AMONG THE MOUNTAINEERS
An extraordinary agitation reigned at that time all along the line of
the Vosges: the tidings of the invasion which was approaching spread
from village to village, and among the farm-houses and woodmen's
cottages of the Hengst and the Nideck. The hawkers, wagoners, tinkers,
all that floating population which is continually moving from the
mountains to the plains and from the plains to the mountains, brought
every day, from Alsace and the borders of the Rhine, many strange
reports. "The towns," so these people said, "were being put into a
state of defence; expeditions were being made to provision them with
corn and meat; the roads to Metz, Nancy, Huningue, and Strasbourg were
swarming with convoys. Everywhere you met powder and ammunition
wagons, cavalry, infantry, artillery, going to their posts. Marshal
Victor still held the route to Saverne; but the bridges of the
fortresses were already raised from seven in the evening to eight in
the morning."
No one thought that all this could bode any good. Nevertheless, though
many were seriously afraid of war, and though the old women lifted up
their hands to heaven, crying, "Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" the greater
number were preparing the means of defence. Under such circumstances,
Jean-Claude Hullin was well received by all.
The same day, toward five in the evening, he reached the summit of the
Hengst, and halted with the patriarch of forest-hunters, old Materne.
He spent the night there; for in winter the days are short and the
roads difficult. Materne promised to keep watch over the defile of the
Zorn, with his two sons Kasper and Frantz, and to reply to the first
signal which was made from the Falkenstein.
On the following day, Jean-Claude started early for Dagsburg, so as to
come to an understanding with his friend Labarbe, the wood-cutter.
They visited together the nearest hamlets, reanimating the love of
country in the people's hearts; and the next day Labarbe accompanied
Hullin into Christ-Nickel's, the anabaptist farmer of Painbach--a
sensible and respectable man, but who could not be prevailed upon to
participate in their glorious enterprise. Christ-Nickel had only one
reply for all their observations; "It is well, it is just, but the
Bible saith, 'Put up thy sword into its place. He who lives by the
sword shall perish by the sword.'" He promised them, however, to pray
for the good cause: it was all they could obtain.
They went from there to Walsch, and had some hearty shakes of the hand
with Daniel Hirsch, a former marine gunner, who agreed to collect all
the people of his district.
At this place Labarbe left Jean-Claude to make his way by himself.
For eight days longer he beat about the mountain, from Soldatenthal, to
Leonsberg, Meienthal, Abreschwiller, Voyer, Loettenbach, Cirey,
Petit-Mont, and Saint-Sauveur; and on the ninth day he reached St.
Quirin and saw the bootmaker Jerome. They visited the pass of Blanru
together; after which Hullin, satisfied with what he had done, took his
way to the village. He had been walking briskly for about two hours,
picturing to himself the life of the camp,--the bivouac, marches and
counter-marches--all that life of a soldier which he had so often
regretted, and which he now saw returning with enthusiasm--when in the
far distance, amidst the shades of the twilight, he perceived the
hamlet of Charmes in a bluish mist, his little cottage sending forth a
scarcely perceptible line of smoke, the small gardens surrounded with
palisades, the stone-covered roofs, and to the left, bordering the
hill, the great farm of Bois-de-Chenes, with the saw-mills of Valtin at
the end of the now dark ravine.
Then suddenly, and without knowing why, his soul was filled with a
great sadness.
He slackened his pace, and thought of the calm, peaceable life he was
abandoning--perhaps forever; of his little room, so warm in the winter,
and cheerful in spring when he opened his windows to the breath of the
woods; of the tic-tac of the old timepiece, and then of Louise, his
good little Louise, spinning in the silence with downcast eyes, and in
the evenings singing some quaint strain with her pure penetrating voice
when they were both feeling weary. These reflections laid such hold of
him that the slightest objects, every instrument used in his
profession,--the long shining augers, the round-handled hatchet, the
mallets, the little stove, the old closet, the platters of varnished
wood, the ancient figure of Saint Michael nailed to the wall, the old
four-post bed at the bottom of the alcove, the stool, the trunk, the
copper lamp,--all these things impressed themselves on his mind like a
living picture, and the tears came into his eyes.
But it was Louise, his darling child, whom he pitied. How she would
weep, and implore him to renounce the war! And how she would hang on
his neck, saying:--"Oh! do not leave me, Papa Jean-Claude! Oh, I will
love you so much! Oh, surely you will not abandon me!"
And the honest fellow could see the terror in her beautiful eyes--he
could feel her arms round his neck. For a moment he fancied that he
might deceive her, make her believe anything, no matter what, and so
account for his absence to her satisfaction; but such means were not in
accordance with his character, and his sadness increased the more.
Arrived at the farm of Bois-de-Chenes, he went in to tell Catherine
Lefevre that all was going well, and that the mountaineers were only
awaiting the signal.
A quarter of an hour after, Master Jean-Claude came down by the Houx
road in front of his own little house.
Before pushing open the creaking door, the idea struck him to see what
Louise was about at that moment. He glanced into the little room
through the window: Louise was standing by the curtains of the alcove;
she seemed very animated, arranging, folding and unfolding clothes on
the bed. Her sweet face beamed with happiness, and her large blue eyes
sparkled with a sort of enthusiasm; she even talked aloud. Hullin
listened; but a cart happening to pass at the time in the street, he
could hear nothing. Making a firm resolve, he entered, saying quietly:
"Louise, I have returned."
Immediately the young girl, joyous and skipping like a deer, ran to
embrace him.
"Ah! it is you, Papa Jean-Claude! I was expecting you. Mon Dieu! mon
Dieu! how long you stayed away! At length you are back."
"It was, my child," replied the honest fellow, in a more undecided
tone, putting his stick behind the door and his hat on the table, "it
was because----"
He could say nothing else.
"Yes, yes, you went to see our friends," said Louise, laughing: "I know
all about it--Mamma Lefevre has told me everything."
"What! thou knowest? And dost thou not mind? So much the better, so
much the better! it shows thy sense. And I, who fancied thou wouldst
have cried!"
"Cry! and what for, papa Jean-Claude? Oh, I am courageous; you don't
know me yet--go!" She put on a resolute air, which made Hullin smile;
but he did not smile long when she continued: "We are going to war--we
are going to fight--we are going to pass up the mountain!"
"Hullo! we are going! we are going!" exclaimed he in astonishment.
"Certainly. Then are we not going?" said she, regretfully.
"That is to say--I must leave thee for a little time, my child."
"Leave me--oh, no! I go with thee; it is all agreed upon. Look, see!
my small parcel is ready, and here is yours, which I have arranged.
Don't trouble yourself, let me alone, and you will be satisfied!"
Hullin could not get over his stupefaction. "But, Louise," he
exclaimed, "thou canst not think of such a thing. Consider: we must
pass nights abroad, and march and run; consider the cold, the snow, the
musketry! It cannot be."
"Come," said the young girl, in a tearful voice, throwing herself into
his arms, "do not pain me! You are only making fun of your little
Louise. You cannot forsake her!"
"But thou wilt be much safer here--thou wilt be warm--thou wilt hear
from us every day."
"No, no. I will not--I must go too. The cold does not harm me. Only
too long have I been shut up. I, too, must breathe a little. Are not
the birds out of doors? The robins are out all the winter. Have I not
known what cold was when I was quite tiny? and hunger also?"
She stamped, and, for the third time, putting her arms round
Jean-Claude's neck,--"Come then, Papa Hullin," said she softly, "Mamma
Lefevre said yes. Would you be more naughty than she was? Ah, if you
only knew how much I love you!"
The good man had sat down and turned away his head, so as not to yield,
and did not allow himself to be embraced.
"Oh, how naughty you are to-day, Papa Jean-Claude!"
"It is for thy sake, my child."
"Well, all the worse. I will run away after you. Cold--what is cold?
And if you are wounded--if you ask to see your little Louise for the
last time, and she is not there--near you, to take care of you, and
love you to the end--oh, you must think me very cold-hearted."
She sobbed, and Hullin could not stand it any longer.
"Is it true that Mamma Lefevre consents?"
"Oh, yes--oh, yes--she told me so. She said to me,--'Try and make Papa
Jean-Claude decide. I am willing, and quite satisfied.'"
"Well, what can I do against two of you. Thou shalt come with us; it
is quite decided."
She gave a scream of delight which ran through the cottage,--"Oh, how
kind you are!"
And with one rub she wiped all her tears away,--"We are going to be
off, to take to the woods and to make war."
"Ah," said Hullin, shaking his head, "I see it now; thou art always the
little gypsy. As soon try to tame a swallow."
Then making her sit on his knees:--"Louise, it is now twelve years
since I found thee in the snow: thou wast blue, poor little one. And
when we were in the cottage, near a good fire, and thou wert slowly
reviving, the first thing thou didst was to smile at me. And since
that time thy will has always been mine. With that smile thou hast led
me wherever thou wouldst."
Then Louise began again to smile at him, and they embraced each other.
"Now we will look at the packages," he said, sighing. "Are they well
made, I wonder?"
He approached the bed, and was surprised to see his warmest clothes,
his flannel-waistcoats, all well brushed, folded, and packed; and
Louise's bundle, with her best dresses, petticoats, and stout shoes, in
nice order. At last he could not help laughing and crying out--"O
gypsy, gypsy! you are the one for making fine bundles, and going away
without ever turning the head."
Louise smiled. "Are you satisfied?"
"I suppose I must be. But during all this piece of work, I will
venture to say thou hast never thought of preparing my supper."
"Oh, it will soon be ready. I did not know you would return this
evening, Papa Jean-Claude."
"That is true, my child. Bring me something--no matter what--quickly,
for I am hungry. Meanwhile I shall smoke a pipe."
"Yes, that's it; smoke a pipe."
He sat down on the side of the bench and struck the tinder-box quite
dreamily. Louise rushed right and left like a sprite, seeing to the
fire, breaking the eggs, and turning out an omelette with surprising
celerity. Never had she appeared so lively, smiling, and pretty.
Hullin, his elbow on the table and his face in his hand, watched her
gravely, thinking how much will, firmness, and resolution there was in
this girl--as light as a fairy, yet determined as a hussar. In a few
seconds she served him with the omelette on a large china plate, with
bread, and the glass and bottle.
"There, Papa Jean-Claude, be hungry no longer." She observed him
eating with a look of tenderness.
The flame sprang up in the stove, lighting clearly the low beams, the
wooden stair in the shadow, the bed at the end of the alcove, the whole
of the abode, so often cheered by the joyous humor of the shoemaker,
the little songs of his daughter, and the industry of both. And all
this Louise was leaving without any hesitation: she cared only for the
woods, the snow-covered paths, and the endless mountains, reaching from
the village into Switzerland, and even beyond. Ah, Master Jean-Claude
had reason to cry "gypsy, gypsy!" The swallow cannot be tamed: it
needs the open air, the broad sky--continual motion. Neither storms,
nor wind, nor rain in torrents frighten it, when the hour of its
departure is at hand. It has only one thought, one desire, one
cry--"Let us away! Let us away."
The meal finished, Hullin rose and said to his daughter, "I am tired,
my child; kiss me, and let us go to bed."
"Yes; but do not forget to awake me, Papa Jean-Claude, if you start
before daybreak."
"Do not trouble thyself. It is understood thou shalt come with us."
And seeing her mount the stair and disappear in the garret: "Isn't she
afraid of stopping in the nest, that's all!" said he to himself.
The silence was great outdoors. Eleven o'clock had struck from the
village church. The good man was sitting down to take off his boots,
when he caught sight of his musket suspended above the door: he took it
down, wiped it, and drew the trigger. His whole soul was intent on the
business in hand.
"It is all right," he murmured: and then in a grave tone: "It is
curious.... The last time I held it ... at Marengo ... was fourteen
years ago, and yet it seems like yesterday!"
Suddenly the hardened snow cracked under a quick footstep. He
listened: "Someone!" At the same time two little sharp taps resounded
on the panes. He ran to the window and opened it. The head of Marc
Dives, with his broad hat stiff with the frost, bent forward from the
darkness.
"Well, Marc, what news?"
"Hast thou warned the mountaineers--Materne, Jerome, Labarbe?"
"Yes, all."
"It was time: the enemy has passed."
"Passed?"
"Yes, along the whole line. I have walked fifteen leagues through the
snow since this morning to announce it to thee."
"Good; the signal must be given: a great fire on the Falkenstein."
Hullin was very pale. He put on his boots. Two minutes later, his
large blouse on his shoulders and his stick in his hand, he softly
opened the door, and with long strides followed Marc Dives on the way
to the Falkenstein.