"ALL IS LOST"
Jerome of St. Quirin had managed to make good his retreat to the farm,
and since midnight he had occupied the plateau.
"Who goes there?" cried his sentinels as the escort approached.
"It is we, from the village of Charmes," shouted Marc, in his
stentorian voice.
The sentinels approached to examine them, and then they passed on their
way.
The farm was silent; a sentry, his musket over his arm, was pacing
before the granary, where about thirty partisans were asleep upon the
straw. At the sight of these great dark roofs, the stables and
outhouses belonging to the old building where she had spent her youth,
where her father and grandfather had led their tranquil laborious lives
in peace, and which she was now about to abandon, perhaps forever,
Catherine felt a terrible wrenching at her heart; but no word escaped
her. Springing from the sledge, as in other days when she returned
from marketing, she said: "Come, Louise, here we are at home, thank
God."
Old Duchene pushed open the door, exclaiming: "Is that you, Madame
Lefevre?"
"Yes, it is I. Any news from Jean-Claude?"
"No, Madame."
They entered the large kitchen. Some cinders were still smouldering on
the hearth, and in the dark, under the broad chimney, was sitting
Jerome of St. Quirin, with his big horsehair hood, his great stick
between his knees, and his carbine leaning against the wall.
"Good-day, Jerome," said the old farm-wife.
"Good-day, Catherine," replied the grave chief of the Grosmann. "Have
you come from the Donon?"
"Yes: things are going badly, my poor Jerome. The 'kaiserlichs' were
attacking the farm when we left the plateau. Nothing but white
uniforms was to be seen on every side. They were already beginning to
cross the breastworks."
"Then you think Hullin will be compelled to abandon the road?"
"Possibly, if Piorette does not come to his assistance."
The partisans had approached near the fire. Marc Dives bent over the
cinders to light his pipe; on rising, he exclaimed: "I ask thee one
thing only, Jerome; I know beforehand that they fought well under thy
command----"
"We have done our duty," replied the shoemaker. "There are sixty men
stretched on the slopes of the Grosmann who will tell you so at the
last day."
"Yes; but who, then, guided the Germans? They could not have
discovered the pass of the Blutfeld by themselves."
"Yegof the madman--Yegof," said Jerome, whose gray eyes, encircled by
deep wrinkles and thick white eyebrows, seemed to sparkle in the
darkness.
"Ah! art thou certain of it?"
"Labarbe's men saw him climbing up; he led the others."
The partisans looked at each other with indignation.
At this moment Doctor Lorquin, who had remained outside to unharness
the horse, opened the door, shouting: "The battle is lost! Here are
our men from the Donon. I have just heard Lagarmitte's horn."
It is easy to imagine the emotion of the recipients of these tidings.
Each thought of the relations and friends that he might never see
again; and from the kitchen and the granary everybody at once rushed on
to the "plateau." At the same time Robin and Dubourg, posted as
sentinels above Bois-de-Chenes, cried out, "Who goes there?"
"France!" replied a voice.
Notwithstanding the distance, Louise, fancying she could recognize her
father's voice, was seized with such a fit of trembling that Catherine
was compelled to support her.
Just then the noise of many footsteps resounded over the hardened snow,
and Louise, unable to contain herself any longer, exclaimed, "Papa
Jean-Claude!"
"I am coming," replied Hullin, "I am coming."
"My father?" exclaimed Frantz Materne, rushing to meet Jean-Claude.
"He is with us, Frantz."
"And Kasper?"
"He has received a slight scratch, but it is nothing. Thou wilt see
them both again."
Catherine threw herself into Jean-Claude's arms.
"Oh, Jean-Claude, what joy to behold you once more!"
"Yes," replied the worthy man, in a suppressed voice, "there are many
who will never see their friends again."
"Frantz," said old Materne, "here, this way!"
And one could only see, on all sides, people seeking each other in the
dim light, squeezing hands, and embracing. Some called for, "Niclau!
Sapheri!" but many did not answer to their names.
Then the voices became hoarse, as though stifled, and relapsed into
silence. The joy of some, and the consternation of others, produced a
terrible sensation. Louise was in Hullin's arms, sobbing bitterly.
"Ah, Jean-Claude," said Mother Lefevre, "you will hear strange things
about that child. I will say no more now, but we have been
attacked----"
"Yes, we will talk of that later; our time is short," said Hullin.
"The road to the Donon is lost, the Cossacks may be here at daylight,
and we have many things to arrange."
He turned the corner and entered the farm, all following him. Duchene
had just thrown a fagot on the fire. All these people, with faces
blackened by powder, still animated by the combat, their clothes torn
by bayonet-thrusts, some blood-stained, advancing from the darkness
into the light, presented a strange spectacle. Kasper, whose forehead
was bandaged with his handkerchief, had received a sabre-cut; his
bayonet, buff facings, and high blue gaiters, were stained with blood.
Old Materne, thanks to his imperturbable presence of mind, returned
safe and sound from the fray. The remains of Jerome's and Hullin's
troops were thus once more united. They wore the same wild
physiognomies, animated by the same energy and desire for vengeance.
But Hullin's men, harassed by fatigue, sat down right and left, on the
fagots, on the stone sink, on the low pavement of the hearth--their
heads in their hands and elbows on their knees; while Jerome's, who
could not be convinced of the disappearance of Hans, Joson, and Daniel,
looked about everywhere, exchanging questions, broken by long pauses.
Materne's two sons held each other by the arm, as though afraid of
losing one another, and their father, behind them, leaning against the
wall, with his elbow on his gun, watched them with an expression of
satisfaction.
"There they are, I see them," he seemed to say: "two famous fellows!
They have saved their skins, both of them." If any one came to ask him
about Pierre, Jacques, or Nicolas, his son or his brother, he would
reply hap-hazard--"Yes, yes, there are several lying down there on
their backs. What can you expect? It is war! Your Nicolas has done
his duty. You must console yourself." Meanwhile he thought--"Mine are
out of the scrimmage; that is the chief thing."
Catherine and Louise were busy preparing supper. Duchene came up from
the cellar with a barrel of wine on his shoulder. He set it down, and
knocked out the bung; and each partisan presented his flask or cup to
be filled with the purple liquid which glittered in the firelight.
"Eat and drink," said the old dame to them: "all is not lost yet; you
will have need of your strength again. Here, Frantz, unhook those hams
for me. Here is bread and knives. Sit down, my children."
Frantz reached down the hams in the chimney with his bayonet.
The benches were brought forward; they sat down, and notwithstanding
their sorrows, they ate with that vigorous appetite which neither
present griefs nor thoughts for the future can make a mountaineer
forget. But it did not prevent a bitter sadness from filling the
hearts of these brave men; and first one and then another would stop
suddenly, letting fall his fork, and leave the table, saying--"I have
had enough!"
While the partisans were thus engaged in recruiting their strength, the
chiefs were assembled in the next room to make some last resolutions
for the defence. They sat round the table, on which was placed a tin
lamp: Doctor Lorquin, with his dog Pluto, looking inquiringly into his
master's face; Jerome, in the corner of the window to the right; Hullin
to the left, very pale; Marc Dives, his elbow on the table and cheek in
his hand, and his back turned to the door, showed only his brown
profile and the tip of his long mustache. Materne alone remained
standing, leaning, as was his custom, against the wall behind Lorquin's
chair, with his carbine at his feet. The noise of the men in the
kitchen could be distinctly heard.
When Catherine, summoned by Jean-Claude, entered the room, she heard a
sort of groan which made her shudder. It was Hullin who was speaking.
"All these brave lads--all these fathers of families, who fell one
after the other," he cried, in a heartrending voice, "do you think I
did not feel it? Do you think that I would not rather a thousand times
have been killed myself? You do not know what I have suffered this
night! To lose one's life is nothing; but to bear alone the weight of
such a responsibility----"
He paused: his trembling lips, the tear which trickled slowly down his
cheek, his attitude, all showed the scruples of the worthy man, in face
of one of those situations where conscience itself hesitates and seeks
further support. Catherine went and sat down quietly in the big
arm-chair. A few seconds later Hullin continued in a calmer
tone:--"Between eleven o'clock and midnight, Zimmer came up, shouting,
'We are turned! The Germans are coming down the Grosmann! Labarbe is
crushed! Jerome can hold out no longer!' What was to be done! Could
I beat a retreat? Could I abandon a position which had cost us so much
blood--the road to the Donon, the road to Paris? If I had done so,
should I not have been a coward? But I had only three hundred men
against four thousand at Grandfontaine, and I know not how many
descending from the mountain! Well, I decided at any cost to hold it;
it was our duty. I said to myself, 'Life is nothing without honor! We
will all die; but they shall not say that we have yielded the high-road
to France. No, no; they shall not say that.'"
At this moment Hullin's voice faltered, and his eyes filled with tears,
as he continued--"We held out; my brave children held out till two
o'clock. I saw them fall: they fell shouting, 'Vive la France!' I had
warned Piorette in the beginning of the action. He came up quickly,
with fifty stout men. It was too late. The enemy poured in on every
side; they held three parts of the plain, and forced us back among the
pine-forests on the Blanru side; their fire burst upon us. All I could
do was to assemble my wounded, those who could still drag along, and
put them under Piorette's escort; a hundred of my men joined him. For
myself, I only kept fifty to occupy the Falkenstein. We had to pass
right through the Germans, who wanted to cut off our retreat. Happily,
the night was dark; had it not been for that, not one of us would have
escaped. That is how we are situated. All is lost! The Falkenstein
alone remains ours, and we are reduced to three hundred men. Now the
question is, shall we go on to the end? I have already told you that I
dread to bear alone such a responsibility. So long as it concerned
defending the road to the Donon, there was no doubt about it: every man
belongs to his country. But this road is lost. We should need ten
thousand men to retake it; and at this very moment the enemy is
entering Lorraine. Come, what is to be done?"
"We must go on to the end," said Jerome.
"Yes, yes!" cried the others.
"Is that your opinion, Catherine?"
"Certainly," exclaimed the old dame, whose features expressed an
inflexible tenacity.
Then Hullin, in a firmer tone, explained his plan:--"The Falkenstein is
our point of retreat. It is our arsenal; it is there that we have our
ammunition; the enemy knows it; he will attempt an attack on that side,
therefore all of us here present must make an effort to defend it, so
that the whole country may see us and say, 'Catherine Lefevre, Jerome,
Materne and his boys, Hullin, and Doctor Lorquin are there. They will
not lay down their arms.' This idea will give fresh courage to all
manly hearts. Besides, Piorette will remain in the woods; his troops
will grow more numerous day by day: the country will be filled with
Cossacks and marauders of every description; when the enemy's army
shall have entered Lorraine I will signal to Piorette; he will throw
himself between the Donon and the highway, so that all the laggers
behind scattered over the mountains will be caught as in a trap. We
shall also be able to profit by favorable chances to carry off the
convoys of the Germans, to harass their reserves, and, if fortune aids
us, as we must hope it will, and all these 'kaiserlichs' are beaten in
Lorraine by our army, then we can cut off their retreat."
Everybody got up, and Hullin going into the kitchen, pronounced this
simple address to the mountaineers:--"My friends, we have decided that
we must push our resistance to the end. Nevertheless, every one is
free to do as he likes; to lay down his arms and return to his village;
but let those who wish to revenge themselves join us; they will share
our last morsel of bread and our last cartridge."
Colon, the old wood-floater, arose and said, "Hullin, we are all with
thee; we began to fight together, and so will we finish."
"Yes, yes!" they all shouted.
"Have you all decided? Well, listen. Jerome's brother will take the
command."
"My brother is dead," interrupted Jerome; "he lies on the slopes of the
Grosmann."
There was a moment's pause; then in a loud voice Hullin continued:
"Colon, thou wilt take the command of all those that remain, with the
exception of the men who formed Catherine Lefevre's escort, and whom I
shall keep with me. Thou wilt go and rejoin Piorette in the valley of
Blanru, passing by the 'Two Rivers.'"
"And the ammunition?" said Marc Dives.
"I have brought up my wagon-load," said Jerome; "Colon can use it."
"Let the dray be loaded," said Catherine; "the Cossacks are coming, and
will pillage everything. Our men must not leave empty-handed; let them
take away the cows, oxen, and calves--everything: it will be so much
gained on the enemy."
Five minutes later the farm was being ransacked; the dray was loaded
with hams, smoked meats, and bread; the cattle were led out of the
stables, the horses harnessed to the great wagon, and soon the convoy
began its march, Robin at the head, blowing on his horn, with the
partisans behind pushing at the wheels. When it had disappeared in the
road, and silence had succeeded to all the noise, Catherine turning
round, beheld Hullin behind her.
"Well, Catherine," said he, "all is finished! We are now going to make
our way up there."
Frantz, Kasper, and those of the escort, with Marc Dives and Materne,
all armed, were waiting in the kitchen.
"Duchene," said the good woman, "go down to the village; you must not
be ill-treated by the enemy on my account."
The old servant shook his white head, and, with his eyes full of tears,
replied:--"I may as well die here, Madame Lefevre. It is nearly fifty
years since I came to the farm. Do not make me leave; it would be the
death of me."
"Do as you like, my poor Duchene," replied Catherine, softly; "here are
the keys of the house."
And the poor old man sat down in the chimney-corner, on a settee, with
fixed eyes and half-open mouth, as though lost in some painful reverie.
Then began the journey to the Falkenstein. Marc Dives, on horseback,
sword in hand, formed the rear-guard. Frantz and Hullin watched the
plateau to the left; Kasper and Jerome the valley to the right: Materne
and the men of the escort surrounded the women. It was a singular
sight. Before the cottages of the village of Charmes, on the
door-steps, at the windows and loopholes, appeared the faces of young
and old, looking at the flight of Mother Lefevre; nor did their evil
tongues spare her:--"Ah! they are turned out at last," cried some;
"another time, do not meddle with what does not concern you."
Others reflected with a loud voice, that Catherine had been rich long
enough, and that every one should have his turn at poverty. As for the
industry, wisdom, kind-heartedness, and all the virtues of the old
farm-wife, or Jean-Claude's patriotism, or the courage of Jerome and
the three Maternes, the disinterested motives of Doctor Lorquin or Marc
Dives's self-sacrifice, nobody ever mentioned them; for were they not
vanquished?