Whilst Hullin, informed of the disasters that had befallen our armies,
was walking with downcast head and knitted brows towards the village of
Charmes, all was going on as usual at the farm of Bois-de-Chênes. The
fantastic stories of Yégof--the rumours of war--were alike forgotten
for the present; old Duchêne led his oxen to the water, the shepherd
Robin foddered his cattle, and Annette and Jeanne skimmed their pans of
milk, and made their curds-and-whey. Catherine Lefévre alone, gloomy
and silent, mused continually on the past, while, at the same time,
overlooking with an impassive face the doings of her household. She was
too old, and of too serious a nature, to forget from one day to the
next anything that had so greatly moved her.
When night came, after the evening meal, she went into the inner
apartment, where her people heard her take the heavy ledger from the
cupboard, and lay it on the table, to make up her accounts, as it was
her custom to do.
They immediately began to load the heavy cart with corn, vegetables,
and poultry, for on the morrow it was market-day at Sarrebourg, and
Duchêne was to set out at daybreak.
Picture to yourself this large kitchen, and all these honest people
making haste to finish their work before going to bed; the big black
pan smoking on an immense fire made of fir cones, and glowing with
crimson heat; the dishes, pots, and porringers shining like suns upon
the dresser; the bunches of garlic and golden onions hanging in rows
from the brown rafters of the ceiling, among the hams and flitches
of bacon; Jeanne, with her bright blue head-dress and short scarlet
petticoat, stirring the contents of the pan with a great wooden spoon;
large wicker hencoops, with the clucking fowls, and the great red
cock thrusting his head between the bars, and watching the fire with
a surprised eye, and head twisted on one side; the mastiff, Michel,
with flat head and hanging jaws, prowling about in quest of some
stray morsel; Dubourg descending the creaking staircase on the left,
with bent back, a sack on his shoulder, and his other hand placed
archwise on his hip; whilst outside, in the darkness of the night, old
Duchêne, standing upright in the cart, holds up his lantern, and calls
out:--"That makes the fifteenth, Dubourg; two more."
There was also hanging against the wall an old brown hare brought by
the huntsman Heinrich to be sold in the market, and a fine grouse, his
green and red feathers glistening in the firelight, with glazed eye,
and a drop of blood at the tip of his beak.
It was about half-past seven when the sound of footsteps was heard
in the court-yard. The mastiff went growling towards the door. He
listened, sniffed the night air, and then quietly returned to his place
by the fire.
"It is some one belonging to the farm," said Annette. "Michel does not
stir."
Directly after, old Duchêne was heard outside, saying, "Good night,
Master Jean-Claude. Is it you?"
"Yes; I have just arrived from Phalsbourg, and I have come to rest for
a moment before going down to the village. Is Catherine in?"
And as he spoke, the honest man appeared in the bright firelight,
standing at the door, his broad-brimmed hat pushed back on to the nape
of his neck, and his bundle of sheepskins on his shoulder.
"Good night, my children," said he; "good night; always at work?"
"Yes, Master Hullin, as you see," replied Jeanne, with a smile. "If one
had nothing to do, life would be very tedious."
"True, my pretty girl, true; there is nothing like work to give you
those fresh cheeks and large bright eyes."
Jeanne was going to reply when the inner door opened, and Catherine
Lefévre entered, casting a searching look at Hullin as if to guess
beforehand the news he brought.
"Well, Jean-Claude, you are back again."
"Yes, Catherine. There is both good and bad news."
They went into the inner room, a high and spacious apartment,
wainscoted to the very ceiling, with its cupboards of old oak with
bright locks, its porcelain stove, its old clock marking the seconds in
its walnut case, and its large arm-chair of embossed leather, which had
been in use for ten generations. Jean-Claude never went into this room
without thinking of Catherine's grandfather, whom he seemed still to
see sitting in the shadow behind the stove.
"Well!" inquired the farm-mistress, offering a seat to the
sabot-maker, who had just placed his bundle on the table.
"Well, of Gaspard, the news is good; the lad is well. He has seen some
hardships--so much the better; that is the making of a young man; but
for the rest, Catherine, everything is very bad. War! war!"
He shook his head, and the old woman, with compressed lips, sat
opposite to him, upright in her arm-chair, her eyes fixed, and
listening eagerly.
"So everything is going wrong; we shall have wars at our very doors?"
"Yes, Catherine, from one day to the next we may expect to see the
Allies in our mountains."
"I dreaded as much. I was sure of it; but speak, Jean-Claude."
Hullin then, with his elbows on his knees, his great red ears between
his hands, and lowering his voice, began to relate all that he had
seen: the defences round the town, the formation of batteries on the
ramparts, the publication of the state of siege, the carts filled with
the wounded in front of the church, his meeting with the old sergeant
at the house of Wittman, and the renewal of the campaign. From time to
time he made a pause, and the old farm-mistress would slowly wink her
eyes, as though to fix the facts in her memory. When Jean-Claude came
to the wounded, the good woman murmured, in a low voice, "Gaspard has
escaped that."
Then at the close of this dismal story there was a long silence, and
they both looked at each other without uttering a word.
What reflections, what bitter feelings passed through their minds!
After a few moments the old woman strove to rouse herself from these
thoughts.
"You see, Jean-Claude," said she, in a calm, grave tone, "Yégof was not
wrong."
"No doubt, no doubt he was not wrong," replied Hullin; "but what does
that prove? A fool--a maniac, who goes from village to village--who
comes down from Alsace, goes back to Lorraine, wanders right and
left--it would be very surprising if he saw nothing, and if there
should not be from time to time a mixture of truth in his mad sayings.
All kinds of things get mixed up in his head, and then people think
they understand what he does not understand himself. But it is not now
a question of a fool's babblings, Catherine. The Austrians are here.
The question is, whether we shall allow them to pass, or whether we
shall have the courage to defend ourselves."
"To defend ourselves!" exclaimed the old woman, her pale cheeks
flushing with excitement; "whether we shall have the courage to defend
ourselves! You must forget, Hullin, that it is to me you are speaking.
What! are we then unworthy of our forefathers? Did they not defend
themselves, even to the death--men, women, and children?"
"Then you are for fighting, Catherine?"
"Yes, yes, as long as a morsel of flesh is left on my bones! Let them
come! The old woman is prepared!"
Her long gray hair seemed to stand erect upon her head; her pale and
withered cheeks trembled, and her eyes flashed fire.
She was really grand to look upon, as she stood, flushed and excited,
like that aged Margareth of whom Yégof had spoken. Hullin silently
held out his hand to her, and smiled approvingly.
"Right!" said he; "right! The same as ever. You are like yourself,
Catherine; your own true, brave self, as you stand there before me; but
now be a little calm, and listen to me. We are going to fight, and with
what means?"
"All and every means; all are good--hatchets, scythes, pitchforks."
"Truly, truly; but guns and bullets are best of all. We have guns:
every dweller in the mountains hangs his own over his door; unluckily
we have neither powder nor ball."
The old farm-mistress grew calm in a moment; pushing her gray locks
back under her cap, she stood absently gazing straight before her, with
a thoughtful look.
"Yes," she suddenly replied, in a sharp, short tone; "that is quite
true; we have neither powder nor ball, but we soon will have. Marc
Divès, the smuggler, has some. You shall go to him to-morrow from me.
You will tell him that Catherine Lefévre buys of him all his powder
and all his bullets, that she pays him for them, that she will sell
all her cattle, her farm, her land, all--all--to procure some. Do you
understand, Hullin?"
"I understand. This is well done of you, Catherine; it is splendid!"
"Stuff! splendid and well done!" sharply retorted the old woman; "it
is only natural that I should avenge myself! These Austrians, these
Prussians, these red men, who have already half destroyed us--well!
I would pay them back. I hate them, father to son. Now, you see! Buy
the powder; and this wandering beggar, this fool shall see if we will
rebuild his castles!"
Hullin then perceived that she was still brooding over Yégof's stories;
but seeing how exasperated she was, and that, besides, her having this
notion contributed to the defence of the country, he made no remark on
this subject, and simply said:
"Then, Catherine, it's agreed that I go to Divès to-morrow?"
"Yes: you will buy all his powder and his bullets. Some one must also
go the round of all the villages in the mountain, to warn the people of
what is going on, and arrange a signal with them for assembling in case
of attack."
"Make your mind easy," said Jean-Claude; "I will undertake that, too."
They had both risen, and were proceeding towards the door. For the last
half-hour the sounds in the kitchen had ceased: the farm people had
gone to bed. The old woman placed her lamp in a corner of the hearth,
and drew the bolts. Out of doors, it was cold and sharp, the air calm
and clear. All the tops of the surrounding trees and the dark firs of
the Jägerthal stood out against the sky in dark or luminous masses. Far
off in the distance the shrill yelp of a fox resounded in the valley of
the Blanru.
"Good night, Hullin," said Dame Lefévre.
"Good night, Catherine."
Jean-Claude rapidly descended the steep hill, and the farm-mistress,
after having looked after him for a second, went in and shut the door.
I leave you to imagine the joy of Louise, when she learnt that Gaspard
was safe and sound. The poor child, for the last two months, could
hardly be said to have lived. Hullin was very careful not to show her
the dark cloud that was slowly, but surely, moving towards them. All
the night long he could hear her prattling to herself in her little
room, talking low, as if congratulating herself upon her happiness,
murmuring the name of Gaspard, and opening her drawers, her boxes; no
doubt in search of some of her treasures to which she might whisper of
her love.
Thus the little bird, who has been drenched by the storm, while still
shivering with cold and wet, begins to sing and to hop from branch to
branch at the faint glimmer of sunshine.
[Illustration]