The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories
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I tried to answer, but she kept on:
“Hold, Joseph,” said she; “be silent; your Emperor has no heart—he will end miserably yet. God showed his finger this winter; He saw that we feared a man more than we feared Him; that mothers—like those whose babes Herod slew—dared no longer cling to their own flesh when that man demanded them for massacre; and so the cold came and our army perished; and now those who are leaving us are the same as already dead. God is weary of all this! You shall not go!” cried she obstinately; “I shall not let you go; you shall fly to the woods with Jean Kraft, Louis Bême, and all our bravest fellows; you shall go to the mountains—to Switzerland, and Catharine and I will go with you and remain until this destruction of men is ended.”
Then Aunt Grédel became silent. Instead of giving us an ordinary dinner, she gave us a better one than on Catharine’s birthday, and said, with the air of one who has taken a resolution:
“Eat, my children, and fear not; there will soon be a change!”
I returned about four in the evening to Phalsbourg, somewhat calmer than when I set out. But as I went up the Rue de la Munitionnaire, I heard at the corner of the college the drum of the sergent-de-ville, Harmantier, and I saw a throng gathered around him. I ran to hear what was going on, and I arrived just as he began reading a proclamation.
Harmantier read that, by the senatus-consultus of the 3d, the drawing for the conscription would take place on the 15th.
It was already the 8th, and only seven days remained. This upset me completely.
The crowd dispersed in the deepest silence. I went home sad enough, and said to Monsieur Goulden:
“The drawing takes place next Thursday.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “they are losing no time, things are pressing.”
It is easy to imagine my grief that day and the days following. I could scarcely stand; I constantly saw myself on the point of leaving home. I saw myself flying to the woods, the gendarmes at my heels, crying, “Halt! halt!” Then I thought of the misery of Catharine, of Aunt Grédel, of Monsieur Goulden. Then I imagined myself marching in the ranks with a number of other wretches, to whom they were crying out, “Forward! charge bayonets!” while whole files were being swept away. I heard bullets whistle and shells shriek; in a word, I was in a pitiable state.
“Be calm, Joseph,” said Monsieur Goulden; “do not torment yourself thus. I think that of all who may be drawn there are probably not ten who can give as good reasons as you for staying at home. The surgeon must be blind to receive you. Besides, I will see Monsieur the Commandant. Calm yourself.”
But these kind words could not reassure me.
Thus I passed an entire week almost in a trance, and when the day of the drawing arrived, Thursday morning, I was so pale, so sick-looking that the parents of conscripts envied, so to speak, my appearance for their sons. “That fellow,” they said, “has a chance; he would drop the first mile. Some people are born under a lucky star!”
CHAPTER VI
The town-house of Phalsbourg, that Thursday morning, January 15, 1813, during the drawing of the conscription, was a sight to be seen. To-day it is bad enough to be drawn, to be forced to leave parents, friends, home, one’s cattle and one’s fields, to go and learn—God knows where—“One! two! one! two! halt! eyes left! eyes right! front! carry arms!” etc., etc. Yes, this is all bad enough, but there is a chance of returning. One can say, with something like confidence: “In seven years I shall see my old nest again, and my parents, and perhaps my sweetheart. I shall have seen the world, and will perhaps have some title to be appointed forester or gendarme.” This is a comfort for reasonable people. But then, if you had the ill-luck to lose in the lottery, there was an end of you; often not one in a hundred returned. The idea that you were only going for a time never entered your head.
The enrolled of Harberg, of Garbourg, and of Quatre-Vents were to draw first; then those of the city, and lastly those of Wechem and Mittelbronn.
I was up early in the morning, and with my elbows on the work-bench I watched the people pass by; young men in blouses, poor old men in cotton caps and short vests; old women in jackets and woollen skirts, bent almost double, with a staff or umbrella under their arms. They arrived by families. Monsieur the Sub-Prefect of Sarrebourg, with his silver collar, and his secretary, had stopped the day before at the “Red Ox,” and they were also looking out of the window. Toward eight o’clock, Monsieur Goulden began work, after breakfasting. I ate nothing, but stared and stared until Monsieur the Mayor Parmentier and his co-adjutor, came for Monsieur the Sub-Prefect.
The drawing began at nine, and soon we heard the clarionet of Pfifer-Karl and the violin of big Andrès resounding through the streets. They were playing the “March of the Swedes,” an air to which thousands of poor wretches had left old Alsace for ever. The conscripts danced, linked arms, shouted until their voices seemed to pierce the clouds, stamped on the ground, waved their hats, trying to seem joyful while death was at their hearts. Well, it was the fashion; and big Andrès, withered, stiff, and yellow as boxwood, and his short chubby comrade, with cheeks extended to their utmost tension, seemed like people who would lead you to the church-yard all the while chatting indifferently.
That music, those cries, sent a shudder through my heart.
I had just put on my swallow-tailed coat and my beaver hat, to go out, when Aunt Grédel and Catharine entered, saying:
“Good-morning, Monsieur Goulden. We have come for the conscription.”
Then I saw how Catharine had been crying. Her eyes were red, and she threw her arms around my neck, while her mother turned to me.
Monsieur Goulden said:
“It will soon be the turn of the young men of the town.”
“Yes, Monsieur Goulden,” answered Catharine in a choking voice; “they have finished Harberg.”
“Then it is time for you to go, Joseph,” said he; “but do not grieve; do not be frightened. These drawings, you know, are only a matter of form. For a long while past none can escape; for if they escape one drawing, they are caught a year or two after. All the numbers are bad. When the council of exemption meets, we will see what is best to be done. To-day it is merely a sort of satisfaction they give the people to draw in the lottery; but every one loses.”
“No matter,” said Aunt Grédel; “Joseph will win.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Monsieur Goulden, smiling, “he cannot fail.”
Then I sallied forth with Catharine and Aunt Grédel, and we went to the town square, where the crowd was. In all the shops, dozens of conscripts, purchasing ribbons, thronged around the counters, weeping and singing as if possessed. Others in the inns embraced, sobbing; but still they sang. Two or three musicians of the neighborhood—the Gipsy Walteufel, Rosselkasten, and George Adam—had arrived, and their pieces thundered in terrible and heart-rending strains.
Catharine squeezed my arm. Aunt Grédel followed.
Opposite the guard-house I saw the pedler Pinacle afar off, his pack opened on a little table, and beside it a long pole decked with ribbons which he was selling to the conscripts.
I hastened to pass by him, when he cried:
“Ha! Cripple! Halt! Come here; I have a ribbon for you; you must have a magnificent one—one to draw a prize by.”
He waved a long black ribbon above his head, and I grew pale despite myself. But as we ascended the steps of the town-house, a conscript was just descending; it was Klipfel, the smith of the French gate; he had drawn number eight, and shouted:
“The black for me, Pinacle! Bring it here, whatever may happen.”
His face was gloomy, but he laughed. His little brother Jean was crying behind him, and said:
“No, no, Jacob! not the black!”
But Pinacle fastened the ribbon to the smith’s hat, while the latter said:
“That is what we want now. We are all dead, and should wear our own mourning.”
And he cried savagely:
“Vive l’Empereur!”
We had great difficulty in getting into the townhouse and in climbing the old oak stairs, where people were going up and down in swarms. In the great hall above, the gendarme Kelz walked about maintaining order as well as he could, and in the council-chamber at the side, where there was a painting of Justice with her eyes blindfolded, we heard them calling off the numbers. From time to time a conscript came out with flushed face, fastening his number to his cap and passing with bowed head through the crowd, like a furious bull who cannot see clearly and who would seem to wish to break his horns against the walls. Others, on the contrary, passed as pale as death. The windows of the town-house were open, and without we heard six or seven pieces playing together. It was horrible.
I pressed Catharine’s hand, and we passed slowly through the crowd to the hall where Monsieur the Sub-Prefect, the Mayors, and the Secretaries were seated on their tribune, calling the numbers aloud, as if pronouncing sentence of death in a court of justice, for all these numbers were really sentences of death.
We waited a long while.
It seemed as if there was no longer a drop of blood in my veins, when at last my name was called.
I stepped up, seeing and hearing nothing; I put my hand in the box and drew a number.
Monsieur the Sub-Prefect cried out:
“Number seventeen.”
Then I left without speaking, Catharine and her mother behind me. We went out into the square, and, the air reviving me, I remembered that I had drawn number seventeen.
Aunt Grédel seemed confounded.
“And I put something into your pocket, too,” said she; “but that rascal of a Pinacle gave you ill-luck.”
At the same time she drew from my coat-pocket the end of a cord. Great drops of sweat rolled down my forehead; Catharine was white as marble, and so we went back to Monsieur Goulden’s.
“What number did you draw, Joseph?” he asked, as soon as he saw us.
“Seventeen,” replied Aunt Grédel, sitting down with her hands upon her knees.
Monsieur Goulden seemed troubled for a moment, but he said instantly:
“One is as good as another. All will go; the skeletons must be filled. But it don’t matter for Joseph. I will go and see Monsieur the Mayor and Monsieur the Commandant. It will be telling no lie to say that Joseph is lame; all the town knows that; but among so many they may overlook him. That is why I go, so rest easy; do not be anxious.”
These words of good Monsieur Goulden reassured Aunt Grédel and Catharine, who returned to Quatre-Vents full of hope; but they did not affect me, for from that moment I had not a moment of rest day or night.
The Emperor had a good custom: he did not allow the conscripts to languish at home. Soon as the drawing was complete, the council of revision met, and a few days after came the orders of march. He did not do like those tooth-pullers who first show you their pincers and hooks and gaze for an hour into your mouth, so that you feel half dead before they make up their minds to begin work: he proceeded without loss of time.
A week after the drawing, the council of revision sat at the town-hall, with all the mayors and a few notables of the country to give advice in case of need.
The day before Monsieur Goulden had put on his brown great-coat and his best wig to go to wind up Monsieur the Mayor’s clock and that of the Commandant. He returned laughing and said:
“All goes well, Joseph. Monsieur the Mayor and Monsieur the Commandant know that you are lame; that is easy enough to be seen. They replied at once, Eh, Monsieur Goulden, the young man is lame; why speak of him? Do not be uneasy; we do not want the infirm; we want soldiers.”
These words poured balm on my wounds, and that night I slept like one of the blessed. But the next day fear again assailed me; I remembered suddenly how many men full of defects had gone all the same, and how many others invented defects to deceive the council; for instance, swallowing injurious substances to make them pale; tying up their legs to give themselves swollen veins; or playing deaf, blind, or foolish. Thinking over all these things, I trembled at not being lame enough, and determined that I would appear sufficiently forlorn. I had heard that vinegar would make one sick, and without telling Monsieur Goulden, in my fear I swallowed all the vinegar in his bottle. Then I dressed myself, thinking that I looked like a dead man, for the vinegar was very strong; but when I entered Monsieur Goulden’s room, he cried out:
“Joseph, what is the matter with you? You are as red as a cock’s comb.”
And, looking at myself in the mirror, I saw that my face was red to my ears, and to the tip of my nose. I was frightened, but instead of growing pale I became redder yet, and I cried out in my distress:
“‘Now I am lost indeed! I will seem like a man without a single defect, and full of health. The vinegar is rushing to my head.”
“What vinegar?” asked Monsieur Goulden.
“That in your bottle. I drank it to make myself pale, as they say Mademoiselle Sclapp, the organist does. O heavens! what a fool I was.”
“That does not prevent your being lame,” said Monsieur Goulden; “but you tried to deceive the council, which was dishonest. But it is half-past nine, and Werner is come to tell me you must be there at ten o’clock. So, hurry.”
I had to go in that state; the heat of the vinegar seemed bursting from my cheeks, and when I met Catharine and her mother, who were waiting for me at the town-house, they scarcely knew me.
“How happy and satisfied you look!” said Aunt Grédel.
I would have fainted on hearing this if the vinegar had not sustained me in spite of myself. I went upstairs in terrible agony, without being able to move my tongue to reply, so great was the horror I felt at my folly.
Upstairs, more than twenty-five conscripts who pretended to be infirm, had been examined and received, while twenty-five others, on a bench along the wall, sat with drooping heads awaiting their turn.
The old gendarme, Kelz, with his huge cocked hat, was walking about, and as soon as he saw me, exclaimed:
“At last! At last! Here is one, at all events, who will not be sorry to go; the love of glory is shining in his eyes. Very good, Joseph; I predict that at the end of the campaign you will be corporal.”
“But I am lame,” I cried, angrily.
“Lame!” repeated Kelz, winking and smiling, “lame! No matter. With such health as yours you can always hold your own.”
He had scarcely ceased speaking when the door of the hall of the Council of Revision opened, and the other gendarme, Werner, putting out his head, called me by name, “Joseph Bertha.”
I entered, limping as much as I could, and Werner shut the door. The mayors of the canton were seated in a semicircle, Monsieur the Sub-Prefect and the Mayor of Phalsbourg in the middle, in arm-chairs, and the Secretary Freylig at his table. A Harberg conscript was dressing himself, the gendarme Descarmes helping him put on his suspenders. This conscript, with a mass of brown hair falling over his eyes, his neck bare, and his mouth open as he caught his breath, seemed like a man going to be hanged. Two surgeons—the Surgeon-in-Chief of the Hospital, with another in uniform—were conversing in the middle of the hall. They turned to me saying, “Undress yourself.”
I did so, even to my shirt. The others looked on.
Monsieur the Sub-Prefect observed:
“There is a young man full of health.”
These words angered me, but I nevertheless replied respectfully:
“I am lame, Monsieur the Sub-Prefect.”
The surgeon examined me, and the one from the hospital, to whom Monsieur the Commandant had doubtless spoken of me, said:
“The left leg is a little short.”
“Bah!” said the other; “it is sound.”
Then placing his hand upon my chest he said, “The conformation is good. Cough.”
I coughed as feebly as I could; but he found me all right
, and said again:
“Look at his color. How good his blood must be!”
Then I, seeing that they would pass me if I remained silent, replied:
“I have been drinking vinegar.”
“Ah!” said he; “that proves you have a good stomach; you like vinegar.”
“But I am lame!” I cried in my distress.
“Bah! don’t grieve at that,” he answered; “your leg is sound. I’ll answer for it.”
“But that,” said Monsieur the Mayor, “does not prevent his being lame from birth; all Phalsbourg knows that.”
“The leg is too short,” said the surgeon from the hospital; “it is doubtless a case for exemption.”
“Yes,” said the Mayor; “I am sure that this young man could not endure a long march; he would drop on the road the second mile.”
The first surgeon said nothing more.
I thought myself saved, when Monsieur the Sub-Prefect asked:
“You are really Joseph Bertha?”
“Yes, Monsieur the Sub-Prefect,” I answered.
“Well, gentlemen,” said he, taking a letter out of his portfolio, “listen.”
He began to read the letter, which stated that, six months before, I had bet that I could go to Laverne and back quicker than Pinacle; that we had run the race, and I had won.
It was unhappily too true. The villain Pinacle had always taunted me with being a cripple, and in my anger I laid the wager. Every one knew of it. I could not deny it.
While I stood utterly confounded, the first surgeon said:
“That settles the question. Dress yourself.” And turning to the secretary, he cried, “Good for service.”
I took up my coat in despair.
Werner called another. I no longer saw anything. Some one helped me to get my arms in my coat-sleeves. Then I found myself upon the stairs, and while Catharine asked me what had poised, I sobbed aloud and would have fallen from top to bottom if Aunt Grédel had not supported me.
We went out by the rear-way and crossed the little court. I wept like a child, and Catharine did too. Out in the hall, in the shadow, we stopped to embrace each other.