“THERE IS NIGHT IN THE HILLS”
It seemed that Strasburg could suffer no more; and yet she continued
unyieldingly to suffer. Hours became days, and days weeks, and still no
white flag floated over her citadel; nor were the voices of her brave
men silent. Down below in the cellars the timid wailed and cried for
light and bread. Mighty lanterns, the shells of her great buildings,
gave to the night the crimson beacons which seemed dyed with the very
blood of the dead. Faint hearts told each other that the Hotel de
Ville, the theatre, the New Church, the Governor’s house, the Library,
were but ashes upon barren wastes. Two thousand dead the city mourned;
and yet, mourning them, prepared to die. The ultimate woe of despair
was upon a helpless people. Their homes crumbled to the very dust. The
open grave became their offering to France and the children of France.
It had been upon the nineteenth day of September that Edmond Lefort
fell wounded by the fragment of a shell at the very door of the surgeon
Laroche’s house in the Broglie. He lay in the same house upon the
morning of the twenty-seventh; and those about him knew that he was
dying. Since the grey light of dawn winged into that room of death and
shone upon the haggard face, swathed still in its bloody bandages, his
little wife had not moved from his bedside nor released his hot fingers
from her own. She sat there as some angel of sleep comforting him. The
tragedy of the weeks bygone, the hope, the fear of them had vanished as
the mists of an autumn night. No other name, no other voice, no other
scene stood between her and her lover now. Clinging as to some supreme
faith in the God who had given her love, she could not believe that the
supreme calamity was at hand. Edmond was dying, they said. She would
not hear them.
He lay upon a soldier’s bed, a curtain shielding his eyes, one white
hand clasping the hot fingers which had never left his own; the other
stroking the coverlet as men, sick unto death, will in the last hours
that life may give them. Once only since fate struck him down had he
opened his eyes to the sunlight, or recognised who it was that stood
with him at the end; but that instant of recognition was never to
be forgotten. Beatrix remembered, through the years, the voice that
uttered her name then in a transport of pity and love. What a light of
joy was on his face! Again and again he whispered the beloved name as
she covered his hands and face with kisses which were the gift of her
very heart. No other came between them then. The angel of death had
linked their souls, to be forever thus through the infinite ages of
their being.
She knew that he was dying, though she sought to hide the truth from
herself. The stertorous breathing, the pallor of the face, the burning
hands, the cold sweat of night upon his forehead, the agony even of the
conscious moments, were there perpetually to warn her of that instant
when the heart would beat no more, and the day of suffering draw to
its end. But the flame of her hope was not to be quenched. She reeled
before the power of death, and yet would not admit that power. The God
who had sent her to Wörth to know the whole blessedness and sweetness
of a young girl’s love would not, could not take this love from her.
She clung to her husband with an intensity born of frenzy and despair.
She longed to lift him from the bed, and to say, “Arise and live.” She
prayed, as she had never prayed before, that he might be given back to
her. Through that long September day, that day when Strasburg at last
was to cry for the mercy it had not wished, she never stirred from his
bed, nor ceased to listen for the words that should be to her precious
beyond all the words their love had spoken.
There had been a cessation of the cannon early in the afternoon, but
she knew nothing of the reasons which brought the unaccustomed silence
and filled the streets again with those who had almost forgotten the
sun and the life of day. In the darkened room she heard her lover
talking, now of Wörth, now of their happy days in the Niederwald; again
of the battle and of the death ride there. Once, indeed, he raised
himself upon his elbow and seemed to call for his comrades; but the
next moment he had fallen back with a froth of blood upon his lips. An
anger against the destiny which thus could make him suffer closed her
lips and dried her eyes. She would save him--she would close the open
grave; they should not take him from her. In her distress she even
withdrew her hand from his, and he opened his eyes once more and began
to speak to her.
“Beatrix--it is you, little Beatrix.”
“It is I, dearest husband.”
“You have forgiven me, my wife--ah, God, how precious!-you have
forgiven me that I made you suffer?”
She knelt at his bedside, and burying her face upon the outstretched
arm she made anew the child-wife’s vow that he had heard in the golden
days of old time.
“I love you--Edmond--I love you--I love you.”
The white hand rested upon her hair; the eyes of the man were looking
over the city he had loved.
“There is nothing in the world but love, Beatrix,” he said, speaking in
a voice so low that her ears must almost touch his lips; “all else that
we live for, fame, glory, ourselves, money--they are nothing. If I had
remembered my love for you, little wife--if I had remembered--”
He began to breathe with dreadful rapidity. She could feel his heart
throbbing beneath her cheeks.
“Dearest,” she said, “let us remember nothing but the days to come. Oh,
I will love you always, always--I have none but you, Edmond.”
He sought to kiss her lips, but could not raise his head from the
pillow.
“I do not fear death,” he said very slowly, “if one might sleep upon
the field with a cloak about the face and a sword in the hand. The
grave is all dark. You will not let them lay me in the grave, Beatrix.”
“Oh, Edmond--oh, for God’s sake--how can I bear it?”
“You will come to me, little wife. I shall hear your voice in the
loneliness of death. For that we love and are loved. Not to be alone
through the eternal night! Ah, if you will remember then, beloved, when
there is none to hear and my eyes are blinded! Ah, if you will come to
me in that sleep! I have no right to ask. All that I would live for
is here in my arms. They shall not take you from me, Beatrix--if you
forgive!”
A great silence, broken only by the voice of tears, reigned in that
abode of death. Without, in the awakened streets, great throngs flocked
to the cathedral and the citadel. The white flag floated above the
city. The agony of Strasburg was no more. To the dying man, the silent
cannon sent the last message of life.
“Beatrix,” he said, “you will go to England with Richard Watts. I
wish it. Remember that I have loved you, little one. Think well of my
country. Think well of France. If our child should live, tell him of
Wörth. If my son--ah, God! why do I speak of him?”
He fell back exhausted and closed his eyes. For many minutes no word
was spoken. When he uttered her name again, she knew that it was for
the last time.
“There is night in the hills,” he said; “give me light, oh God, that I
may see her face again.”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and
inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, and hyphenation except
as noted below.
Obvious printer’s errors have been silently corrected.
Page 160. Text is within the curly brackets. {“_Và la_--we shall
breakfast} changed to {“_Va là_--we shall breakfast}
Illustration notation has been moved to below any enclosing paragraph.
Text in italics in the original work is represented herein as _text_.
Small capitals in the original work are represented herein as all
capitals.