ONE of the pleasantest streets in Viger was that which led from the
thoroughfare of the village to the common. It was a little street with
little houses, but it looked as if only happy people lived there. The
enormous old willows which shaded it through its whole length made a
perpetual shimmer of shadow and sun, and towered so above the low
cottages that they seemed to have crept under the guardian trees to rest
and doze a while. There was something idyllic about this contented spot;
it seemed to be removed from the rest of the village, to be on the
boundaries of Arcadia, the first inlet to its pleasant, dreamy fields.
In the spring the boys made a veritable Arcadia of it, coming there in
bands, cutting the willows for whistles, and entering into a blithe
contest for supremacy in making them, accompanying their labors by a
perpetual sounding of their pleasant pipes, as if a colony of uncommon
birds had taken up their homes in the trees. Even in the winter there
was something pleasant about it; the immense boles of the willows,
presiding over the collection of houses, seemed to protect them, and the
sunshine had always a suggestion of warmth as it dwelt in the long
branches. It was on this street, just a little distance from the corner,
that Paul Arbique kept his inn, which was famous in its way. He called
it The Turenne, after the renowned commander of that name, for they had
the same birthplace, and Arbique himself had been a soldier, as his
medals would testify. The location was favorable for such a house as
Arbique was prepared to keep, and in choosing it he appealed to a
crotchet in man which makes it pleasanter for him to go around the
corner for anything he may require. A pleasant place it was,
particularly in summer. The very exterior had an air about it, the green
blinds and the green slatted door, and the shadows from the
willow-leaves playing over the legend “Fresh Buttermilk,” a sign dear to
the lover of simple pleasures.
From all the appearances one would have supposed that The Turenne was a
complete success, and every one thought Arbique was romancing when he
said he was just getting along, and that was all. But so far as he knew
he spoke the truth, for his wife managed everything, including himself.
There was only one thing she could not do; she could not make him stop
drinking brandy.
The Arbiques considered themselves very much superior to the village
people, because they had come from old France. “I am a Frenchman,” Paul
would say, when he had had too much brandy; but no one would take
offence at him, he was too good a fellow. When he had had a modicum of
his favorite liquor he talked of his birthplace, Sedan, the dearest spot
on earth to him, and his Crimean experiences; and when he had reached a
stage beyond that he talked of his wife. It was a pathetic sight to see
him at such times, as he leaned close to his auditor, and explained to
him how superior a woman Felice was, and what a cruel, inexplicable
mistake she had made in marrying him, and how all his efforts to make
her happy had failed, not through any fault of her own, but because it
was impossible that he could ever make her happy; thus taking all the
blame of their domestic infelicity upon his own shoulders, with the
simple idea that it must be his own fault when no fault of any kind
could possibly rest with Felice.
He was a tall chivalrous-looking fellow, with a military air, and
despite his fifty years and the extent of his potations there was yet a
brave flourish in his manner. He was seen at his best on Sunday, when,
clothed in a complete suit of black, with a single carnation in his
buttonhole, and with an irreproachable silk hat, he promenaded with
Madame Arbique on his arm. Madame on such occasions was as fine as her
lord, and held her silk gown far above the defilement of the street, in
order to show her embroidered petticoat and a pair of pretty feet. But
no matter how finely she was dressed she always wore an expression of
discontent. She had the instincts of a miser, but she also had enough
good sense not to let them interfere with the sources of profit, and so,
although she was as keen to save a cent as any one could have been, The
Turenne showed no sign of it. The provision for the entertainment of
guests was ample and sufficient. Felice had always had her own way, and
owing to Paul’s incapacity, which had overtaken him gradually, the
affairs of the house had been left in her hands.
They had only had one child, who had died when she was a baby, and this
want of children was a great trial to Paul. They had attempted to fill
her place by adopting a little girl, but the experiment had not been a
success, and she grew to be something between a servant and a poor
relation working for her board. This was owing to no fault of Paul’s,
who would have prevented it if he could, but his wife had taken a
dislike to the child, and she simply neglected her. Latulipe, for in the
family she was called by no other name, was a strange girl. She had been
frightened and subdued by Madame Arbique, and at times she would
scarcely speak a word, and then again she would talk boldly and
defiantly, as if she were protesting, no matter how insignificant her
remarks might be. Her personal appearance was as odd as her manner; she
had an abundance of hair, of a light, pleasant shade of red, her
complexion was a clear white, her lips were intensely crimson, her dark
eyes were small but quick, and very clear. Her manner was shy, and
rather awkward. Her one claim to distinction was that she had some
influence over Arbique, whom she could now and then prevent drinking. He
was sorry for her, and ashamed of the position she occupied in the
house, which was so different from what he had intended.
When the Franco-Prussian war broke out, and for months before, The
Turenne was the rendezvous for those of the villagers who had any desire
to discuss the situation. Arbique was the oracle of this group, and
night after night he held forth on the political situation, on the art
of war, and his personal experiences in the army. There was only one
habitué of The Turenne who was silent on these occasions, that was Hans
Blumenthal, the German watchmaker. He had had his corner in the bar-room
ever since he had come to Viger, and was one of Arbique’s best
customers. But when the war excitement broke out Arbique expected to see
no more of him; the warmth of the discussions and the violence of the
treatment his nation received nightly would have been expected to drive
him away. But instead, he returned again and again to his place at the
little table by the window, peering through his glasses with his
imperturbable, self-absorbed expression, not seeming to heed the wordy
storms that beset his ears.
Arbique, when hostilities had actually broken out, pasted a map of the
seat of war upon the wall; above this he placed a colored picture of a
French chasseur, and scrawled below it the words “_A Berlin!_” Even this
did not disturb the German. He took advantage of the map, and as Arbique
had set pins, to which were attached red and blue pieces of wool, to
show the positions of the armies, he even studied the locations and
movements with interest. He read his paper, gave his orders, paid his
score, came and went as he had always done. This made Paul very angry,
and he would have turned him out of the house if he had not remembered
that he was his guest, and his sense of honor would not permit it. He
was drinking very heavily and wanted to fight some one, but every one
agreed with him except the German, and he kept silence. He had serious
thoughts of challenging him to a duel, if the opportunity offered.
Latulipe was the only one who stood up for Hans. She had been accustomed
to wait on the guests sometimes, when Arbique was incapacitated, and his
gentle manner had won her regard. One day she turned on Paul, who was
abusing Hans behind his back, and gave him a piece of her mind. She was
so sudden and sharp with it that she sobered him a little, and in
thinking it over he came to the conclusion that if he could help it she
would see the German no more. Hans noticed her absence, and said to Paul
one night when he was ordering his beer: “Where is Mademoiselle
Latulipe?” By the way he said it, in his odd French, any one could have
told what he thought of Latulipe. “Mademoiselle Latulipe,” said Arbique,
with a dramatic flourish, “is my daughter.” So Hans saw her no more in
the evening.
He had other trials besides this. Once in a while the lads in the street
hooted after him, and this sort of attention became more frequent. One
evening, after the news of Woerth had been received, some one threw a
stone through the window of his shop. That very night he stood before
the map with his hands behind him, peering into it; as he altered the
pins, which Arbique had now lost all interest in, he heard some one
mutter “_Scélérat!_” He thought it must be intended for him, but he
drank his beer quietly and went home rather early. After he had gone
some of his enemies, becoming valiant with liquor, made a compact to go
out when it was late enough, break into his house, and give him a sound
beating. But Latulipe overheard their plan from the stairway, and as
soon as she could get away without being noticed, she ran over to the
watchmaker’s shop. It was quite late and there was not a soul on the
street. She was wondering how she could warn him, but when she reached
the door she noticed a ladder which led to a scaffold running along
below the windows of the second story, where some workmen had been
making repairs. There was a light burning in one of the second story
windows, and without waiting to reflect Latulipe ran up the ladder and
tapped at the window. Hans opened it, and said something in German when
he saw who it was. Latulipe did not wait for salutations, but told him
exactly what he might expect. When that was over she tried to escape as
she had come, but the darkness below frightened her, and she could not
go down the ladder. Hans tried to coax her to come in at the window and
go out by the street door, but she would not hear to that; she leaned
against the house, shrinking away from the edge. So Hans got out upon
the scaffolding. “Mademoiselle Latulipe,” he said, in his rough French,
“you need not be alarmed at me; I have only a good heart toward you.” He
held out his hand, but Latulipe knew by the sound of his voice that he
was going to make love to her, and before he could say another word she
was at the bottom of the ladder. When the bravos came to give Hans his
beating he confronted them with a lamp in one hand and a pistol in the
other, and they fell over one another in their haste to retreat.
During the whole of the month of August Arbique had been wild with
excitement; he could think of nothing but the war, and would talk of
nothing else. At first he would not believe in any reverse to the French
arms; it was impossible—lies, lies, everything was lies. His cry was
“_A Berlin!_” But although he could manage to deceive himself by this
false enthusiasm, sometimes the truth would stab straight to his heart
like a knife, and he would tremble as if he had the ague, for the honor
of his country was the thing dearest to him in all the world. If he
could only have died for her! But there, day after day, he saw the pins
on the map, moved by that cold German, close around Metz. He could no
longer cry “_A Berlin_;” the French army was facing Paris, with Berlin
at its back. He drank fiercely now, and even Latulipe could do nothing
with him. Madame Arbique knew that he would drink himself to death, as
his father had done. He would sit and mutter by the hour, thinking all
the time of what revenge he could have on Blumenthal, who had become to
his eyes the incarnation of hated Prussia. But so long as Hans came to
the house quietly to sit at his table and drink his beer Arbique would
not say an uncivil word to him.
On the evening of the 28th of August there was an unusual crowd at The
Turenne, and a group had surrounded the map gesticulating and
discussing. Hans had finished reading his paper, and went toward them.
They parted when they saw him coming, and he stood peering down at the
map through his glasses. Arbique had not been seen all evening, but he
appeared suddenly, looking haggard and shattered, and caught sight of
his friends grouped round the German. He went slowly toward them, and as
he approached he heard Hans say: “There, there they must fight,” and saw
him put his finger on the map between Mézières and Carignan, almost over
Sedan.
Paul had been in bed all day, and had not had anything to drink, and
when he saw the German with his finger on Sedan he could not stand it
any longer. He broke out: “No, not there—here,” his voice trembling
with rage. “Here they will fight—you for your abominable Prussia, I for
my beautiful France.” He fell into a dramatic attitude. Drawing two
pistols from his pocket, he presented one to his nearest friend to hand
to Blumenthal. The man held the pistol for a moment, but Hans never
moved. Madame Arbique, seeing the commotion, and catching sight of the
weapons, screamed as loud as she could, and Latulipe, running in, threw
herself upon Arbique. He turned deadly pale and had to use the girl’s
strength to keep from falling. Hans went away quietly, and sat down near
the window. Arbique was fluttering like a leaf in the wind, and Latulipe
and Felice half carried him upstairs. The men left in the room shook
their heads.
The next evening Hans was walking in the starlight, under the willows.
With his dim vision he saw some one leaning against one of the trees,
but when he passed again he knew it was Latulipe. He stopped and spoke
to her. When she spoke she did not answer his question. “Oh,” she said,
“he will never get better, never.” “Yes,” said Hans, “he will be
better.” “No,” said Latulipe, “I know by the way he looks, and he says
now that France is beaten and crushed he does not want to live.” “Brave
soul!” said Hans. “And when he goes,” said Latulipe, “what is to become
of me?” He laid his hand upon her arm, and when she did not resist, he
took her hand in both his own. She was giving herself to the enemy. A
cloud above had taken the starlight, and in the willows a little rain
fell with a timorous sound. Latulipe was crying softly on Hans’s
shoulder.
It was September, and around Viger the harvest was nearly finished. The
days were clear as glass; already the maples were stroked with fire,
with the lustre of wine and gold; early risers felt the keener air; the
sunsets reddened the mists which lay light as lawn on the low fields.
But Paul Arbique thought and spoke of Sedan alone, the place where he
was born, of the Meuse, the bridges, of his father’s farm, just without
the walls of the city, and of his boyhood, and the friends of his youth.
His thoughts were hardly of the war, or of the terror of the downfall
which had a little while before so haunted him.
It was the evening of the day upon which the news of the battle had
come. They had resolved not to tell him, but there was something in
Latulipe’s manner which disturbed him. Waking from a light doze, he
said: “That Prussian spy, what did he say?—they must fight
there—between Mézières and Carignan? I have been at Carignan—and he
had his hound’s paw on Sedan.” He was quiet for a while; then he said,
dreamily: “They—have—fought.” Latulipe, who was watching with him,
wept. In the night his lips moved again. “France,” he murmured, “France
will rise—again.” It was toward the morning of the next day when his
true heart failed. Latulipe had just opened the blinds. A pale light
came through the willows. When she bent over him she caught his last
word. “Sedan.” He sighed. “Sedan.”