Talizac!' He shot at me the same moment. Now,
friend, was not that a French name? But what is the matter with you?"
Simon had dropped into a chair. He was as white as a sheet, and his eyes
were fixed on vacancy.
The soldier looked at him for a moment. "Come!" he said, "give me
another glass, and we will drink to our country!"
At this moment Francoise came in hurriedly.
"Simon!" she cried, "the peasants are coming here from every direction.
They say that the foreigners are coming this way, and they bid us fly!"
Simon went to the door. Francoise had spoken the truth. On all the roads
and on all the mountain paths crowds were seen of men, women and
children.
If the rout of an army is terrible, that of a people is infinitely more
so. This flight from home and fireside is sad beyond expression. These
peasants were running, carrying on their shoulders all that they held
most precious. Their houses had been searched, for these peasants had
served in the rising of '92, and they probably had arms. An old man was
shot for concealing a pistol. At another place brutes had insulted the
women, and burned the cottages deserted by the fugitives. This was the
day that Napoleon Bonaparte had replied to the _corps legislatif_, who
supplicated him to return to the people their lost liberty: "France is a
man!--I am that man--with my will, my fame, and my power!"
The woodcutters now returned, dragging the huge wagon they had dug out
of the snow-drifts. Simon rapidly explained to several peasants the
preparations he had made, and under his instructions they hastened to
remove the wounded from the wagon. It was a terrible sight--eleven out
of the twenty-eight were dead. But in fifteen minutes the living were
lying on the fresh straw spread in the school-room, and Simon and his
wife were going from one to another of these poor sufferers, alleviating
their sufferings as far as possible. Suddenly a great noise was heard
without, followed by the most profound silence. Simon started.
"What was that!" he asked, quickly.
The door opened, and Michel appeared.
"The Cossacks!" he cried. "Come, Master Simon, come!"
Simon obeyed, signing to his wife to take his place. He went outside,
and beheld some twenty men mounted on thin but vigorous-looking horses.
The men were of medium height, bearded like goats and ugly as monkeys.
They wore loose robes fastened into the waists with red scarfs. On their
heads were high cylindrical caps. Some wore over their shoulders cloaks
of bear skins. Their high saddles formed boxes in which they could pack
away their booty. They looked down on the crowd with small, twinkling
eyes set far in under bushy brows and low foreheads. At their head was
an officer in the Austrian uniform.
The crowd fled to the further end of the open space, and the women
clasped their crying children to their breasts. Simon walked directly
toward the officer.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked, politely but firmly.
The officer did not seem to hear him--he was looking intently at the
inn. Simon repeated his question, this time in German. The Austrian then
concluded to look at him.
"Is this village Leigoutte?" he asked. "And is that your inn?" And the
soldier pointed to the inn.
"What business is that of yours?" asked Simon, who by this time had
become excessively angry.
"Give my men something to drink."
Simon clenched his hands as he replied:
"I never give anything to the enemies of my country!"
The Cossacks understood him and uttered a groan.
"We shall take it by force, then!" said the officer, spurring his horse
toward Simon, but the latter pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the
Austrian.
"One step further!" he shouted, "and I will blow out your brains!"
The Austrian pulled up his steed, and saying a few words to his men,
they turned their horses and departed.
"We shall see you again!" shouted the Austrian, over his shoulder.
The peasants uttered a shout of joy, but Simon was very thoughtful.
"Why," said he, to himself, "should there be a reconnoissance expressly
for this village?"
The men now crowded around Simon.
"You frightened them well!" they said. "How ugly they are!" They
laughed, and seemed to think all danger was past.
Simon and Michel exchanged a look, then the former raised his hand to
command silence.
"My friends," he said, "they will return, and bring many more with them.
Those among you who are not afraid to fight, may remain with me. But we
must see at once about a place of safety for the women and children. It
will be easy for twenty or thirty of us to keep these invaders from
coming to this point again, for we know each mountain path. We have
arms, for I long since concealed one hundred guns in my house, and
these mountains--the ramparts of France, shall become inaccessible
citadels. The enemy will approach in a compact column; we must send out
scouts who will keep us informed. It is too late to-day for the attack
to take place. Two of you will go to the neighboring villages and give
the alarm. We will meet to-morrow at the Iron Cross. And remember,
children, that in '92, as to-day, the invaders threatened France, and
your fathers drove them out. May the children of those men be worthy of
them!"
"But about the women and children?" asked Michel.
"They must be hidden in the farm-houses up the mountains. The wounded
are protected by the code of war. Courage, then, and shout with me Vive
la France!"
These words aroused immense enthusiasm for a few minutes.
Simon felt a hand on his; it was Francoise, with her little girl in her
arms, and Jacques at her side.
"We shall not leave you, Simon," said his wife. "But I wish to speak to
you a moment."
Simon looked at her in surprise. Then turning to Michel, "You will
complete the arrangements. Jacques will show you where the arms are
stored."
"Rely on us, Simon!" shouted the peasants. "We will do our duty!"