AT PHALSBOURG
The next day at dawn, Hullin, wearing his blue cloth Sunday breeches,
his large brown velvet jacket and red waistcoat with brass buttons, and
a broad beaver mountaineer's hat turned up like a cockade above his
ruddy face--started on his way to Phalsbourg, a stout stick in his hand.
Phalsbourg is a small fortress, half-way on the imperial road from
Strasbourg to Paris; it dominates Saverne, the defiles of Haut-Barr,
Roche-Platte, Bonne-Fontaine, and of the Graufthal. Its bastions,
outposts, and demilunes are cut out in zig-zags on a rocky plain: from
afar, the walls look as though they might be cleared at a jump; but on
coming closer one perceives the moat, a hundred feet wide, thirty deep,
and the dark ramparts hewn in the face of the rock. That makes one
stop suddenly. Besides, with the exception of the church, the
town-hall, the two gateways of France and Germany, in shape of mitres,
and the peaks of the two powder-magazines, all the rest is hidden
behind the fortifications. Such is Phalsbourg, which is not without a
certain imposing effect, especially when one crosses its bridges and
piers, under its thick gates, garnished with iron-spiked portcullis.
In the interior, the houses are distributed in regular quarters; they
are low, in straight lines, built of freestone: everything bears a
military aspect.
Hullin, owing to his robust constitution and jovial disposition, never
had any fears for the future, and considered all rumors of retreat,
rout, and invasion, which circulated in the country, as so many lies
propagated by dishonest individuals; so that one may judge of his
stupefaction when, on leaving the mountains and from the outskirts of
the woods, he saw the whole surroundings of the town laid as bare as a
pontoon: not a garden, not an orchard, not a promenade, or a tree, or
even a shrub--all was destroyed within cannon-range. A few poor
creatures were picking up the last remnants of their little houses, and
carrying them into the town. Nothing was to be seen on the horizon but
the line of ramparts standing out clearly above the hidden roads. It
had the effect of a thunder-bolt on Jean-Claude.
For some moments he could neither articulate a word nor make a step
forward.
"Oh, ho!" said he, at last, "this is bad--this is very bad. They
expect the enemy."
Then his warlike instincts prevailed; a dark flush came over his brown
cheeks. "It is those rascally Austrians, Prussians, and Russians, and
all the other wretches picked up out of the dregs of Europe, who are
the cause of this," cried he, waving his stick. "But beware! we will
make them pay for the damages!"
He was possessed with one of those white rages such as honest people
feel when they are driven to extremities. Woe to him who annoyed
Hullin just then!
Twenty minutes later he entered the town, at the rear of a long file of
carriages, each harnessed to five or six horses, pulling, with much
trouble, enormous trunks of trees, destined to construct block-houses
on the _place-d'armes_. Among the conductors, the peasants, and
neighing, stamping horses, marched gravely a mounted _gendarme_--Father
Kels--who did not seem to hear anything, and said, in a rough voice,
"Courage, courage, my friends! We will make two more journeys before
evening. You will have deserved well of your country!"
Jean-Claude crossed the bridge.
A new spectacle opened before him in the town. There reigned the ardor
of defence: all the doors were open; men, women, and children came and
ran, helping to transport the powder and projectiles. They stopped in
groups of three, four, six, to make themselves acquainted with the news.
"He neighbor!"
"What then?"
"A courier has just arrived in great speed. He entered by the French
gate."
"Then he has come to announce the National Guard from Nancy."
"Or, perhaps, a convoy from Metz."
"You are right. We want sixteen-pounders, and shot also. The stoves
are to be broken up to make some."
A few worthy tradespeople in their shirt-sleeves, standing on tables
along the pavement, were busying themselves with barricading their
windows with large pieces of wood and mattresses; others rolled up to
their doors tubs of water. This enthusiasm reanimated Hullin.
"Excellent!" said he; "everybody is making holiday here. The allies
will be well received."
In front of the College, the squeaky voice of the Sergeant-de-ville
Harmentier was proclaiming:--
"Let it be known that the casemates are to be opened: therefore
everybody may take a mattress there, and two blankets each. And the
commissaries of this place are going to commence their rounds of
inspection, to ascertain that each inhabitant possesses food for three
months in advance, which he must certify.--This day, 20th December,
1813.--JEAN PIERRE MEUNIER, _Governor_."
All this Hullin saw and heard in less than a minute, for the whole town
was in the greatest excitement. Strange, serious, and comic scenes
succeeded each other without interruption.
Near the narrow street leading to the Arsenal, a few National Guards
were drawing a twenty-four pounder. These honest fellows had a very
steep ascent to climb; they could do no more. "Ho! all together!
Mille tonnerres! Once again! Forward!" They all shouted at once,
pushing the wheels, and the great cannon, stretching out its long neck
over its immense carriage, above their heads, rolled slowly along,
making the pavement tremble.
Hullin, quite rejoiced, was no longer the same man. His soldier-like
instincts, the remembrance of the bivouac, of the marches, of the
firing, and of the battles--all returned. His eyes sparkled, his heart
beat faster, and already thoughts of defence, of entrenchments, of
death-struggles came and went in his head.
"Faith!" said he, "all goes well! I have made enough shoes in my life,
and since the occasion to take up the musket presents itself, well, so
much the better: we will show the Prussians and Austrians that we have
not forgotten to charge at the double."
Thus reasoned the good man, carried away by his warlike instincts; but
his joy did not last long.
Before the church, on the _place-d'armes_, were standing fifteen or
twenty carts, full of wounded, arrived from Leipzig and Hanau. These
unhappy creatures, pale, ghastly, heavy-eyed, some whose limbs were
already amputated, others with their wounds still untouched, tranquilly
awaited death. Near them, a few worn-out jades were eating their
meagre allowance, while the conductors, poor wretches, who had been
brought into requisition in Alsace, wrapped in their old mantles, slept
notwithstanding the cold--their great hats turned down over their faces
and their arms folded--on the steps of the church. One shuddered to
see these sad groups of men, with their gray hoods, heaped up on the
bloody straw--one carrying his broken arm on his knees; another with
his head bandaged in an old handkerchief; a third, already dead, being
used as a seat for the living, his black hands hanging down the ladder.
Hullin, in front of this mournful spectacle, stopped rooted to the
ground. He could not lift his eyes from it. Great human suffering has
this strange power of fascination over us: we look to see men perish,
how they regard death: the best among us are not exempt from this
frightful curiosity. It seems as though eternity is going to deliver
up its secret!
There, then, near the shafts of the first cart, to the right of the
file, were crouched two carbineers in little sky-blue vests, veritable
giants, whose powerful natures gave way under the clutch of pain: like
two caryatides crushed by the weight of some heavy mass. One, with
great red mustaches and ashy cheeks, looked at you out of his sunken
eyes, as though from the depths of some fearful nightmare; the other,
bent double, with blue hands, and shoulder torn by shot, sank more and
more; then would raise himself with a jerk, talking softly as though
dreaming. Behind lay stretched, two and two, some infantry soldiers,
the greater number struck by ball, with a leg or an arm broken. They
seemed to support their fate with more firmness than the giants. These
poor creatures said nothing: a few only, the youngest, furiously
demanded water and bread; and in the next cart, a plaintive voice--the
voice of a conscript--called, "My mother! my mother!" while the older
men smiled gloomily, as though to say: "Yes, yes, she will come, thy
mother!" Perhaps they did not think of anything all the time.
Now and then a shudder would pass along the whole of them. Then
several wounded could be seen half lifting themselves, with deep
groans, and falling back as if death had gone its rounds at that moment.
And again everything relapsed into silence. While Hullin was watching,
and feeling sick to his heart's core, a shopkeeper in the vicinity,
Some the baker, came out of his house carrying a large basin of soup.
Then you should have seen all these spectres move, their eyes sparkle,
their nostrils dilate; they seemed born again. The unhappy fellows
were dying of hunger!
Good Father Some, with tears in his eyes, approached, saying, "I am
coming, my children. A little patience! It is I, you know me!"
But hardly was he near the first cart, when the great carbineer with
the ashy cheeks, reviving, plunged his arm up to the elbow in the
boiling basin, seized the meat, and hid it under his vest. It was done
with the rapidity of lightning. Savage yells arose on all sides: those
men, if they had had strength to move, would have devoured their
comrade. He, his arms pressed tightly to his chest, the teeth on has
prey, and glaring round him, appeared to hear nothing. At these cries
an old soldier, a sergeant, rushed out of the nearest inn. He was an
old hand; he understood at once what it was about, and, without useless
reflections, he tore away the meat from the wild beast, saying to him,
"Thou dost not deserve any! It must be divided into parts. We will
cut ten rations!"
"We are only eight!" said one of the wounded, very calm to all
appearance, but with eyes gleaming out of their bronze mask.
"How, eight?"
"You can see, sergeant, that those two are dying fast: it would be so
much food lost!"
The old sergeant looked.
"Eight," said he; "eight rations!"
Hullin could bear it no longer. He went over to the innkeeper
Wittmann's opposite, as white as death; Wittmann was also a fur and
leather merchant. Seeing him enter, "He! is it you, Master
Jean-Claude?" he exclaimed. "You arrive sooner than usual; I did not
expect you till next week." Then seeing how he staggered--"But say,
you are ill?"
"I have just seen the wounded."
"Ah, yes! the first time, it shocks you; but if you had seen fifteen
thousand pass, as we have, you would not think anything more about it."
"A glass of wine, quick?" said Hullin, who felt badly. "Oh, mankind,
mankind! And to think that we are brothers!"
"Yes, brothers until it touches your purse," replied Wittmann. "Come,
drink! that will set you right."
"And you have seen fifteen thousand go by?" rejoined the shoemaker.
"At the least, for two months, without speaking of those who have
remained in Alsace and the other side of the Rhine; for, you
comprehend, they cannot find carts enough for all, and then many are
not worth the trouble of being carried away."
"Yes, I comprehend! But why are they there, those poor creatures? Why
do they not go into the hospital?"
"The hospital! What is one hospital, ten hospitals, for fifty thousand
wounded? Every hospital, from Mayence and Coblentz as far as
Phalsbourg, is crowded. And, besides, that terrible fever, typhus, you
see, Hullin, kills more than the bullet. All the villages of the plain
twenty leagues round are infected with it; they die everywhere like
flies. Luckily the town has been in a state of siege these three days;
the gates will be closed, and no more will enter. I have lost, for my
part, my Uncle Christian and my Aunt Lisbeth, as healthy, solid people
as you and I, Master Jean-Claude. At last the cold has arrived; last
night there was a white frost."
"And the wounded remained on the pavements all night?"
"No, they came from Saverne this morning; in an hour or two, when the
horses are rested, they will leave for Sarrebourg."
At that moment, the old sergeant, who had re-established order in the
carts, came in rubbing his hands.
"He! he!" said he, "it freshens, Papa Wittmann. You did well to light
the fire in the stove. A little glass of cognac to drive away the fog.
Hum! hum!"
His small half-closed eyes, his beaked nose, the cheek-bones being
separated from it by two flourishing wrinkles, which were lost to sight
in a long reddish imperial--everything looked gay in his face, and told
of a jovial, kind disposition. It was a regular military face,
scorched, burnt by the open air, full of frankness, but also of a
cheery slyness; his great shako, his blue-gray cloak, the
shoulder-belt, the epaulette, seemed to partake of his individuality.
One could not have represented him without them. He walked up and down
the room, continuing to rub his hands, while Wittmann poured him a
glass of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had at once noticed
the number of his regiment--6th Light Infantry. Gaspard, the son of
Madame Lefevre, served in this regiment. Jean-Claude could now obtain
some tidings of the lover of Louise; but, as he was going to speak, his
heart beat loud. If Gaspard was dead; if he had perished like so many
others!
The worthy shoemaker felt nearly suffocated; he kept silent. "Better
to know nothing," thought he. However, a few minutes later, he could
do so no longer. "Sergeant," said he, in a hoarse voice, "you are in
the 6th Light Infantry?"
"Yes, my citizen," said the other, turning round in the middle of the
room.
"Do you know one called Gaspard Lefevre?"
"Gaspard Lefevre, of the 2d division of the 1st? Parbleu, if I know
him! It is I who taught him his drill. A brave soldier! hardened
against fatigue. If we had a hundred thousand of that stamp----"
"Then he lives? he is well?"
"Yes, citizen. Eight days ago I left the regiment at Fredericsthal to
escort this convoy of wounded. You understand, it is hot there--one
cannot answer for anything. From one moment to the other, each of us
may have his business settled for him. But eight days ago, at
Fredericsthal--the 15th December--Gaspard Lefevre still answered to the
roll-call."
Jean-Claude breathed. "But then, sergeant, have the goodness to tell
me why Gaspard has not written to his village for two months?"
The old soldier smiled, and blinked his little eyes. "Ah! now,
citizen, do you then believe that one has nothing else to do on the
march but to write?"
"No. I have served; I was in the campaigns of Sambre-et-Meuse, of
Egypt and Italy, but that did not prevent me from giving some news of
myself."
"One instant, comrade," interrupted the sergeant. "I have passed
through Egypt and Italy also; the campaign we are finishing is
altogether different."
"It has then been very severe?"
"Severe! one must have one's soul driven into every part of one's
members, so as not to leave one's bones there. All was against us:
sickness, traitors, peasants, townsfolk, our allies--in fact all! From
our company, which was complete when we quitted Phalsbourg, the 21st of
last January, only thirty-four men remain. I believe Gaspard Lefevre
is the only conscript left. Those poor conscripts! they fought well;
but they were not accustomed to endure hardships: they melted like
butter in an oven." So saying, the old sergeant approached the counter
and drank his glass off at one draught. "To your health, my citizen.
Are you perchance the father of Gaspard?"
"No, I am a relation."
"Well, you can pride yourselves on being stoutly built in your family.
What a man at twenty! He has gone through everything--he has, while
the others fell away in dozens."
"But," rejoined Hullin, after an instant's silence, "I cannot see
anything so very different in this last campaign; for we also had
sickness and traitors."
"Anything different!" exclaimed the sergeant. "Everything was
different! Formerly, if you have gone through the war in Germany, you
ought to remember that, after one or two victories, it was over: the
people received you well; one drank the little white wines, and ate
sauerkraut and ham with the townsfolk; one danced with the buxom wives.
The husbands and grandpapas laughed heartily, and when the regiment
left, everybody cried. But this time, after Lutzen and Bautzen,
instead of feeling kindly, the people regarded us with diabolical
faces; we could get nothing out of them but by force; one could have
fancied one's self in Spain or Vendee. I do not know what stuff they
had in their heads against us. Better had we only been French, had we
not had Saxons and other allies, who only awaited the moment to spring
at our throats: we should then have pulled through all the same, one
against five! But the allies--don't talk to me of the allies! Why, at
Leipzig, the 18th of October last, in the hottest part of the battle,
our allies turned against us and shot at us from behind; those were our
good friends the Saxons. A week later, our former friends the
Bavarians came and threw themselves across our retreat: we had to pass
over them at Hanau. The day after, near Frankfort, another column of
good friends presented themselves, and we had to crush them. The more
one kills, the more they come! Here we are now this side of the Rhine.
Well, there are decidedly more of these good friends marching from
Moscow. Ah! if we could have foreseen it after Austerlitz, Jena,
Friedland, Wagram!"
Hullin had become very thoughtful. "And now how do we stand, sergeant?"
"We have had to repass the Rhine, and all our strongholds on the other
side are blockaded. The 10th of November last the Prince of Neufchatel
reviewed the regiment at Bleckheim. The 3d battalion had been
amalgamated with the 2d, and the 'cadre' received orders to be in
readiness to leave for the depot. Cadres are not wanting, but men. As
for twenty years we have been bled on all sides, it is not astonishing.
All Europe is down upon us. The Emperor is at Paris; he is laying down
a plan of the campaign. If we may only have breathing time till the
spring----"
Just then Wittmann, who was standing by the window, said,--"Here is the
governor come from inspecting the clearings around the town."
It was the commandant, Jean-Pierre Meunier, wearing a three-cornered
hat, and a tricolor scarf around his waist, who crossed over the square.
"Ah," said the sergeant, "I must get him to sign my papers. Pardon,
citizen; I must leave you."
"Do so, sergeant; and thank you. If you meet Gaspard, tell him that
Jean-Claude Hullin embraces him, and that they expect tidings from him
in the village."
"Good--good. I will not fail to do so."
The sergeant went out, and Hullin finished his wine in a reverie.
"Father Wittmann," said he, after a pause, "what of my parcel?"
"It is ready, Master Jean-Claude." Then, looking into the kitchen,
"Gredel! Gredel! bring Hullin's parcel."
A little woman appeared, and put down on the table a roll of
sheepskins. Jean-Claude passed his stick through it, and lifted it
over his shoulder.
"What, you are going to leave us so soon?"
"Yes, Wittmann. The days are short, and the roads difficult through
the forests after six o'clock. I must get back early."
"Then a safe journey to you, Master Jean-Claude."
Hullin left, and crossed the square, turning away his face from the
convoy, which still remained before the church.
The innkeeper from his window watched him hurrying away, and thought to
himself, "How white he looked on entering; he could hardly keep
upright. It is queer that such a sturdy man, and an old soldier too,
should not have energy enough for a cat. As for me, I would see fifty
regiments go by on those carts without minding it any more than I did
my first pipe."