The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories (142 page)

“No; it is no use; the bone is smashed. Light the pipe, Dubois. Now, Nicolas, smoke away.”

The unhappy fellow began, though evidently without relish.

“Is all ready?” asked the doctor.

“Yes,” replied Nicolas, in a husky voice.

“Good. Attention, Dubois! Sponge away.”

And he made a rapid turn in the flesh with a great knife. Nicolas ground his teeth. The blood spurted up, and Dubois bound up something tightly. The saw grated for two seconds, and the arm fell heavily on the boards.

“That is what I call a well-performed operation,” said Lorquin.

Nicolas was no longer smoking; the pipe had fallen from his lips. David Schlosser, of Walsch, who had held him, let go. They bound up the stump with linen, and, all unaided, Nicolas went to lie down on the straw.

“One more finished! Sponge the table well, Dubois, and let us go on to another,” said the doctor, washing his hands in a large bowl.

Each time that he said, “Let us go on to another,” the wounded moved uneasily, terrified by the screams they heard and the glittering knives they saw. But what was to be done? Every room in the farm, the granary, and the lofts was full. They were thus obliged to operate under the eyes of those who would soon in their turns come beneath the painful knife.

The operation had taken but a few seconds. Materne and his sons looked on for the same reason as one looks at other horrible things,—to know what they are like. Then in the corner, under the old china clock, they saw a heap of amputated limbs.

Nicolas’s arm had already been cast among them, and a ball was now being extracted from the shoulder of a red-whiskered mountaineer of the Harberg. They opened deep gashes in his back; his flesh quivered, and the blood coursed down his powerful limbs.

The dog Pluto, behind the doctor, looked on with an attentive air, as though he understood, and from time to time stretched himself and yawned loudly.

Materne could look on no longer.

“Let us get out of this,” said he.

Hardly were they outside the door, when they heard the doctor exclaim, “I have got the ball!” which must indeed have been satisfactory to the man from the Harberg.

Once outside, Materne, inhaling the cold air with, delight, exclaimed: “Only think that the same might have happened to us!”

“True,” said Kasper; “to get a ball in one’s head is nothing; but to be cut up in that style, and then to beg one’s bread for the rest of one’s days!”

“Bah! I should do the same as old Rochart,” said Frantz. “I should die quietly. The old fellow was right. When one has done one’s duty, why should one be afraid?”

Just then the hum of voices was heard on their right.

“It is Marc Divès and Hullin,” said Kasper, listening.

“Yes; they must be just returning from throwing up breastworks behind the pine-wood, to protect the cannon,” added Frantz.

They listened again; the footsteps came nearer.

“Thou must be very much bothered with these three prisoners,” said Hullin, roughly. “Since thou returnest to the Falkenstein to-night to get ammunition, what prevents thee from taking them away?”

“Where are they to be put?”

“Why, in the communal prison of Abreschwiller, to be sure. We cannot keep them here.”

“All right, I understand, Jean-Claude. And if they try to escape on the way, I am to use my sword?”

“Just so.”

By this time they had reached the door, and Hullin, perceiving Materne, could not suppress a shout of enthusiasm: “Ah! Is it thou, old fellow? I have been searching for thee an hour. Where the devil wert thou?”

“We have been carrying poor Rochart to the ambulance, Jean-Claude.”

“Ah! it is a sad affair, isn’t it?”

“Yes; it is sad.”

There was a moment’s pause, and the satisfaction of the worthy man again became visible.

“It is not at all lively,” said he; “but what is to be done when one goes to the war? You are not hurt any of you?”

“No; we are all three safe and sound.”

“So much the better. Those who are left can boast of being lucky.”

“True,” cried Marc Divès, laughing. “At one time I thought Materne was going to give way. Without those cannon-balls at the finish, things would have gone badly.”

Materne colored, and glanced sideways at the smuggler.

“Perhaps so,” said he, dryly; “but without the cannon-balls at the beginning, we should not have needed those at the end. Old Rochart, and fifty other brave men, would still have had their arms and legs, and our victory would not have been clouded.”

“Bah!” interrupted Hullin, anticipating a dispute between the two brave fellows, neither of whom was remarkable for his conciliatory disposition. “Leave that alone. Every one has done his duty; and that is the chief thing.”

Then, addressing Materne: “I have just sent a flag of truce to Framont, to bid the Germans carry away their wounded. In an hour, I dare say, they will be here. Our sentries must be warned to let them approach if they come without arms and with torches. If in any other way, let them be received with a volley.”

“I will go at once,” answered the old hunter.

“Materne, thou wilt afterward sup at the farm with thy boys.”

“Agreed, Jean-Claude.”

And he went off.

Hullin then bade Frantz and Kasper light great bivouac fires; Marc was at once to feed his horses, so that he might go without delay to procure ammunition. Seeing them hurrying away, Hullin turned into the farm.

CHAPTER XVII

ROUND THE FESTIVE BOARD

At the end of the dark alley was the yard of the farm, into which one descended by five or six well-worn steps. On the left were the granary and the wine-press; to the right the stables and pigeon-cot, the gables of which stood out black on the dark cloudy sky; and in front of the door was the laundry.

No sound from the outside reached the yard. After so many tumultuous scenes, Hullin was impressed by the deep silence. He looked up at the piles of straw hanging from the beams of the granary roof, the ploughs and carts in the shadows of the outhouses, and an inexpressible feeling of calm and repose came over him. A cock was roosting quietly among the hens on the wall. A big cat, darting quickly by, disappeared through a hole into the cellar. Hullin thought himself in a dream.

After a few moments spent in silent contemplation, he walked slowly toward the laundry, the three windows of which shone brightly in the darkness: for the farm-kitchen not being large enough for preparing food for three or four hundred men, it was now being used for the purposes of cooking.

Master Jean-Claude heard Louise’s clear voice giving orders in a resolute tone, which astonished him.

“Now, Katel, quick! supper-time is near. Our people must be hungry. Since six in the morning they have taken nothing, and have been fighting all the time. They must not be kept waiting. Come, bestir yourself, Lesselé; bring the salt and pepper!”

Jean-Claude’s heart leaped within him at the sound of this voice. He could not help gazing for a minute through the window before entering.

The kitchen was large, with low whitewashed ceiling. A beechwood fire crackled on the hearth, its red flames encircling the sides of an immense kettle. The charming figure of Louise, wearing her short petticoat so as to move unimpeded, a bright color in her face, the short red body of her dress leaving uncovered her round shoulders and white neck, stood out clearly in the foreground. She was in all the bustle of the occasion, coming and going, tasting the soup and sauces with a knowing air, and approving and criticising everything.

“A little more salt! Lesselé, have you almost done plucking that great lean cock? At this rate we shall never have finished!”

It was delightful to see her thus busily commanding. It brought tears into Hullin’s eyes.

The two daughters of the anabaptist—one tall, thin, and pale, with her large flat feet encased in round shoes, her red hair fastened up in a little black cap, her blue stuff dress falling in folds to her heels; the other fat, slowly lifting up one foot after the other, and waddling along like a duck—forming a striking contrast to Louise.

The stout Katel went panting about without saying a word, while Lesselé performed everything in her sleepy methodical way.

The worthy anabaptist himself, seated at the end of the room, with his legs crossed on a wooden chair, his cotton cap on his head, and his hands in his blouse pockets, looked on with a wondering air, addressing to them sententious exhortations from time to time: “Lesselé, Katel! be obedient, my children. Let this be for your instruction. You have not yet seen the world. You must be quicker and sharper.”

“Yes, yes, you must bestir yourselves,” added Louise. “Gracious! what should become of us if we stood thinking months and weeks before putting a little onion into a sauce! Lesselé, you are the tallest, unhook me that parcel of onions from the ceiling.”

The girl obeyed.

Hullin had never felt prouder in his life.

“How she makes them move about!” thought he. “Ah! ha! ha! she is like a little hussar. I never should have believed it.”

After having watched them for five minutes, he went into the room.

“Well done, my children!”

Louise was holding a soup-ladle at the time. She let it fall, and threw herself into his arms, crying: “Papa Jean-Claude, is it you? you are not wounded? Nothing is the matter with you?”

At the sound of this voice, Hullin turned pale, and could make no reply. After a long silence, pressing her to his heart, he said: “No, Louise, I am quite well; I am very happy.”

“Sit down, Jean-Claude,” said the anabaptist, seeing him trembling with emotion; “here, take my chair.”

Hullin sat down, and Louise, with her arms on his shoulder, began to cry.

“What is the matter, my child?” said the worthy man, kissing her. “Come, calm thyself. Only a few seconds ago thou wert so courageous.”

“Oh, yes, but I was only acting; I was very much afraid. I thought, ‘Why does he not come?’”

She threw her arms round his neck. Then a strange idea came into her head. She took him by the hand, crying: “Papa Jean-Claude, let us dance, let us dance!”

And they made three or four turns. Hullin could not help laughing, and turning toward the grave anabaptist, said: “We are rather mad, Pelsly; do not let that astonish you.”

“No, Master Hullin, it is quite natural. King David himself danced before the ark after his great victory over the Philistines.”

Jean-Claude, astonished to find that he was like King David, made no reply.

“And thou, Louise,” he continued, stopping, “thou wert not afraid during this last battle?”

“Oh, at first, with all the noise and the roaring of the cannons; but afterward I only thought of you and of Mamma Lefèvre.”

Master Jean-Claude grew silent again.

“I knew,” thought he, “that she was a brave girl. She has everything in her favor.”

Louise taking him by the hand, then led him to a regiment of pans around the fire, and showed him with delight her kitchen.

“Here is the beef and roast mutton, here is General Jean-Claude’s supper, and here is the soup for our wounded. Haven’t we been busy! Lesselé and Katel would tell you so. And here is our bread,” said she, pointing to a long row of loaves arranged on the table. “Mamma Lefèvre and I mixed up the flour.”

Hullin looked on astonished.

“But that is not all,” said she; “come over here.”

She took off the lid of a saucepan, and the kitchen was immediately filled with a savory odor which would have rejoiced the heart of a gourmand.

Jean-Claude was deeply touched by all these proofs of attention to the wants of his men.

Just then Mother Lefèvre came in.

“Well,” said she, “prepare the table; everybody is waiting over there. Come, Katel, go and lay the cloth.”

The girl went running out to do so.

They all crossed the dark yard and made their way toward the large room. Doctor Lorquin, Dubois, Marc Divès, Materne, and his two boys, all very hungry, were awaiting the soup impatiently.

“How about our wounded, doctor?” said Hullin, on entering.

“They have all been attended to, Master Jean-Claude. You have given us plenty of work to do; but the weather is favorable; there is nothing to fear from putrid fevers; things wear a pleasant aspect.”

Katel, Lesselé, and Louise soon came in bearing an immense tureen of smoking soup and two sirloins of roast beef, which they deposited on the table. They all sat down without ceremony—old Materne to the right of Jean-Claude, Catherine Lefèvre to the left; and from that time the clatter of spoons and forks and the gurgling of the bottles took the place of conversation till half-past eight in the evening. The glow which might be seen from the outside upon the windows, proved that the volunteers were doing justice to Louise’s cookery, which contributed greatly to the enjoyment of her guests.

At nine o’clock Marc Divès was on his way to Falkenstein with the prisoners. At ten everybody was asleep at the farm, on the plateau, and around the watchfires. The silence was only broken by the passing of the patrols and the challenge of the sentinels.