"To-morrow, at seven o'clock, Mamma Gredel."
"Well! at eight o'clock I will be there. You will be far away, but you
will know that the mother of your wife is there, that she will take
care of her daughter, that she loves you, that she has only you in the
whole world."
The courageous woman sobbed aloud; she accompanied me to the door, and
I left her. It seemed as if I had not a drop of blood left in my
veins. Just as the clock struck five I reached the town-house. I went
up and saw that hall again where I had lost, that cursed hall where
everybody drew unlucky numbers. I received a cloak and coat,
pantaloons, gaiters, and shoes. Zebede, who was waiting for me, told
one of the musketeers to take them to the mess-room.
"You will come early and put them on," said he; "your musket and
knapsack have been in the rack since morning."
"Come with me," said I.
"No, I cannot, the sight of Catherine breaks my heart; and besides I
must stay with my father. Who knows whether I shall find the old man
alive at the end of a year? I promised to take supper with you, but I
shall not go."
I was obliged to go home alone. My haversack was all ready; my old
haversack, the only thing I had saved from Hanau, as my head rested on
it in the wagon. Mr. Goulden was at work. He turned round without
speaking, and I asked, "Where is Catherine?"
"She is upstairs."
I knew she was crying, and I wanted to go up, but my legs and my
courage both failed me.
I told Mr. Goulden of my visit to Quatre-Vents, and then we sat and
waited, thinking, without daring to look each other in the face. It
was already dark when Catherine came down. She laid the table in the
twilight, and then I took her hand, and made her sit down on my knee,
and we remained so for half an hour.
Then Mr. Goulden asked:
"Is not Zebede coming?"
"No, he cannot come."
"Well! let us take our supper then."
But no one was hungry. Catherine removed the table about nine o'clock,
and we all retired. It was the most terrible night I ever passed in my
life. Catherine was in a deathly swoon. I called her, but she did not
answer. At midnight I wakened Mr. Goulden, and he dressed himself and
came up to our chamber. We gave her some sugar-water, when she revived
and got up. I cannot tell you everything; I only know that she sank at
my feet and begged me not to abandon her, as if I did it voluntarily!
but she was crazed. Mr. Goulden wanted to call a doctor, but I
prevented him. Toward morning she recovered entirely, and after a long
fit of weeping, she fell asleep in my arms. I did not even dare to
embrace her, and we went out softly and left her.
When we feel all the miseries of life, we exclaim: "Why are we in the
world? Why did we not sleep through the eternal ages? What have we
done, that we must see those we love suffer, when we are not in fault?
It is not God, but man, who breaks our hearts."
After we went downstairs Mr. Goulden said to me, "She is asleep, she
knows nothing of it all, and that is a blessing; you will go before she
wakes." I thanked God for His goodness, and we sat waiting for the
least sound, till at last the drums beat the assembly. Then Mr.
Goulden looked at me very gravely, we rose, and he buckled my knapsack
on my shoulders in silence.
At last he said: "Joseph, go and see the commandant in Metz, but count
upon nothing; the danger is so great that France has need of all her
children for her defence, and this time it is not a question of
acquiring from others, but of saving our own country. Remember that it
is yourself and your wife and all that is dearest to you in the world
that is at stake." We went down to the street in silence, embraced
each other, and then I went to the barracks. Zebede took me to the
mess-room and I put on my uniform. All that I remember after so many
years is, that Zebede's father, who was there, took my clothes and made
them into a bundle and said he would take them home after our
departure; and the battalion filed out by the little rue de Lanche
through the French gate. A few children ran after us, and the soldiers
on guard presented arms; we were _en route_ for _Waterloo_.