The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories (132 page)

“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 Divès, with his broad hat stiff with the frost, bent forward from the darkness.

“Well, Marc, what news?”

“Hast thou warned the mountaineers—Materne, Jérome, 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 Divès on the way to the Falkenstein.

CHAPTER VII

RISING OF THE PARTISANS

From midnight till six in the morning a flame shone through the darkness on the summit of the Falkenstein, and the whole mountain was on the alert.

All the friends of Hullin, Marc Divès, and of Mother Lefèvre, their long gaiters on their legs and old muskets on their shoulders, journeyed, through the silent woods, toward the gorges of the Valtin. The thought of the enemy traversing the plains of Alsace to surprise the passes, was present to the minds of all. The tocsins of Dagsburg, Abreschwiller, Walsch, and St. Quirin, and of all the other villages, began to call the defenders of the country to arms.

Now you must picture to yourself the Jägerthal, at the foot of the old castle, in unusually snowy weather, at that early hour when the clumps of trees begin to creep out of the shadow, and when the extreme cold of night softens at the approach of day. Picture, also, to yourself the old Sawyerie, with its flat roof, its heavy wheel burdened with icicles, the low interior dimly lit up by a pine-wood fire, whose blaze fades away in the glimmer of the coming dawn; and, around the fire, fur bonnets, caps, and black profiles, gazing one over the other, and squeezing close together like a wall; and farther on, in the woods, more fires lighting up groups of men and women squatting in the snow.

The agitation began to decrease. As the sky became grayer the people recognized each other.

“Ah, it is Cousin Daniel of Soldatenthal. You have come too?”

“Yes, as you see, Heinrich, with my wife also.”

“What, Cousin Nanette! Where is she?”

“Down there, near the old oak, by Uncle Hans’ fire.”

They shook hands. Many could be heard yawning loudly: others threw on the fire bits of planks. The gourds went round; some retired from the circles to make room for their shivering neighbors. Meanwhile the crowd began to grow impatient.

“Ah,” cried some, “we did not come here only to get our feet warmed. It is time to see and come to an understanding.”

“Yes, yes! Let them hold a council, and name the chiefs.”

“No; everybody is not yet arrived. See, there are more coming from Dagsburg and St. Quirin.”

Indeed, the lighter it became, the more people could be seen hastening along all the mountain paths. At that time there must have been many hundreds of men in the valley—wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, raftsmen—without counting the women and children.

Nothing could be more picturesque than that gathering in the midst of the snows, in the depths of the defile, closed in as it was by tall pines losing themselves in the clouds. To the right, the valleys opening away into each other as far as the eye could reach; to the left, the ruins of the Falkenstein rising into the sky. From a distance one would have said it was a flock of cranes settled on the ice; but, nearer, these hardy men could be distinguished, with stiff beards bristling like a boar, gloomy fierce eyes, broad square shoulders, and horny hands. Some few, taller than the rest, belonged to the fiery race of red men, white-skinned, and hairy to the tips of their fingers, with strength enough to pull an oak up by the roots. Among this number was old Materne of Hengst, with his two sons Kasper and Frantz. These sturdy fellows—all three armed with little rifles from Innsprück—having blue cloth gaiters with leathern buttons reaching above their knees, their loins girdled with goat-skin, and their felt hats coming down low over their necks—did not deign to approach the fire. For an hour they had been sitting on a trunk by the river-side, on the watch, with their feet in the snow. From time to time the old man would say to his sons, “What do they shiver for over there? I never knew a milder night for the season: it is nothing—the rivers are not even touched.”

All the forest-hunters of the country passing by came to shake hands with them, then congregated round them and formed a circle apart. These fellows spoke little, being used to silence for whole days and nights, for fear of frightening away their game.

Marc Divès, standing in the middle of another group, a head taller than any of them, spoke and gesticulated—pointing now to one part of the mountain, now to another. In front of him was the old herdsman Lagarmitte, with his large gray smock, a long bark trumpet on his shoulder, and his dog at his feet. He listened to the smuggler, open-mouth, and kept on bowing his head. The others all seemed attentive: they were composed of charcoal-burners and wood-carriers, with whom the smuggler had daily intercourse.

Between the saw-mills and the first fire, on the bridge over the dam, sat the bootmaker Jérome of St. Quirin—a man of from fifty to sixty years of age, with a long brown face, hollow eyes, big nose—his ears covered with a badger-skin cap—and a yellow beard reaching to his waist in a peak. His hands, enveloped in great green woollen gloves, were clasped over an immense stick of knotty service-tree. He wore a long sackcloth hood; and might easily have been taken for a hermit. At every rumor that arose, Father Jérome would slowly turn his head, and try to catch what it was, frowning.

Jean Labarbe, grasping his axe, remained immovable. He was a white-faced man, with an aquiline nose and thin lips. He exercised great influence over the men of Dagsburg, owing to his resolution and the clearness of his ideas. When they shouted around him, “We must deliberate; we cannot stay here doing nothing,” he simply contented himself with saying, “Let us wait: Hullin has not arrived, nor Catherine Lefèvre. There is no hurry.” Everybody then was silenced, and looked impatiently toward the path from Charmes.

The sawyer Piorette—a small, brisk, thin, energetic man, whose black eyebrows met above his eyes—stood on the threshold of his hut, with his pipe between his teeth, contemplating the general appearance of this scene.

Meanwhile, the impatience increased every moment. Some village mayors—in square-cut coats and three-cornered hats—advanced in the direction of the saw-mills, calling on their communes to come and decide what was to be done. Most fortunately, at last Catherine Lefèvre’s cart appeared, and a thousand enthusiastic shouts arose on all sides:

“There they are! they come!”

Old Materne gravely mounted on a trunk and quietly descended, saying, “It is they.”

Great agitation showed itself. The farthest groups gathered together in one crowd. A sort of impatient shiver passed over the mass. Scarcely has the old farmer’s wife become visible, whip in hand, on her straw box with little Louise, than from all parts came cries of “Vive la France! Vive la mère Catherine!”

Hullin, who had remained behind, his broad hat pushed back, his musket slung across his shoulder, was now crossing the meadow of Eichmath, distributing vigorous shakes of the hand: “Good-day, Daniel; good-day, Colon. Good-day—good-day!”

“Ah! it is going to be warm, Hullin.”

“Yes—yes; we are going to hear the chestnuts popping this winter. Good-day, my old Jérome! We have serious business on hand.”

“Yes, Jean-Claude. We must hope to pull through it by the grace of God.”

Catherine, on arriving at the saw-works, told Labarbe to set on the ground a keg of brandy which she had brought away from the farm, and to get a jug from the sawyer’s cottage.

Soon after, Hullin, coming up to the fire, met Materne and his two sons.

“You have come late,” said the old hunter.

“Ah! yes. What was to be done? I had to descend the Falkenstein, get my gun, and start the women. But as we are now here, let us lose no more time; Lagarmitte, blow thy horn, so that all the men may assemble. The first thing is to appoint the leaders.”

Lagarmitte blew his long trumpet, his cheeks puffed out to his ears: then those who were still on the hill-sides or paths hastened their pace to be in time. Soon all those brave fellows were assembled in front of the saw-works. Hullin got up on a pile of tree-trunks, and looking seriously upon the crowd, said, amidst deep silence: “The enemy crossed the Rhine the day before yesterday: they are marching over the mountain into Lorraine: Strasbourg and Huningue are blockaded. We may expect to see the Germans and Prussians in three or four days.”

There was a loud shout of “Vive la France!”

“Yes, vive la France!” continued Hullin; “for if the allies enter Paris they can do what they choose; they can re-establish statute-labor, tithes, convents, monopolies, and the gallows. If you wish to see that over again, you have only to let them pass.”