It is the eve of Christmas in a large village of Bavaria. Along the
snow-whitened streets, amid the confusion of the fog and noise of
carriages and bells, the crowd presses joyously about cook-shops,
wine-booths, and busy stores. Rustling with a light sweep of sound
against the flower-twined and be-ribboned stalls, branches of green
holly, or whole saplings, graced with pendants and shading the heads
below like boughs of the Thuringian forest, go by in happy arms: a
remembrance of nature in the torpid life of winter.
Day dies out. Far away, behind the gardens of the Résidence, lingers a
glimmer of the departing sun, red in the fog; and in the town is such
gaiety, such hurry of preparation for the holiday, that each jet of
light which springs up in the many windows seems to hang from some vast
Christmas-tree.
This is, in truth, no ordinary Christmas. It is the year of grace
eighteen hundred and seventy, and the holy day is only a pretext the
more to drink to the illustrious Von der Than and celebrate the triumph
of the Bavarian troops.
"Noël, Noël!" The very Jews of the old town join in the mirth. Behold
the aged Augustus Cahn who turns the corner by the "Blue Grapes!" Truly,
his eyes have never shined before as they do to-night; nor has his
little wicker satchel ever jingled so lightly. Across his sleeve, worn
by the cords of sacks, is passed an honest little hamper, full to the
top and covered with a cold napkin, from under which stick out the neck
of a bottle and a twig of holly.
What on earth can the old miser want with all this? Can it be possible
that he means to celebrate Christmas himself? Does he mean to have a
family reunion and drink to the German fatherland? Impossible! Everybody
knows old Cahn has no country. His fatherland is his strong box. And,
moreover, he has neither family nor friends,--nothing but debtors. His
sons and his associates are gone away long ago with the army. They
traffic in the rear among the wagons, vending the water of life, buying
watches, and, on nights of battle, emptying the pockets of the dead, or
rifling the baggage tumbled in the ditches of the route.
Too old to follow his children, Father Cahn has remained in Bavaria,
where he has made magnificent profits from the French prisoners of war.
He is always prowling about the barracks to buy watches, shoulder-knots,
medals, post-orders. You may see him glide through the hospitals, beside
the ambulances. He approaches the beds of the wounded and demands, in a
low, hideous growl,--
"Haf you anyting to sell?"
And, hold! At this same moment, the reason he trots so gayly with his
basket under his arm, is solely that the military hospital closes at
five o'clock, and that there are two Frenchmen who await him high up in
that tall black building with straight, iron-barred windows, where
Christmas finds nothing to welcome her approach save the pale lights
which guard the pillows of the dying.