For a fortnight Madame Berthier remained delirious with brain fever. At
the end of that time she began to recover, but her memory was impaired.
She remembered nothing of her confinement in the Bastille, nothing of
her pursuit of Berthier and of the subsequent events. Only hazily did
the form of her husband present itself to her mind; it was a note which
cyphered, and therefore disturbed, the harmony of memory.
Her former freakish predilections for the colour yellow had suddenly
changed into aversion. It was somehow connected with an event which had
disappeared from the range of her thoughts; and, as a thread leading
nowhere, it irritated her without her being able to account for it.
The cat also was forgotten. She did not allude to him once. But she
distinctly knew Gabrielle. Perhaps if the yellow Gabriel had been
brought to her she would have recognised him. She did not know when she
had made the girl's acquaintance, or where she had first met her; but
she knew her face and her name.
Her great delight, on her recovery, was to listen to the corporal and
Nicholas conversing about their native land. She paid the greatest
attention to their words, laughed childishly, and smiled at Gabrielle.
But especially was she gratified with the song, 'Heart, my heart, why
art thou weary?' Nicholas played it to her on his flageolet, and the
corporal sang it, till the poor woman knew it by heart.
One day she was sitting in the window, propped up with pillows, looking
out at the roof-tops, and the blue sky over them. No one was in the
room; but Gabrielle, who had left it for a few minutes, on returning
found her singing in a plaintive voice, and crying softly,--
'Heart, my heart, why art thou weary,
Why to grief and tears a prey?
Foreign lands are bright and cheery;
Heart, my heart, what ails thee, say?
That which ails me past appeasing,
I am lost, a stranger here;
What, though foreign lands be pleasing,
Home, sweet home, alone is dear.'
Then, turning to Gabrielle, she asked when they were going.
'Where would you go, dear mistress?' asked the girl.
'Home, to native rocks and sky,' she answered; and then sang,--
'Through the fragrant pine-boughs bending,
I should see the glacier shine;
See the nimble goats ascending
Gentian-dappled slopes in line.
See the cattle, hear the tinkle
Of the merry-clashing bells;
See white sheep the pastures sprinkle
In the verdant dewy dells.'
'Do you know, Gabrielle,' said the lady, interrupting her song, 'the
cow-bells are the most beautiful music in the world? Call Nicholas
here. He will tell you the same.' As she insisted, Gabrielle was
obliged to go to the young man's workshop, and summon him.
'I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Nicholas, but madame is resolved to
hear from you that cow-bells make beautiful music.'
'There is no music like them!' exclaimed the youth, becoming at once
enthusiastic; 'you should hear them of a summer evening, when the
cattle are being driven home to be milked. It is the maddest, merriest
clatter in the world. You really must hear them. It is worth going all
the way to Switzerland to hear them. I will go to madame instantly.'
Rushing into the room to her, he began at once,--'Madame! there is
nothing like them. To hear them at a distance, a tinkle here and a
tinkle there, as the cattle are being driven from the pastures,--it
is like silver music rippling down the sward in countless rills;
then the cows unite in the path, and you have fifty twinkling,
tinkling notes rushing together; and when they come close to you it is
overwhelming,--it is like children's thoughts in play set to music.'
Madame Berthier clapped her hands.
'Gabrielle, when shall we hear the cow-bells? I am dying of impatience.'
'In October, madame, my father and the rest of us return home. Oh,
what happiness! The corporal and I have been studying a map, and my
father is bent on going by the Jura, and Pontarlier. Then you come
winding through the mountains among rocks and pines; that is a sort
of first taste, to give one zest, to prepare you for what is to come,
lest you should die of over-happiness. And then, then, then,' the lad's
great eyes grew bigger, and light danced in the blue irises,--'Then
all at once, at a turn of the road, just when least expecting it, or
trying not to expect it, for you are hungering all the while--what is
that--that ragged line, half way up the sky, so faint, and blue, and
silvery? Is it a bank of clouds? No, it is too still for that. It is
the Alps, the Alps, the Alps!' He clasped his hands to his eyes, which
began to fill. 'And down below your feet lies the lake of Neufchatel, a
broad mirror, still and blue, like the sky; and you see the vineyards
sweeping down to the very edge of the water, and the old brown towers
and steeples of the city against the glistening water. But above them
all--there, whither your heart and soul stretch away, there they are,
the dear, dear Alps!'
Madame Berthier was nearly as excited as Nicholas.
'And then,' he continued, 'to see again our mountain-flowers. The
gentian, we call it himmels-blau, that is, heaven's-blue,--to see the
slopes of short grass sprinkled with them, the little azure one and
the large dark one, as thick as stars in the sky. And close to the
snow you will find the little crocus, myriads white and violet, where
the thawed ice has burnt up the grass. And the meadows full of white
anemones and golden balls; and the buttercups white and purple, and the
primulas in marshy land. Oh, madame! do you know the Alpine rose? Dear
Gabrielle, you must come with me, if only to see that! Think, up among
the mountains a patch of grey rock, and above it a bush blazing with
crimson flowers, and they are sometimes red as blood, and sometimes
pale pink like your own sweet cheek--but not as it is now, it has grown
red. Then the leaves are glossy green, like the myrtle, and underneath
a russet-brown, the colour of the shaggy goats. You have tracts of
these glorious flowers, and beside the silver-grey old rock they are so
lovely. You would say the mountain blushed to think how beautiful it
was.'
'Gabrielle!' cried madame, in ecstasy, 'I shall die, unless I go
quickly to see the Alpine roses.'
'And the pinks,' continued Nicholas; 'lovely little red pinks in
tufts, and sometimes their leaves are snipped, just as mother cuts the
paper for the candlesticks, and of a tender lake tint.'
'When are we going, Gabrielle?' asked madame.
'We start in October, I hope,' said Nicholas; 'my father's time is up
then.'
'Yes,' said the convalescent, 'we will all go then, Gabrielle and I.'
'That will be charming,' exclaimed the young man, 'will it not,
mademoiselle?'
The girl did not answer.
'Yes,' continued the lady; 'we shall all go together, and then you,
Nicholas, and Gabrielle can live with me; you know I have money.'
'My dear madame,' said the girl, becoming scarlet, 'let us talk of
something else.'
'But I cannot, dear Gabrielle; I can think of nothing else, and it is
such surpassing delight to me to hear the corporal and Nicholas talk.
It will be so nice, too, for you and Nicholas.'
'The corporal, and Madame Deschwanden, and Madeleine will all be
there,' said the girl, hiding her face that she might not encounter the
nods and smiles of Nicholas.
'Don't be so sure of that,' said the little lady of the house, bustling
into the room. 'Switzerland again, of course. I go there! not a bit,
and get lost down a chasm in a glacier. Mon Dieu! fancy that, and I
might at the moment have on my best gown and best bonnet. Climb your
mountain peaks, indeed! you will see me put my head out of the top of
one of these chimneys first, and cry "sweep, sweep!" Deschwanden may
go, and you may go, Nicholas, if you like, but I remain at Paris. Would
you have me migrate to the land of barbarism, at my time of life, and
at a time, too, when the metropolis is a scene of the most charming
incidents? My faith! It is as good as a play to see what is going on
here--and you would tear me away between the acts, make me shut up the
novel at the first volume! You are much mistaken if you think you will
get me to Switzerland.'
'But what is to be done, mother?' asked Nicholas; 'my father has set
his heart on returning to his father-land, and I verily believe it
would be his death to have to forego what has been his desire for many
years.'
'Let him go.'
'But he cannot leave you behind.'
'Why not? Let him imagine I am dead. Let him say to himself, "I am a
widower once again; I am free as a bird, I will spread my wings, and
seek a distant clime." Pretty bird he'd make, though! You Germans
have no neatness, no delicacy and buoyancy of construction. You are
great hawks--penguins, who never rise. But we French are ever on
tiptoe, ready to soar; we only want a breath of gas in our bones, a
few feathers on our backs, and you would find the sky swarm with us,
laughing, chattering, wheeling here and there, coquetting, always
polite, always graceful, and never flying beyond sight of la belle
France.'
'But my father cannot in conscience----'
'Stay! never mention that word in my hearing. There it is, that is
the mischief of it. Conscience is the lead that keeps you always in
one position. I thought to have died of laughing. I saw in a shop
window a range of dolls,--fat things rounded off below, without
perceptible legs. You knocked them about, and they rocked to and fro,
and always righted in the same position. I rushed into the shop, and
I said--"Oblige me, those are German toys, are they not?" "Madame,
you are right," was the answer I received. Well, Nicholas! I thought
at once of you and your father, leaded with your dreadful dumpy
conscience. My faith! why does not this precious conscience keep the
corporal from going to Versailles?'
'What do you mean, mother? he is not going there.'
'Yes, he is. He has received orders transferring him there; he has to
attend in the palace, as one of the guard. If he is so fond of me, let
him refuse. You say he can't,--he is ordered there. Well, there is no
help for it, he leaves me. Now let him suppose he is ordered off to
Switzerland; there he goes. I will order him off. Right about face,
quick, march!'
'Surely, mother, you will not be so heartless?'
'Ah bah! I shall do well enough here. I can't go to Versailles after
him, can I? Well, and I won't go to Switzerland with him. That is
my mind. I have my business and my pleasure here in Paris; I could
not live away from either. Ask a nightingale to visit and admire the
beauties of the bottom of the sea! invite a minnow to soar to the
stars! expect a rose to throw its roots into the air and thrust its
blossoms under the soil! Pshaw! This is just as sensible as asking me
to plunge into your lakes, ascend your Alps, and bury myself in your
mountain gorges under avalanches and glaciers and Heaven knows what
besides.'
'Where is my father now?'
'He is out. He has to remove at once to the Swiss battalion at Rueil,
and thence he will be sent with a new company to attend on the
royal family and guard the palace. You see the French guard have at
Versailles, as here, merged themselves in a national guard, so I fancy
the Court prefers to be defended by foreign troops. Here he comes!'
The corporal entered and saluted Madame Berthier and his wife, then
he went up to Gabrielle and patted her gently on the cheek. Nicholas
gave her a knowing nod, as much as to say, 'you are a great pet of my
father's.'
'Are you transferred to Versailles?' asked Nicholas; 'mother has just
disconcerted us with that announcement.'
'Yes,' answered the corporal; 'I have been ordered to the barracks at
Rueil for a week, and after that we are to be sent to Versailles; the
Swiss guard at the palace is about to be reinforced.'
'It will not be for long,' said Nicholas.
'No, only till October,' answered the corporal, brushing up the hair on
either side of his head; 'and then--' he rubbed his hand; 'then we set
our faces homewards. I shall be free.'
'And I daresay you will not be sorry for it,' said Gabrielle, gently,
lifting her eyes to his face.
'No, my dear, I shall be rejoiced. It does not please me to have to
range myself against your countrymen. A civil war is a terrible thing,
and I am half French myself.'
'_You_ half French!' exclaimed Madame Deschwanden, with a shrug of the
shoulders and a curl of the lip.
'Yes, wife, I am; not only because of my union with you, but also
because I have spent many of my best years in this land, chiefly,
however, because I entirely sympathise with the struggle that is
begun. Had not we the same sort of thing in our land? There was Werner
Stauffacher, Erni of Melchthal, and Walter Fürst----'
'Enough of them,' said madame, with an impatient stamp.
'Corporal,' asked the convalescent lady, 'are you going to return to
where the cow-bells ring, and where there are Alps half way up to the
sky?'
'Yes, madame, please God, and with the help of blessed Klaus!'
'And you will see the pinks, and the gentians, and the roses of the
Alps?'
'I must, indeed I must,' exclaimed the corporal. 'Ah, ha! Nicholas, in
October, three months more!'
'We are all going together,' said the poor lady; 'we all want to hear
the cow-bells, and see the Alpine roses.'
'That will be perfect,' answered Corporal Deschwanden.
'Then Nicholas and Gabrielle can keep house for me.'
'That will crown all,' said the corporal, brushing up his hair over the
right ear, then over the left, then above his brow.
'Gabrielle!' cried madame; but the girl darted out of the room.
'Nicholas,' said the invalid; 'I want Gabrielle, will you kindly fetch
her for me?'