"Do as you think best, my daughter. I have no sense left to think of
anything with. Only put my uniform in the bundle--that is the principal
thing."
Ykel, knowing that we were pressed for time, told us not to worry about
the supper, that we should sup with them. We accepted.
That evening, George, we spoke little at table. Katel was up stairs with
the grandmother. And when night came, as my bundle was packed, we went
to bed early.
You may readily believe that I slept but little. The moans of the
grandmother, and then my reflections, the uncertainty as to my
destination, the small amount of money that I could take with me, for I
had to leave enough to live on at home--all these things kept me awake
in spite of my fatigue and the grief that was weighing me down. And all
through that long night I asked myself where I should go, what I should
do, what road I should take, to whom I should address myself in order to
make my living? Turning these ideas over a hundred times in my head, I
at last remembered my former chief of the guards, M. d'Arence, one of
the best men I had ever known, who had always liked me, and even
protected me during the time that I was under his orders as a simple
guard many years before; I remembered that people said that he had
retired to Saint Die, and I hoped, if I had the good luck to find him
yet alive, that he would receive me well and would help me a little in
my misfortune. This idea occurred to me towards morning; I thought it a
good one, and I fell asleep for an hour or two. But at daybreak I was
up. The terrible moment was approaching; I was scarcely out of bed, the
grandmother heard me and called to me. Marie-Rose was also up; she had
prepared our farewell breakfast; Ykel had sent up a bottle of wine.
Having dressed myself, I went into the grandmother's room, trying to
keep up my spirits, but knowing that I would never see her again.
She seemed calmer, and, calling me to her, she threw her arms round my
neck, saying:
"My son, for you have been my son--a good son to me--my son Frederick, I
bless you! I wish you all the happiness that you deserve. Ah! wishes
are not worth much, nor the blessings of poor people either. Without
that, dear Frederick, you would not have been so unhappy."
She wept, and I could not restrain my tears. Marie-Rose, standing at the
foot of the bed, sobbed silently.
And as the grandmother still held me, I said:
"See here, grandmother, your benediction and your kind words do me as
much good as if you could give me all the riches of the world; it is my
consolation to think that I will see you soon again."
"Perhaps we will meet again in heaven," said she; "but here on this
earth I must say farewell. Farewell, Frederick, farewell."
She held me tightly embraced, kissing me with her trembling lips; and
then, having released me and turned away her head, she held my hand for
a minute, and, beginning to sob again, she repeated, in a low voice:
"Farewell!"
I left the room; my strength failed me. In the side room I took a glass
of wine and I put a piece of bread in my pocket; Marie-Rose was with me;
I beckoned her to come down stairs softly, so that the grandmother
should not hear our sobs at the moment of parting.
We went silently down stairs into the large lower room, where Father
Ykel awaited us with some other friends; Starck, who had helped us to
move from the forest house, Hulot, and some other good people.
We bade each other farewell; then in the entry I kissed Marie-Rose, as
an unhappy father kisses his child, and in that kiss I wished her
everything that a man can wish to the being whom he loves better than
his life, and whom he esteems as one esteems virtue, courage, and
goodness. And then, with my bundle slung on the end of a stick, I went
away without turning my head.
*XXXIII*
The path of exile is long, George, and the first steps that one takes
are painful. He who said that we do not drag with us our country
fastened to the soles of our shoes, was learned in human suffering.
And when you leave behind you your child; when you seem to hear as you
walk along the grandmother's voice saying farewell; when from the top of
the mountain that sheltered you from the wind and covered you with its
shadow, at the last turn of the path, before the descent, you turn and
look at your valley, your cottage, your orchard, thinking, "You will
never see them more!" then, George, it seems as if the earth holds you
back, as if the trees were extending their arms towards you, as if the
child was weeping in the distance, as if the grandmother was calling you
back in the name of God!
Yes, I felt all that on the hill of Berlingen, and I shudder yet when I
think of it. And to think that worms like us dare to inflict such
sufferings on their fellow-creatures! May the Almighty have mercy upon
them, for the hour of justice will surely come.
I tore myself away and continued my journey. I went away; I descended
the hill with bent back, and the dear country gradually vanished into
the distance. Oh! how I suffered, and how many distant thoughts came
back to me! The forests, the firs, the old saw-mills passed away.
I was approaching Schoenbourg, and I began to descend the second hill,
lost in my reveries and my despair, when all at once a man with his gun
slung over his shoulder emerged from the forest about a hundred yards in
front of me, looking towards me. This sight awoke me from my sad
thoughts; I raised my eyes. It was Hepp, the old brigadier, whom the
Prussians had won over, and who was the only man among us that had
entered their service.
"Hillo!" said he, in amazement, "it is you, Father Frederick!"
"Yes," I answered, "it is I."
"But where are you going so early in the morning with your bundle on
your shoulder?"
"I am going where God wills. The Germans have turned me out. I am
going to earn my living elsewhere."
He turned very pale. I had stopped for a minute to breathe.
"How!" said he, "they are turning you out of doors at your age--you, an
old forester, an honest man, who never did harm to any one?"
"Yes; they do not want me in this country any longer. They have given
me twenty-four hours in which to quit old Alsace, and I am on my way."
"And Marie-Rose and the grandmother?"
"They are at Graufthal, at Ykel's. The grandmother is dying. The
others will bury her."
Hepp, with drooping head and eyes cast down, lifted up his hands,
saying: "What a pity! what a pity!"
I made no reply, and wiped my face, which was covered with perspiration.
After a moment's pause, without looking at me, he said:
"Ah! if I had been alone with my wife! But I have six children. I am
their father. I could not let them die of hunger. You had a little
money laid aside. I had not a _sou_."
Then, seeing this man with a good situation--for he was a German
brigadier forester--seeing this man making excuses to a poor, wretched
exile like me, I did not know any more than he did what to answer, and I
said:
"That is the way of the world. Every one has his burden to bear. Well!
well! good-bye till I see you again."
He wanted to shake hands with me, but I looked another way, and
continued my journey, thinking:
"That man, Frederick, is even more unhappy than you; his grief is
terrible; he has sold his conscience to the Prussians for a piece of
black bread; at least you can look every one in the face; you can say,
in spite of your misery, 'I am an honest man,' and he does not dare to
look at an old comrade; he blushes, he hangs his head. The others have
profited by the fact of his having six children to buy him."
And, thinking of that, I grew a little more courageous, knowing that I
had done well, in spite of everything, and that in Hepp's place I would
have hanged myself long ago in some corner of the wood. That comforted
me a little. What would you have? One is always glad to have done the
best thing, even when one had nothing to choose between but the greatest
of misfortunes.
Then those thoughts vanished, too; others took their place. I must tell
you that in all the villages, and even in the smallest hamlets I passed
through, the poor people, seeing me travelling at my age, with my bundle
slung over my shoulder, received me kindly; they knew that I was one of
those who were being sent away from the country because they loved
France; the women standing before their doors with their children in
their arms said to me, with emotion, "God guide you!"
In the little taverns, where I halted from time to time to recruit my
strength, at Lutzelbourg, at Dabo, at Viche, they would not receive any
money from me. As soon as I had said, "I am an old brigadier forester;
the Germans have exiled me because I would not enter their service," I
had the respect of everybody.
Naturally, also, I did not accept the kind offers they made me; I paid
my way, for at this time of forced requisitions no one had anything too
much.
The whole country sympathized with the republic, and the nearer I got
towards the Vosges the more they spoke of Garibaldi, of Gambetta, of
Chanzy, of Faidherbe; but also the requisitions were larger and the
villages overrun with _landwehr_.
At Schirmeck, where I arrived the same day, about eight o'clock in the
evening, I saw, on entering the inn, a _Feldwebel_, a schoolmaster, and
a commissioner, who were drinking and smoking among a quantity of their
people, who were seated at tables like themselves.
They all turned round and stared at me, while I asked a lodging for the
night.
The commissioner ordered me to show him my papers; he examined them
minutely, the signatures and the stamps; then he said to me:
"You are all right at present, but by daybreak to-morrow you must be on
your way."
After that the innkeeper ventured to serve me with food and drink; and,
as the inn was filled with the German officials, they took me to the
barn, where I fell asleep on a heap of straw. It was freezing outside,
but the barn was near the stable; it was warm there; I slept well
because of my fatigue. Slumber, George, is the consolation of the
wretched; if I had to speak of the goodness of God, I would say that
every day He calls us to Him for a few hours to make us forget our
misfortunes.
*XXXIV*
The next day a sort of calm had replaced my dejection; I went away more
resolute, hastening across the plain to reach Rothau. I began to think
of Jean Merlin. Perhaps he had followed the same route as I, for it was
the shortest. How glad I would be if I could hear some news of him on
my way, to send to Marie-Rose and the grandmother; what a consolation it
would be in our misfortune! But I must not hope for it, so many others
during the last three months had climbed from Rothau to Provencheres,
French and Germans, strangers whom no one could have remembered.
Nevertheless, I thought of it. And as I walked swiftly along I admired
the beautiful forests of this mountainous country, the immense fir trees
that bordered the road and recalled to me those of Falberg, near
Saverne. The sight of them touched me; it was like old comrades who
escort you for several hours on your journey before saying a last
farewell.
At last the rapid motion, the fresh, bracing air of the mountains, the
kind welcome from the good people, the hope of finding M. d'Arence, my
old chief of the guard, and, above all, the wish not to let myself be
discouraged, when my poor daughter and the grandmother still had need of
me, all that revived me, and I said to myself at each step I took:
"Courage, Frederick! The French are not yet all dead; perhaps after a
while the happy days will return. Those who despair are lost; the poor
little birds that the winter drives away from their nests and who are
obliged to go far away to seek the seeds and the insects upon which they
live suffer also; but the spring brings them back again. That ought to
be an example to you. Another effort, and you will reach the top; from
Provencheres you will only have to go down hill."
Thus encouraging myself climbing on and persevering, as weary as I was,
I reached Provencheres about the middle of the day, and made a short
halt. I drank a glass of good wine at the inn of the Two Keys, and
there I learned that M. d'Arence was still at St. Die, the inspector of
the woods and waters, and that he had even commanded the national guard
during the late events. This news gave me great pleasure; I left there
full of hope; and that evening having reached St. Marguerite, at the
bottom of the valley, I had only to follow the highway till I reached
the city, where I arrived so fatigued that I could scarcely stand.
I halted at the first little tavern in the Rue du Faubourg St. Martin,
and I was fortunate enough to get a bed there, in which I slept still
better than in my barn at Schirmeck. The Prussian trumpet awoke me
early in the morning; one of their regiments was occupying the city; the
colonel was quartered in the episcopal palace, the other officers and
the soldiers were lodged with the inhabitants; and the requisitions of
hay, straw, meat, flour, brandy, tobacco, etc., were going on as briskly
as at other places. I took a clean shirt out of my bundle, and put on
my uniform, remembering that M. d'Arence had always paid great attention
to the appearance of his men. Character does not change: one is at
fifty years of age exactly as one was at twenty. Then I went down into
the inn parlour, and inquired for the house of the inspector of the
forest. A good old woman, Mother Ory, who kept the inn, told me that he
lived at the corner of the large bridge, to the left, as you went
towards the railway station. I went there at once.
It was a clear cold day; the principal street, which runs from the
railway station to the cathedral, was white with snow, and the mountains
round the valley also. Some German soldiers, in their earth-coloured
overcoats and flat caps, were taking away at a distance, before the
mayor's office, a cartload of provisions; two or three servant maids
were filling their buckets at the pretty fountain of La Muerthe. There
was nothing else to see, for all the people kept in doors.
Having reached the house of the inspector, and after having paused for a
moment to reflect, I was going in, when a tall, handsome man in hussar
pantaloons, a tight-fitting braided overcoat, a green cap with silver
lace, set a little on one side, began to descend the stair-case. It was
M. d'Arence, as erect as ever, with his beard as brown and his colour as
fresh as it was at thirty years of age. I recognised him at once.
Except for his gray head, he was not changed at all; but he did not
recognise me at first; and it was only when I reminded him of this old
guard, Frederick, that he cried:
"What, is it you, my poor Frederick? Decidedly we are no longer young."
No, I was no longer young, and these last few months had aged me still
more, I know. However, he was very glad to see me all the same.
"Let us go up stairs," he said; "we can talk more at our ease."
So we went up stairs. He took me into a large dark office, the blinds
of which were closed, then into his private room, where a good fire was
sparkling in a large porcelain stove; and, having told me to take a
chair, we talked for a long time about our country. I told him of all
our wretchedness since the arrival of the Germans; he listened to me
with compressed lips, his elbow on the edge of the desk, and he finally
said:
"Yes, it is terrible! So many honest people sacrificed to the
selfishness of a few wretches! We are expiating our faults terribly; but
the Germans' turn will come. In the meantime, that is not the question;
you must be in straitened circumstances; you are doubtless at the end of
your funds?"
Of course I told him the truth; I said that I had to leave enough to
live on at home, and that I was trying to get work.
Then he quietly opened a drawer, saying that I, like the other
brigadiers of Alsace, had a right to my quarter's pay, that he would
advance it to me, and that I could repay him later.
I need not tell you my satisfaction at receiving this money at a time
when I needed it so much; it touched me so that my eyes filled with
tears and I did not know how to thank him.
He saw by my face what I thought, and, as I tried to utter a few words
of thanks, he said:
"All right, all right, Frederick. Don't let us speak of that. You are
an honest man, a servant of the state. I am glad to be able to help
you."
But what pleased me most of all was that, when I was about to go, he
asked me if several of our guards had not joined the army of the Vosges.
Then I instantly thought of Jean; I thought that perhaps he had news of
him. In spite of that, I first cited big Kern and Donadieu, and then
only Jean Merlin, who had left last, and who had doubtless followed the
same road as I had done, by Schirmeck and Rothau.
"A big, solid fellow," said he, "with brown mustaches; formerly in the
cavalry, was he not?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, in great excitement; "that is my son-in-law."
"Well," said he, "that honest fellow passed this way; I gave him the
means and the necessary indications to reach Tours. If you are uneasy
about him, you may be comforted; he is all right; he is at his post."
We had then reached the foot of the stairs; at the door M. d'Arence
shook hands with me; then he went away, crossing the bridge, and I went
towards the railway station, feeling happier than I can tell you.
*XXXV*
I anticipated Marie-Rose's joy, and I seemed to hear the poor
grandmother thank God when she heard the good news; it seemed to me that
our greatest misfortune had passed away, that the sun was beginning to
shine through the clouds for us. I walked along with my head full of
happy thoughts; and when I entered the parlour of the Golden Lion,
Mother Ory looked at me, saying:
"Ah! my good man, you have had some good luck befall you."
"Yes," I answered, laughing, "I am not the same man I was this morning
and yesterday. Great misfortunes don't always stick to one person all
the time!"
And I told her what had occurred. She looked at me good-humouredly; but
when I asked her to give me some paper, so that I could write all the
good news to Graufthal, she said, clasping her hands:
"What are you thinking about? To write that your son-in-law is with the
army, that he received aid from M. d'Arence to speed him on his way!
Why, M. d'Arence would be arrested tomorrow, and you, too, and your
daughter! Don't you know that the Germans open all the letters; that it
is their best means of spying, and that they seek every opportunity to
levy new taxes on the city? For such a letter they would require still
more requisitions. Beware of such fearful imprudence."
Then, seeing the justice of her remarks, I suddenly lost all my gaiety;
I had scarcely spirit enough left to write to Marie-Rose that I had
arrived safe and well and that I had received some help from my former
chief. I thought at every word that I had said too much; I was afraid
that a dot, a comma, would serve as a pretext to the scoundrels to
intercept my letter and to drive me farther away.
Ah! how sad it was not to be able to send even a word of hope to those
one loves--above all, at such a cruel moment! And how barbarous they
must have been to charge against the father as a crime the consoling
words that he sent to his child, the good news that a son sends to his
dying mother! But that is what we have seen.
Only the letters announcing the death of one's relatives, or some new
disaster to our country, arrived; or else lies--news of victories
invented by the enemy, and that was followed the next day by the
announcement of a defeat.
From that day, not daring to write what I knew, and receiving no news
from home, I lived a melancholy life.
Imagine, George, a man of my age, alone among strangers, in a little
room at an inn, looking for hours together at the snow whirling against
the window-panes, listening to the noises outside, a passing cart, a
company of Prussians who were going their rounds, the barking of a dog,
people quarrelling; without any amusement but his meditations and his
recollections.
"What are they about yonder? Does the grandmother still live? And,
Marie-Rose--what has become of her? And Jean, and all the others?"
Always this weight on my heart!
"No letters have come; so much the better. If anything had happened,
Marie-Rose would have written. She does not write; so much the worse.
Perhaps she, too, is ill!"
And so it went on from morning till night. Sometimes, when I heard the
hum of voices down stairs in the parlour, I would go down, to hear the
news of the war. Hope, that great lie which lasts all one's life, is so
rooted in our souls that we cling to it till the end.
So I went down stairs, and there, around the tables, by the stove, were
all kinds of people--merchants, peasants, wagoners--talking of fights in
the north, the east; of pillages, of military executions, of fires, of
forced contributions, of hostages, and I know not what all!
Paris was still defending herself; but near the Loire our young troops
had been forced to fall back; the Germans were too many for them! They
were arriving by all the railroads; and then our arms and ammunition
were giving out. This young army, assembled in haste, without a head,
without discipline, without arms, without provisions, was forced to keep
up against this terrible war, and the fearful weight of numbers could
not fail to crush it after a while.
That is what the Swiss and Belgian newspapers said, that the travellers
sometimes left behind them.
The bombardment of Belfort continued. The weather was fearful; snow and
hard frosts followed each other in quick succession. One could almost
say that the Almighty was against us.
For my part, George, I must confess that, after so many misfortunes, I
was discouraged; the least rumour made me uneasy; I was always afraid of
hearing of fresh disasters; and sometimes, too, my indignation made me
wish to go, in spite of my old legs, and get myself killed, no matter
where, so as to be done with it.
_Ennui_ and discouragement had got the upper hand of me, when I received
a letter from my daughter.
The grandmother was dead! Marie-Rose was coming to join me at St. Die.
She told me to hire a small apartment, as she was going to bring a
little furniture, some linen, and some bedding, and that she was going
to sell the rest at Graufthal before her departure.
She said also that Starck had offered to bring her on his cart, through
Sarrebourg, Lorquin, Raon l'Etape; that the journey would probably last
fully three days, but that we would meet again at the end of the week.
So the poor grandmother had ceased to suffer; she lay beside her
daughter, Catherine, and Father Burat, whom I had loved so much! I said
to myself that they were all luckier than I; that they slept among their
ancestors, in the shadow of our mountains.
The thought of seeing my daughter once more did me good. I said to
myself that we would be no longer alone; that we could live without much
expense till the end of the invasion; and then, when Jean returned, when
he had found a situation, we would build up our nest again in some
forest; that I would have my pension, and that, in spite of all our
misfortunes, I would end my days in peace and quietness, among my
grandchildren.
That appeared very natural to me. I repeated to myself that God is
good, and that all would soon be in order again.
Marie-Rose arrived on the fifth of January, 1871.
*XXXVI*
I had rented, for twelve francs a month, two small rooms and a kitchen
on the second floor of the house next door to the Golden Lion; it
belonged to M. Michel, a gardener, a very good man, who afterward
rendered us great services.
It was very cold that day. Marie-Rose had written that she was coming,
but without saying whether in the morning or the evening; so I was
obliged to wait.
About noon Starck's cart appeared at the end of the street, covered with
furniture and bedding.
Marie-Rose was on the vehicle, wrapped in a large cape of her mother's;
the tall coalman was walking in front, holding his horses by the bridle.
I went down stairs and ran to meet them. I embraced Starck, who had
stopped, then my daughter, saying to her, in a whisper:
"I have heard news of Jean. He passed through St. Die. M. d'Arence
gave him the means to cross the Prussian lines and join the Army of the
Loire."
She did not answer, but as I spoke, I felt her bosom heave and her arms
tighten round me with extraordinary strength.
They went on again; a hundred yards farther we were before our lodgings.
Starck took his horses to the stable of the Golden Lion. Marie-Rose
went into the large parlour of the inn, and good Mother Ory made her
take at once a cup of broth, to warm her, for she was very cold.
That same day Starck and I took up the furniture. At four o'clock all
was ready. We made a fire in the stove. Marie-Rose was so worn out
that we had almost to carry her up stairs.
I had noticed when I first saw her her extreme pallor and sparkling
eyes; it astonished me; but I attributed the change to the long watches,
the grief, the anxiety, and, above all, to the fatigue of a three days'
journey in an open wagon, and in such terribly cold weather. Was it not
natural after such suffering? I knew her to be strong; since her
childhood she had never been ill; I said to myself that she would get
over that in time, and that with a little care and perfect rest she
would soon regain her rosy cheeks.
Once up stairs, in front of the sparkling little fire, seeing the neat
room, the old wardrobe at the back, the old pictures from the forest
house hung on the wall, and our old clock ticking away in the right-hand
corner behind the door, Marie-Rose seemed satisfied, and said to me:
"We will be very comfortable here, father; we will keep quiet, and the
Germans will not drive us farther away. If only Jean comes back soon,
we will live in peace."
Her voice was hoarse. She also wanted to see the kitchen, which opened
on the court; the daylight coming from over the roofs made this place
rather dark; but she thought everything was very nice.
As we had not any provisions yet, I sent to the inn for our dinner and
two bottles of wine.
Starck would take nothing but the expenses on the road. He said that at
this season there was nothing to do in the forest, and that he might as
well have come as to have left his horses in the stable; but he could
not refuse a good dinner, and then, too, he liked a good glass of wine.
Then, at table, Marie-Rose told me all the details of the grandmother's
death; how she had expired, after having cried for three days and three
nights, murmuring in her dreams: "Burat! Frederick! The Germans!
Frederick, do not desert me! Take me with you!" At last the good God
took her to Himself, and half Graufthal followed her bier through the
snow to Dosenheim, to bury her with her own people.
In telling her sad tale, Marie-Rose could not restrain her tears, and
from time to time she stopped to cough; so I told her that I had heard
enough, and that I did not care to know any more.
And when dinner was over, I thanked Starck for the services he had
rendered us. I told him that in misfortune we learn to know our true
friends, and other just things, which pleased him, because he deserved
them. About six o'clock he went away again, in spite of all that I
could say to persuade him to remain. I went with him to the end of the
street, asking him to thank Father Ykel and his daughter for all that
they had done for us, and if he went to Felsberg to tell Mother
Margredel how we were getting along, and, above all, to ask her to send
us all news of Jean that she might receive. He promised, and we
separated.
I went back, feeling very thoughtful; glad to see my child once more,
but uneasy about the terrible cold that kept her from speaking.
However, I had no serious fears, as I told you, George. When one has
always seen people in good health one knows very well that such little
ailments do not signify anything.
There was still seven or eight weeks of winter to pass through. In the
month of March the sun is already warm, the spring is coming; in April,
sheltered as we were by the great hill of Saint Martin, we would soon
see the gardens and the fields grow green again in the shelter of the
forest. We had also two large boxes of climbing plants to place on our
window-sills, which I pictured to myself beforehand extending over our
window-panes, and that would remind us a little of the forest house.
All these things seemed good to me, and, in my emotion at seeing
Marie-Rose again, I looked on the bright side of the future; I wanted to
live as much to ourselves as we could while waiting for Jean's return,
and to worry ourselves about the war as little as possible, although
that is very hard to do when the fate of one's fatherland is in
question; yes, very hard. I promised myself to tell my daughter nothing
but pleasant things, such as tidings of our victories, if we were so
fortunate as to gain any, and, above all, to hide from her my uneasiness
about Jean, whose long silence often gave me gloomy thoughts.
In the midst of these meditations I returned home. Night had come.
Marie-Rose was waiting for me beside the lamp; she threw herself into my
arms, murmuring:
"Ah! father, what happiness it is for us to be together once more!"
"Yes, yes, my child," I answered, "and others who are now far away will
return also. We must have a little patience still. We have suffered
too much and too unjustly for that to last forever. You are not very
well now; the journey has fatigued you; but it will be nothing. Go
sleep, dear child, and rest yourself."
She went to her room, and I retired to bed, thanking God for having
given me back my daughter.
*XXXVII*
Thus, George, after the loss of my situation and my property, earned by
thirty years of labour, economy and faithful services; after the loss of
our dear country, of our old parents and our friends, I had still one
consolation: my daughter still remained to me, my good, courageous
child, who smiled at me in spite of her anxiety, her grief, and her
sufferings when she saw me too much cast down.
That is what overwhelms me when I think of it; I always reproach myself
for having allowed her to see my grief, and for not having been able to
keep down my anger against those who had reduced us to such a condition.
It is easy to put a good face on the matter when you have everything you
want; in need and in a strange country it is a different thing.
We lived as economically as possible. Marie-Rose looked after our
little household, and I often sat for hours before the window, thinking
of all that had occurred during the last few months, of the abominable
order that had driven me from my country; I suddenly grew indignant, and
raised my arms to heaven, uttering a wild cry.
Marie-Rose was more calm; our humiliation, our misery, and the national
disasters hurt her as much and perhaps more than me, but she hid it from
me. Only what she could not hide from me was that wretched cold, which
gave me much anxiety. Far from improving as I had hoped, it grew
worse--it seemed to me to get worse every day. At night, above all,
when I heard through the deep silence that dry, hacking cough, that
seemed to tear her chest asunder, I sat up in bed and listened, filled
with terror.
Sometimes, however, this horrible cold seemed to get better, Marie-Rose
would sleep soundly, and then I regained my courage; and thinking of the
innumerable misfortunes that were extended over France, the great famine
at Paris, the battlefields covered with corpses, the ambulances crowded
with wounded, the conflagrations, the requisitions, the pillages, I said
to myself that we had still a little fire to warm us, a little bread to
nourish us. And then, so many strange things happened during the wars!
Had we not formerly conquered all Europe, which did not prevent us from
being vanquished in our turn? Might not the Germans have the same fate?
All gamblers end by losing! Those ideas and many others I turned over
in my mind; and Marie-Rose said, too:
"All is not over, father; all is not over! I had a dream last night. I
saw Jean in a brigadier-forester's costume; we will soon have some good
news!"
Alas! good news. Poor child! Yes, yes, you can dream happy dreams; you
may see Jean wearing a brigadier's stripes, and smiling at you and
giving you his arm to lead you, with a white wreath on your head, to the
little chapel at Graufthal, where the priest waits to marry you. All
would have happened thus, but there should be fewer rascals on earth, to
turn aside the just things established by the Almighty. Whenever I
think of that time, George, I seem to feel a hand tearing out my heart.
I would like to stop, but as I promised you, I will go on to the end.
One day, when the fire was sparkling in the little stove, when
Marie-Rose, very thin and thoughtful, was spinning, and when the old
recollections of the forest house, with the beautiful spring, the calm,
melancholy autumn, the songs of the blackbirds and thrushes, the murmur
of the little river through the reeds, the voice of the old grandmother,
that of poor Calas, the joyous barking of Ragot, and the lowing of our
two handsome cows under the old willows, came stealing back to my
memory; while I was forgetting myself in these things, and while the
monotonous hum of the spinning wheel and the ticking of our old clock
were filling our little room, all at once cries and songs broke out in
the distance.
Marie-Rose listened with amazement; and I, abruptly torn from my
pleasant dreams, started like a man who has been roused from sleep. The
Germans were rejoicing so, some new calamity had befallen us. That was
my first idea, and I was not mistaken.
Soon bands of soldiers crossed the street, arm in arm, crying with all
their might:
"Paris has fallen! Long live the German fatherland!"
I looked at Marie-Rose; she was as pale as death, and was looking at me
also with her great brilliant eyes. We turned our eyes away from each
other, so as not to betray the terrible emotion that we felt. She went
out into the kitchen, where I heard her crying.
Until dark we heard nothing but new bands, singing and shouting as they
passed; I, with bowed head, heard from time to time my daughter coughing
behind the partition of the kitchen, and I gave myself up to despair.
About seven o'clock Marie-Rose came in with the lamp. She wanted to set
the table.
"It is no use," I said; "do not put down my plate. I am not hungry."
"Neither am I," said she.
"Well, let us go to bed; let us try to forget our misery; let us
endeavour to sleep!"
I rose; we kissed each other, weeping. That night, George, was
horrible. In spite of her efforts to stifle the cough I heard
Marie-Rose coughing without intermission until morning, so that I could
not close my eyes. I made up my mind to go for a doctor; but I did not
want to frighten my daughter, and thinking of a means to speak of that
to her, towards dawn I fell asleep.
It was eight o'clock when I woke up, and after dressing myself I called
Marie-Rose. She did not answer. Then I went into her room, and I saw
spots of blood on her pillow; her handkerchief, too, which she had left
on the night-table, was all red.
It made me shudder! I returned and sat down in my corner, thinking of
what I had just seen.
*XXXVIII*
It was market day. Marie-Rose had gone to lay in our small stock of
provisions; she returned about nine o'clock, so much out of breath that
she could scarcely hold her basket. When I saw her come in I
recollected the pale faces of those young girls, of whom the poor people
of our valley used to say that God was calling them, and who fell asleep
quietly at the first snow. This idea struck me, and I was frightened;
but then, steadying my voice, I said quite calmly:
"See here, Marie-Rose, all last night I heard you coughing; it makes me
uneasy."
"Oh! it is nothing, father," she answered, colouring slightly; "it is
nothing, the fine weather is coming and this cold will pass off."
"Anyhow," I replied, "I will not be easy, as long as a doctor has not
told me what it is. I must go at once and get a doctor."
She looked at me, with her hands crossed over the basket, on the edge of
the table; and, guessing perhaps by my anxiety that I had discovered the
spots of blood, she murmured:
"Very well, father, to ease your mind."
"Yes," I said, "it is better to do things beforehand; what is nothing in
the beginning may become very dangerous if neglected."
And I went out. Down stairs M. Michel gave me the address of Dr.
Carriere, who lived in the Rue de la Mairie. I went to see him. He was
a man of about sixty, lean, with black sparkling eyes and a grizzled
head, who listened to me very attentively and asked me if I was not the
brigadier forester that his friend M. d'Arence had spoken to him about.
I answered that I was he, and he accompanied me at once.
Twenty minutes afterward we reached our room. When Marie-Rose came the
doctor questioned her for a long time about the beginning of this cold,
about her present symptoms, if she had not fever at night with shivering
fits and attacks of suffocation.
By his manner of questioning her she was, so to speak, forced to answer
him, and the old doctor soon knew that she had been spitting blood for
over a month; she confessed it, turning very pale and looking at me as
if to ask pardon for having hidden this misfortune from me. Ah! I
forgave her heartily, but I was in despair. After that Dr. Carriere
wished to examine her; he listened to her breathing and finally said
that it was all right, that he would give her a prescription.
But in the next room, when we were alone, he asked me if any of our
family had been consumptive; and when I assured him that never, neither
in my wife's family nor my own, had we ever had the disease, he said:
"I believe you; your daughter is very beautifully formed; she is a
strong and handsome creature; but then she must have had an accident; a
fall, or something like that must have put her in this condition. She
is probably hiding it from us; I must know it."
So I called Marie-Rose, and the doctor asked her if some weeks before
she did not remember having fallen, or else run against something
violently, telling her that he was going to write his prescription
according to what she would reply, and that her life probably depended
upon it.
Then Marie-Rose confessed that the day the Germans came to take away our
cows she had tried to hold them back by the rope, and that one of the
Prussians had struck her between the shoulders with the hilt of his
sword, which had thrown her forward on her hands, and that her mouth had
suddenly filled with blood; but that the fear of my anger at hearing of
such an outrage had kept her from saying anything to me about it.
All was then clear to me. I could not restrain my tears, looking at my
poor child, the victim of so great a misfortune. She withdrew. The
doctor wrote his prescription. As we were descending the stairs he
said:
"It is very serious. You have only one daughter?"
"She is my only one," I answered.
He was sad and thoughtful.
"We will do our best," he said; "youth has many resources! But do not
let her be excited in any way."
As he walked down the street he repeated to me the advice that M.
Simperlin had given me about the grandmother; I made no answer. It
seemed to me that the earth was opening under my feet and was crying to
me:
"The dead--the dead! Give me my dead!"
How glad I should have been to be the first to go to rest, to close my
eyes and to answer:
"Well, here I am. Take me and leave the young! Let them breathe a few
days longer. They do not know that life is a terrible misfortune; they
will soon learn it, and will go with less regret. You will have them
all the same!"
And, continuing to muse in this way, I entered an apothecary's shop near
the large bridge and had the prescription made up. I returned to the
house. Marie-Rose took two spoonfuls of the medicine morning and
evening, as it had been directed. It did her good, I saw it from the
first few days; her voice was clearer, her hands less burning; she
smiled at me, as if to say:
"You see, father, it was only a cold. Don't worry about it any more."
An infinite sweetness shone in her eyes; she was glad to get well. The
hope of seeing Jean once more added to her happiness. Naturally, I
encouraged her in her joyous thoughts. I said:
"We will receive news one of these days. Neighbour such a one also
expects to hear from her son; it cannot be long now. The mails were
stopped during the war, the letters are lying at the offices. The
Germans wanted to discourage us. Now that the armistice is signed we
will get our letters."
The satisfaction of learning such good news brightened her countenance.
I did not let her go to the city; I took the basket myself and went to
get our provisions; the market women knew me.
"It is the old brigadier," they would say; "whose pretty daughter is
sick. They are alone. It is he who comes now."
None of them ever sold me their vegetables at too high a price.
*XXXIX*
I thought no longer of the affairs of the country. I only wanted to
save my daughter; the rumours of elections, of the National Assembly at
Bordeaux, no longer interested me; my only thought was:
"If Marie-Rose only lives!"
So passed the end of January, then came the treaty of peace: we were
deserted! And from day to day the neighbours received news from their
sons, from their brothers, from their friends, some prisoners in
Germany, others in cantonments in the interior; but for us not a word!
I went to the post-office every morning to see if anything had come for
us. One day the postmaster said to me:
"Ah! it is you. The postman has just gone. He has a letter for you."
Then I hastened hopefully home. As I reached the door the postman left
the alley and called to me, laughing:
"Hurry up, Father Frederick, you have got what you wanted this time: a
letter that comes from the Army of the Loire!"
I went up stairs four steps at a time, with beating heart. What were we
about to hear? What had happened during so many weeks? Was Jean on the
road to come and see us? Would he arrive the next day--in two, three,
or four days?
Agitated by these thoughts, when I got up stairs my hand sought for the
latch without finding it. At last I pushed open the door; my little
room was empty. I called:
"Marie-Rose! Marie-Rose!"
No answer. I went into the other room; and my child, my poor child was
lying there on the floor, near her bed, white as wax, her great eyes
half open, the letter clutched in her hand, a little blood on her lips.
I thought her dead, and with a terrible cry I caught her up and laid her
on the bed. Then, half wild, calling, crying, I took the letter and
read it with one glance.
See, here it is! Read it, George, read it aloud; I know it by heart,
but it does not matter, I like to turn the knife in the wound; when it
bleeds it hurts less.
"MY DEAR MARIE-ROSE: Adieu! I shall never see you more. A bursting
shell has shattered my right leg; the surgeons have had to amputate it.
I will not survive the operation long. I had lain too long on the
ground. I had lost too much blood. It is all over. I must die! Oh!
Marie-Rose, dear Marie-Rose, how I would like to see you again for one
instant, one minute; how much good it would do me! All the time I lay
wounded in the snow I thought only of you. Do not forget me either;
think sometimes of Jean Merlin. Poor Mother Margredel, poor Father
Frederick, poor Uncle Daniel! You will tell them. Ah! how happy we
would have been without this war!"
The letter stopped here. Underneath, as you see, another hand had
written: "Jean Merlin, Alsatian. Detachment of the 21st Corps.
Silly-le-Guillaume, 26th of January, 1871."
I took this all in with one look, and then I continued to call, to cry,
and at last I fell into a chair, utterly exhausted, saying to myself
that all was lost, my daughter, my son-in-law, my country--all, and that
it would be better for me to die, too.
My cries had been heard; some people came up stairs, Father and Mother
Michel, I think. Yes, it was they who sent for the doctor. I was like
one distracted, without a sign of reason; my ears were singing; it
seemed to me that I was asleep and was having a horrible dream.
Long after the voice of Dr. Carriere roused me from my stupor; he said:
"Take him away! Do not let him see this! Take him away!"
Some people took me by the arms; then I grew indignant, and I cried:
"No, sir; I will not be taken away! I want to stay, she is my daughter!
Have you children, that you tell them to take me away? I want to save
her! I want to defend her!"
"Let him alone," said the doctor, sadly; "let the poor fellow alone.
But you must be silent," he said to me; "your cries may kill her."