"Yes, for those on the other side of the Loire it is all very well; but
we others would have a long journey to take, and then the Prussians
would arrest us on the road; they guard all the paths and highways."
"Pshaw!" said he; "they think the Prussians more cunning than they
really are. I would wager that I could pass the Vosges under their
noses. Big Kern and Donadien have passed, with a good many others."
Then I knew that he wanted to go, that his mind was made up to a certain
extent, and that gave me a shock; for if he once set off, Heaven only
knew when his marriage would take place; the thought of Marie-Rose
troubled me.
"Very likely," I said; "but you must think of the old people, Jean.
What would your mother, good old Margredel, say, if you abandoned her at
such a time?"
"My mother is a good Frenchwoman," he answered. "We have talked it
over, brigadier; she consents."
My arms dropped at my sides; I did not know what to reply; and only at
the end of a minute I managed to say:
"And Marie-Rose! You do not think of Marie-Rose! Yet you are
betrothed. She is your wife in the eyes of God!"
"Marie-Rose consents also," he said. "We only want your consent now;
say yes; all will be settled. The last time I was here, while you were
down stairs smoking your pipe, I told Marie-Rose all about it. I said
to her that a forest guard without a situation, an old soldier like me,
ought to be at the front; she understood and consented."
When he told me that, George, it was too much; I cried: "I do. It is
not possible!" And, opening the window, I called out:
"Marie-Rose! Marie-Rose! Come here. Jean has arrived."
She was hanging out clothes in the shed, and leaving at once her work,
she came up stairs.
"Marie-Rose," I said, "is it true that you have consented to let Jean
Merlin go to fight the Germans at Orleans, behind Paris? Is it true?
Speak freely."
Then, pale as death, with flashing eyes, she said:
"Yes. It is his duty. He must go. We do not wish to be Prussians, and
the others ought not to fight alone to save us. He must be a man. He
must defend his country."
She said other things of the same kind that warmed my blood and made me
think:
"What a brave girl that is! No, I did not know her before. She is the
true descendant of the old Burats. How the old people wake up and speak
through the mouths of their children! They want us to defend the earth
of the old cemetery where their bones lie buried."
I rose, white as a sheet, with open arms. "Come to my arms!" I said to
them; "come to my arms! You are right. Yes, it is the duty of every
Frenchman to go and fight. Ah! if I were only ten years younger, I
would go with you, Jean; we would be two brothers in arms." And we
embraced each other all round.
*XXIV*
I wept; I was proud of having so brave and honest a daughter, whom I had
not appreciated till then; that made me lift up my head again. The
resolution of Jean and Marie-Rose appeared natural to me.
But, as we heard the grandmother groping her way from the other room, by
leaning against the wall, I made a sign to them to be silent, and, when
the poor old woman came in, I said:
"Grandmother, here is Jean, whom the chief inspector is about to send to
Nancy; he will be there for some time."
"Ah!" said she. "There is no danger?"
"No, grandmother, it is a commission for the forest registers; it has
nothing to do with the war."
"So much the better!" said she. "How many others are in danger! We
ought to be very happy to keep out of it!"
Then, sitting down, she began, as usual, to say her prayers.
What more can I tell you, George, about those things that rend my heart
when I think about them?
Jean Merlin spent the whole day with us. Marie-Rose cooked as good a
dinner as she could in our position; she put on her handsome cap and her
blue silk _fichu_, so as to be agreeable to the eyes of the man she
loved.
I seem to see her still, sitting at the table near the grandmother,
opposite her betrothed, and smiling, as if it were a holiday. I seem to
hear Jean talking about the good news from Orleans, about the happy
chances of the war, which are not always the same.
Then, after dinner, while the grandmother dozes in her arm-chair, I see
the two children sitting beside each other, near the little window,
looking at each other, holding each other's hand, and talking in a low
voice, sometimes gaily, sometimes sadly, as is the custom with lovers.
As for me, I walked up and down, smoking and thinking of the future. I
listened to the hum of talk from the tavern, and, remembering the danger
of leaving the country, the penalties established by the Germans against
those who wished to join our armies, I seemed to hear the stamping of
heavy boots and the rattle of sabres. I went down the stairs, and, half
opening the door of the smoky room, I looked in, and then I went up
stairs again, a little reassured, saying to myself that I ought not to
be afraid, that more difficult lines of the enemy had been crossed, and
that energetic men always got well through their business. So passed
all that afternoon.
Then, at supper, as the time for his departure drew near, a more
terrible sadness and strange, unknown fears seized upon me.
"Go to bed," I said to the grandmother; "the night has come."
But she did not hear me, being a little deaf, and she went on muttering
her prayers, and we looked at each other, exchanging our thoughts by
signs. At last, however, the poor old woman rose, leaning her two hands
on the arms of her chair, and murmuring:
"Good night, my children. Come, Jean, till I kiss you. Distrust the
Prussians; they are traitors! Do not run any risks; and may the Lord be
with you!"
They kissed each other; Jean seemed touched; and when the door was
closed, as the church clock was striking eight, and when the little
panes were growing dark, he said:
"Marie-Rose, the time has come. The moon is rising; it is lighting
already the path by which I must reach the Donon."
She flung herself into his arms and they held each other clasped in a
close embrace for a long time, in silence, for down stairs they were
talking and laughing still; strangers might be watching us, so we had to
be prudent.
You do not know, George, and I hope that you never will know, what a
father feels at such a moment.
At last they separated. Jean took his stick; Marie-Rose, pale, but
composed, said: "_Adieu_, Jean!" And he, without answering, hurried
out, breathing as if something was choking him.
I followed him. We descended the dark little staircase, and on the
threshold, where the moon, covered with clouds, cast a feeble ray, we
also kissed each other.
"You do not want anything?" I said, for I had put about fifty francs in
my pocket.
"No," said he, "I have all that I need."
We held each other's hands as if we could never let go, and we looked at
each other as if we could read each other's hearts.
And, as I felt my lips quiver:
"Come, father," said he, in a trembling voice, "have courage; we are
men!"
Then he strode away. I looked at him vanishing in the darkness,
blessing him in my heart. I thought I saw him turn and wave his hat at
the corner of the path, by the rock, but I am not sure.
When I went in, Marie-Rose was seated on a chair by the open window, her
head buried in her hands, weeping bitterly. The poor child had been
courageous up to the last minute, but then her heart had melted into
tears.
I said nothing to her, and, leaving the small lamp on the table, I went
into my room.
These things happened in November, 1870. But much greater sorrows were
to come.
*XXV*
After that for a few days all was quiet. We heard nothing more from
Orleans. From time to time the cannon of the city thundered, and was
answered by that of the enemy from Quatre Vents and Werhem; then all was
silent again.
The weather had turned to rain; it poured in torrents; the melting snow
floated in blocks down the course of the swollen river. People stayed
in-doors, cowering close to the fire; we thought of the absent, of the
war, of the marches and counter-marches. The _gens-d'armes_ of Bismark
Bohlen continued to make their rounds; we saw them pass, their cloaks
dripping with rain. The silence and the uncertainty overwhelmed one.
Marie-Rose came and went without saying anything; she even put on a
smiling aspect when my melancholy grew very great; but I could see from
her pallor what she was suffering.
Sometimes, too, the grandmother, when we least expected it, would begin
to talk about Jean, asking for news of him. We would answer her by some
insignificant thing, and the short ideas of old age, her weakened
memory, prevented her from asking more; she would be contented with what
we could tell her, and murmured, thoughtfully:
"Very good! very good!"
And then the cares of life, the daily labour, the care of the cattle and
of the household, helped us to keep up.
Poor Calas, having no more work to do with us, had turned smuggler
between Phalsbourg and the suburbs, risking his life every day to carry
a few pounds of tobacco or other such thing to the glacis; it was
rumoured at this time that he had been killed by a German sentinel;
Ragot had followed him; we heard nothing more of either of them. They
have doubtless been sleeping for a long time in the corner of a wood or
in some hole or other; they are very fortunate.
One morning, in the large down-stairs room, when we were alone, Father
Ykel said to me:
"Frederick, it is known that your son-in-law, Jean Merlin, has gone to
join our army. Take care, the Prussians may give you trouble!"