The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories

by Émile Erckmann

“We will talk no more politics!”

  “No! but whether one is Jacobin or anything else you will, the principal thing is to keep in good temper.”

  She then came and embraced me, and said:

  “My poor Joseph! I have been thinking of you from morning till night. But all is well now and I am satisfied.”

  She ran into the kitchen and commenced bustling among the kettles to prepare something to regale us with, while Mr. Goulden placed his cane in a corner and hung his great hat upon it, and sat down with an air of contentment near the hearth.

  “What fine weather!” he exclaimed, “how green and flourishing everything is! How happy I should be to live in the fields, to see the hedges and apple-trees and plum-trees from my windows, covered with their red and white blossoms!”

  He was gay as a lark, and we all should have been except for the thoughts of the war which were constantly coming into our heads.

  “Leave all that, mother,” said Catherine, “I will get the dinner to-day as I used to do; go and sit down quietly with Mr. Goulden.”

  “But you do not know where anything is, I have disarranged everything,” said aunt.

  “Sit down, I beg you,” said Catherine, “I shall find the butter and the eggs and the flour and everything that is necessary.”

  “Well, well! I am going to obey you,” said she, as she went down to the cellar.

  Catherine took off her pretty shawl and hung it on the back of my chair, then she put some wood on the fire and some butter in a saucepan and looked into the kettles to see that everything was in order. Aunt came in at that moment with a bottle of white wine.

  “You will first refresh yourselves a little before dinner, and while Catherine looks after the kitchen I will go and put on my sacque and give my hair a touch with the comb, for certainly it needs it, and you—go into the orchard;—here, Joseph, take these glasses and the bottle and go and sit in the bee-house, the weather is fine, in an hour all will be in order and I will come and drink with you.”

  Father Goulden and I went out through the tall grass and the yellow dandelions which came up to our knees. It was very warm and the air was full of soft murmurs. We sat down in the shade and looked at the glorious sunshine.

  Mr. Goulden took off his peruke in order to be more at his ease and hung it up behind him, and I opened the bottle and we drank some of the good white wine.

  “Well! all goes on even though man does commit follies; the Lord God watches over all his works. Look at the grain, Joseph, how it grows! What a harvest there will be in three or four months. And those turnips and cabbages, and the shrubs, and the bees, how busy everything is, how they live and grow! what a pity it is that men do not follow so good an example! what a pity that some must labor to support the others in idleness. What a pity that there must be always idlers of every kind, who treat us like Jacobins because we wish for order and peace and justice!”

  There was nothing he liked so much to see as industry, not only that of man but even of the smallest insect that runs about in the grass, as in an endless forest, which builds and pairs and covers its eggs, heaps them up in its places of deposit, exposes them to the sunshine, protects them from the chills of night, and defends them from its enemies; in short, all that great universe of life where everything sings, everything is in its place; from the lark which fills the air with his joyous music to the ant which goes and comes and runs and mows and saws and pulls and is master of all trades.

  This was what pleased Mr. Goulden, but he never spoke of it except in the fields, when this grand spectacle was right under his eyes, and naturally he then spoke of God, whom he called the “Supreme Being,” as in the time of the Republic, and he said, He was reason and wisdom and goodness and love; justice, order, and life. The ideas of the almanac-makers came back to him also, and it was splendid to hear him talk of the “Pluviose” the season of rains, of “Nivose” the season of snows, of “Ventose” season of winds, and “Floreal, Prairial, and Fructidor.” He said the ideas of men in those times were more closely allied to God’s, while July, September, and October meant nothing, and were only invented to confuse and obscure everything. Once on this subject it was plain that he could not exhaust it. Unfortunately I have not the learning that that good man had, otherwise it would give me real pleasure to recount his sayings to you. We were just here when Mother Grédel, well washed and combed and in her Sunday dress, came round the corner of the house toward us. He stopped instantly that she might not be disturbed.

  “Here I am,” she said, “all in order.”

  “Sit down,” said Father Goulden, making a place for her beside him on the bench.

  “Do you know what time it is?” said she. “Does it not seem long to you? Listen!” and we heard the city clock slowly strike twelve.

  “What! is it noon already! I would not have believed that we had been here more than ten minutes.”

  “Yes, it is noon, and dinner is waiting.”

  “So much the better,” said Mr. Goulden, offering his arm to her, “since you have told me the hour I find I have a good appetite.”

  They went along the alley arm in arm, and when we were at the door a most charming sight met our eyes, the great tureen with its red flowers was smoking on the table, a breast of stuffed veal filled the room with a delicious odor. A great plate of cinnamon cakes stood on the edge of the old oak buffet, two bottles of wine, and glasses clear as crystal, shone on the white cloth beside the plates. The very sight of it made you feel that it is the joy of the Lord to shower blessings on His children.

  Catherine, with her rosy cheeks and white teeth, laughed to see our satisfaction, and during the whole dinner our anxiety for the future was forgotten. We laughed and were as happy as if the world were in the best condition possible. But as we were taking coffee our sadness returned, and without knowing why, we were all very grave. Nobody wished to speak of politics, when suddenly Aunt Grédel herself asked if there was anything new. Mr. Goulden then said that the Emperor desired peace, and that he wished to put himself in a condition of defence, in order to warn our enemies that we were not afraid. He said that in any case, in spite of the ill-feeling of the allies they would not dare to attack us, that the Emperor Francis, though he had not much heart, would not wish to overthrow his son-in-law and his own daughter and grandson a second time, that it would be contrary to nature, and besides that, the nation would rise en masse, that they would declare the country to be in danger, and that it would not be a war of soldiers alone, but of all Frenchmen against those who wished to oppress them, that this would make the allied sovereigns reflect, etc., etc.

  He said many other things which I do not recall. Aunt Grédel listened without saying a word. She rose at last, and went to a closet and took a piece of paper from a porringer, and, giving it to Mr. Goulden, said, “Read this; such papers are all around the country; this came to me from the Vicar Diemer. You will see whether peace is so certain.”

  As Mr. Goulden had left his spectacles at home, I read the paper. I put all those old papers aside years and years ago, they have grown yellow and no one thinks of them or speaks of them, and still it is well to read them. How do we know what will happen? Those old kings and emperors died after doing us all the harm possible, but their sons and grandsons still live, and do not wish us overmuch good, and that which they said then they may say again now, and those who lent their aid to the fathers might incline to help their sons. Here is the paper.

  “The Allied Powers which signed the treaty of Paris, assembled in Congress at Vienna, having been informed of the escape of Napoleon Bonaparte, and of his entrance into France with arms in his hands, owe it to their dignity and to the interest of social order to make a solemn declaration of the sentiments which this event has excited. In violating the terms of the convention which placed him at Elba, Bonaparte destroyed his only legal title to life; and in reappearing in France with projects for disturbing the public peace, he has deprived himself of the protection of the laws, and made it
manifest to the universe that there can be neither truce nor peace with him.”

  And so they continued through two long pages, and those people who had nothing in common with us, who had no concern with our affairs, and who gave themselves the title of Defenders of the Peace, finished by declaring that they united themselves to maintain the treaty of Paris and replace Louis XVIII. on the throne.

  When I had finished, aunt turned to Mr. Goulden and asked:

  “What do you think of all that?”

  “I think,” said he, “that those sovereigns despise the people, and that they would exterminate the human race without shame or pity in order to maintain fifteen or twenty families in luxury. They look upon themselves as gods, and upon us as brutes.”

  “Doubtless,” replied Aunt Grédel. “I do not deny it, but all that will not prevent Joseph from being compelled to go away.”

  I turned quite pale, for I saw that she was right.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Goulden, “I knew that some days ago, and this is what I have done. You have heard, no doubt, Mother Grédel, that great workshops have been built for repairing arms. There is an arsenal at Pfalzbourg, but they are in want of skilful workmen. Of course the good laborers render as much service to the state in repairing arms as those who go to battle; they have more to do, but they do not risk their lives, and they remain at home. Well! I went at once to the commandant of artillery, and asked him to accept Joseph as a workman. It is nothing for a good clock-maker to repair a gun-lock, and Mr. Montravel accepted him at once. Here is his order,” said he, showing us a paper which he took from his pocket.

  I felt as if I had returned to life, and I exclaimed, “Oh! Mr. Goulden, you are more than a father; you have saved my life.”

  Catherine, who had been overwhelmed with anxiety, got up and went out, and Aunt Grédel kissed Mr. Goulden twice over, and said, “Yes, you are the best of men, a man of sense and of a great spirit. If all Jacobins were like you, women would wish only for Jacobins.”

  “But it was the most simple thing in the world to do!”

  “No, no; it is your good heart which gives you good thoughts.”

  Words failed me in my joy and astonishment, and while aunt was speaking I went out into the orchard to take the air. Catherine was there in a corner of the bake-house, weeping hot tears.

  “Ah! now I can breathe again,” she said, “now I can live.”

  I embraced her with deep emotion. I saw what she had suffered during the last month, but she was a brave woman, and had concealed her anxiety from me, knowing that I had enough on my own account. We stayed for ten minutes in the orchard to wipe away our tears, and then went in. Mr. Goulden said:

  “Well, Joseph! you go to-morrow; you must set off early, and you will not lack work.”

  Oh! what joy to think I should not be compelled to go away, and then too I had other reasons for wishing to remain at home, for Catherine and I already had our hopes. Ah! those who have not suffered cannot realize our feelings, nor understand what a weight this good news lifted from our hearts. We stayed an hour longer at Quatre Vents, and as the people were coming from vespers, at nightfall, we set off for the town. Aunt Grédel went with us to where the post changes horses, and at seven o’clock we were at home again.

  It was thus that peace was established between Aunt Grédel and Mr. Goulden, and now she came to see us as often as before. I went every day to the arsenal and worked at repairing the guns. When the clock struck twelve I went home to dinner, and at one returned to my work and stayed until seven o’clock. I was at once soldier and workman, excused from roll-call but overwhelmed with work. We hoped that I could remain in that position till the war was over, if unfortunately it commenced again, but we were sure of nothing.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Our confidence returned a little after I worked at the arsenal, but still we were anxious, for hundreds of men on furloughs for six months, conscripts, and old soldiers enlisted for one campaign, passed through the town in citizens’ clothes but with knapsacks on their backs. They all shouted “Vive l’Empereur!” and seemed to be furious. In the great hall of the town-house they received one a cloak, another a shako, and others epaulettes and gaiters and shoes, at the expense of the department, and off they went, and I wished them a pleasant journey. All the tailors in town were making uniforms by contract, the gendarmes gave up their horses to mount the cavalry, and the mayor, Baron Parmentier, urged the young men of sixteen and seventeen to join the partisans of Colonel Bruce, who defended the defiles of the Zorne, the Zinselle, and the Saar.

  The baron was going to the “Champ de Mai,” and his enthusiasm redoubled. “Go!” cried he, “courage!” as he spoke to them of the Romans who fought for their country. I thought to myself as I listened to him, “If you think all that so beautiful why do you not go yourself.”

  You can imagine with what courage I worked at the arsenal; nothing was too much for me. I would have passed night and day in mending the guns and adjusting the bayonets and tightening the screws. When the commandant, Mr. Montravel, came to see us, he praised me.

  “Excellent!” said he, “that is good! I am pleased with you, Bertha.”

  These words filled me with satisfaction, and I did not fail to report them to Catherine, in order to raise her spirits. We were almost certain that Mr. Montravel would keep me at Pfalzbourg.

  The gazettes were full of the new constitution, which they called the “Additional Act,” and the act of the “Champ de Mai.” Mr. Goulden always had something to say, sometimes about one article and sometimes another, but I mixed no more in these affairs, and repented of having complained of the processions and expiations; I had had enough of politics.

  This lasted till the 23d of May. That morning about ten o’clock I was in the great hall of the arsenal, filling the boxes with guns. The great door was wide open, and the men were waiting with their wagons before the bullet park, to load up the boxes. I had nailed the last one, when Robert, the guard, touched me on the shoulder and said in my ear:

  “Bertha, the Commandant Montravel wishes to see you. He is in the pavilion.”

  “What does he want of me?”

  “I do not know.”

  I was afraid directly, but I went at once. I crossed the grand court, near the sheds for the gun-carriages, mounted the stairs, and knocked softly at the door.

  “Come in,” said the commandant.

  I opened the door all in a tremble, and stood with my cap in my hand. Mr. Montravel was a tall, brown, thin man, with a little stoop in his shoulders. He was walking hastily up and down his room, in the midst of his books and maps, and arms hung on the wall.

  “Ah! Bertha, it is you, is it? I have disagreeable news to tell you, the third battalion to which you belong leaves for Metz.”

  On hearing this my heart sank, and I could not say a word. He looked at me, and after a moment he added:

  “Do not be troubled, you have been married for several months, and you are a good workman, and that deserves consideration. You will give this letter to Colonel Desmichels at the arsenal at Metz; he is one of my friends, and will find employment in some of his workshops for you, you may be certain.”

  I took the letter which he handed me, thanked him, and went home filled with alarm. Zébédé, Mr. Goulden, and Catherine were talking together in the shop, distress was written on every face. They knew everything. “The third battalion is going,” I said as I entered, “but Mr. Montravel has just given me a letter to the director of the arsenal at Metz. Do not be anxious, I shall not make the campaign.”

  I was almost choking. Mr. Goulden took the letter and said, “It is open; we can read it.”

  Then he read the letter, in which Mr. Montravel recommended me to his friend, saying that I was married, a good workman, industrious, and that I could render real service at the arsenal. He could have said nothing better.

  “Now the matter is certain,” said Zébédé.

  “Yes, you will be retained in the arsenal at Metz,” sai
d Father Goulden.

  Catherine was very pale, she kissed me and said, “What happiness, Joseph!”

  They all pretended to believe that I should remain at Metz, and I tried to hide my fears from them. But the effort almost suffocated me, and I could hardly avoid sobbing, when happily I thought I would go and announce the news to Aunt Grédel. So I said, “Although it will not be very long, and I shall stay in Metz, yet I must go and tell the good news to Aunt Grédel. I will be back between five and six, and Catherine will have time to prepare my haversack, and we will have supper.”

  “Yes, Joseph, go!” said Father Goulden. Catherine said not a word, for she could hardly restrain her tears. I set off like a madman. Zébédé, who was returning to the barracks, told me at the door, that the officer in charge at the town-house would give me my uniform, and that I must be there about five o’clock. I listened, as if in a dream, to his words, and ran till I was outside of the city. Once on the glacis I ran on without knowing where, in the trenches, and by the Trois-Châteaux and the Baraques-à-en-haut, and along the forest to Quatre Vents.

  I cannot describe to you the thoughts that ran through my brain. I was bewildered, and wanted to run away to Switzerland. But the worst of all was when I approached Quatre Vents by the path along the Daun. It was about three o’clock. Aunt Grédel was putting up some poles for her beans, in the rear of the garden, and she saw me in the distance, and said to herself:

  “Why it is Joseph! what is he doing in the grain?”

  But when I got into the road, which was full of ruts and sand and which the sun made as hot as a furnace, I went on more slowly with my head bent down, thinking I should never dare to go in, when, suddenly aunt exclaimed from behind the hedge, “Is it you, Joseph?”

  Then I shivered. “Yes, it is I.”

  She ran out into the little elder alley, and seeing me so pale she said, “I know why you have come, you are going away!”

  “Yes,” I replied, “the others are going, but I am to stay in Metz; it is very fortunate.”

  She said nothing, and we went into the kitchen, which was very cool compared with the heat outside. She sat down, and I read her the commandant’s letter. She listened to it, and repeated, “Yes, it is very fortunate.”