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

by Émile Erckmann

  And we sat and looked at each other without speaking a word, and then she took my head between her hands and kissed me, and embraced me for a long time, and I could see she was crying, though she did not say a word.

  “You weep,” said I, “but since I am to stay in Metz!”

  Still she did not speak, but went and brought some wine. I took a glass, and she asked, “What does Catherine say?”

  “She is glad that I am to remain at the arsenal; and Mr. Goulden also.”

  “That is well; and are they preparing what you need?”

  “Yes, Aunt Grédel, and I must be at the city hall before five o’clock to receive my uniform.”

  “Well! then you must go; kiss me, Joseph. I will not go with you. I do not wish to see the battalion leave—I will stay here. I must live a long while yet—Catherine has need of me—” here her restraint gave way.

  Suddenly she checked herself, and said, “At what time do you leave?”

  “To-morrow, at seven o’clock, Mamma Grédel.”

  “Well! at eight o’clock I will be there. You will be far away, but you will know that the mother of your wife is there, that she will take care of her daughter, that she loves you, that she has only you in the whole world.”

  The courageous woman sobbed aloud; she accompanied me to the door, and I left her. It seemed as if I had not a drop of blood left in my veins. Just as the clock struck five I reached the town-house. I went up and saw that hall again where I had lost, that cursed hall where everybody drew unlucky numbers. I received a cloak and coat, pantaloons, gaiters, and shoes. Zébédé, who was waiting for me, told one of the musketeers to take them to the mess-room.

  “You will come early and put them on,” said he; “your musket and knapsack have been in the rack since morning.”

  “Come with me,” said I.

  “No, I cannot, the sight of Catherine breaks my heart; and besides I must stay with my father. Who knows whether I shall find the old man alive at the end of a year? I promised to take supper with you, but I shall not go.”

  I was obliged to go home alone. My haversack was all ready; my old haversack, the only thing I had saved from Hanau, as my head rested on it in the wagon. Mr. Goulden was at work. He turned round without speaking, and I asked, “Where is Catherine?”

  “She is upstairs.”

  I knew she was crying, and I wanted to go up, but my legs and my courage both failed me.

  I told Mr. Goulden of my visit to Quatre-Vents, and then we sat and waited, thinking, without daring to look each other in the face. It was already dark when Catherine came down. She laid the table in the twilight, and then I took her hand, and made her sit down on my knee, and we remained so for half an hour.

  Then Mr. Goulden asked:

  “Is not Zébédé coming?”

  “No, he cannot come.”

  “Well! let us take our supper then.”

  But no one was hungry. Catherine removed the table about nine o’clock, and we all retired. It was the most terrible night I ever passed in my life. Catherine was in a deathly swoon. I called her, but she did not answer. At midnight I wakened Mr. Goulden, and he dressed himself and came up to our chamber. We gave her some sugar-water, when she revived and got up. I cannot tell you everything; I only know that she sank at my feet and begged me not to abandon her, as if I did it voluntarily! but she was crazed. Mr. Goulden wanted to call a doctor, but I prevented him. Toward morning she recovered entirely, and after a long fit of weeping, she fell asleep in my arms. I did not even dare to embrace her, and we went out softly and left her.

  When we feel all the miseries of life, we exclaim: “Why are we in the world? Why did we not sleep through the eternal ages? What have we done, that we must see those we love suffer, when we are not in fault? It is not God, but man, who breaks our hearts.”

  After we went downstairs Mr. Goulden said to me, “She is asleep, she knows nothing of it all, and that is a blessing; you will go before she wakes.” I thanked God for His goodness, and we sat waiting for the least sound, till at last the drums beat the assembly. Then Mr. Goulden looked at me very gravely, we rose, and he buckled my knapsack on my shoulders in silence.

  At last he said: “Joseph, go and see the commandant in Metz, but count upon nothing; the danger is so great that France has need of all her children for her defence, and this time it is not a question of acquiring from others, but of saving our own country. Remember that it is yourself and your wife and all that is dearest to you in the world that is at stake.” We went down to the street in silence, embraced each other, and then I went to the barracks. Zébédé took me to the mess-room and I put on my uniform. All that I remember after so many years is, that Zébédé’s father, who was there, took my clothes and made them into a bundle and said he would take them home after our departure; and the battalion filed out by the little rue de Lanche through the French gate. A few children ran after us, and the soldiers on guard presented arms; we were en route for Waterloo.

  CHAPTER XV

  At Sarrebourg we received tickets for lodgings. Mine was for the old printer Jârcisse, who knew Mr. Goulden and Aunt Grédel, and who made me dine at his table with my new comrade and bedfellow, Jean Buche, the son of a wood-cutter of Harberg, who had never eaten anything but potatoes before he was conscripted. He devoured everything, even to the bones that they set before us. But I was so melancholy, that to hear him crunch the bones made me nervous. Father Jârcisse tried to console me, but every word he said only increased my pain. We passed the remainder of that day and the following night at Sarrebourg. The next day we kept on our route to the village of Mézières, the next to the Vic, and on to Soigne, till on the fifth day we came to Metz. I do not need to tell you of our march, of the soldiers white with dust, how we passed one magazine after another, with our knapsacks on our backs, and our guns carried at will, talking, laughing, looking at the young girls as we passed through the villages, at the carts, the manure heaps, the sheds, the hills, and the valleys, without troubling ourselves about anything. And when one is sad and has left his wife at home, and dear friends too, whom he may never see again, all these pass before his eyes like shadows, and a hundred steps more and they too are unthought of. But yet the view of Metz, with its tall cathedral and its ancient dwellings, and its frowning ramparts awakened me. Two hours before we arrived, we kept thinking we should soon reach the earthworks, and hastened our steps in order the sooner to get into the shade. I thought of Colonel Desmichels, and had a little—very little, hope. “If fate wills!” I thought, and I felt for my letter.

  Zébédé did not talk to me now, but from time to time he turned his head and looked back at me. It was not exactly as it was in the old campaign, he was sergeant, and I only a common soldier; we loved each other always, but that made a difference of course. Jean Buche marched along beside me, with his round shoulders and his feet turned in like a wolf. The only thing he said from time to time was, that his shoes hurt him on the march, and that they should only be worn on parade. During two months the drill-sergeant had not been able to make him turn out his toes, or to raise his shoulders, but for all that he could march terribly well in his own fashion, and without being fatigued. At last about five in the afternoon, we reached the outposts. They soon recognized us, and the captain of the guard himself exclaimed, “Pass!” The drums rolled, and we entered the oldest town I had ever seen.

  Metz is at the confluence of the Seille and the Moselle. The houses are four or five stories high; their old walls are full of beams as at Saverne and Bouxviller, the windows round and square, great and small, on the same line, with shutters and without, some with glass and some without any. It is as old as the mountains and rivers. The roofs project about six feet, spreading their shadows over the black water, in which old shoes, rags, and dead dogs are floating. If you look upward you will be sure to see the face of some old Jew at the windows in the roof, with his gray beard and crooked nose, or a child who is risking his neck. Properly speaking, it is a city
of Jews and soldiers. Poor people are not wanting either. It is much worse in this respect than at Mayence, or at Strasbourg, or even at Frankfort. If they have not changed since then, they love their ease now. In spite of my sadness I could not help looking at these lanes and alleys. The town swarmed with national guards; they were arriving from Longwy, from Sarrelouis and other places; the soldiers left and were replaced by these guards.

  We came upon a square encumbered with beds and mattresses, bedding, etc., which the citizens had furnished for the troops. We stacked arms in front of the barracks, every window of which was open from top to bottom. We waited, thinking we should be lodged there, but at the end of twenty minutes the distribution commenced, and each man received twenty-five sous and a ticket for lodging. We broke rank, each one going his own way. Jean Buche, who had never seen any other town than Pfalzbourg, did not leave me for a moment. Our ticket was for Elias Meyer, butcher, in the rue St. Valery. When we reached the house the butcher was cutting meat in the arched and grated window, and was anything but pleased to see us, and received us very ungraciously. He was a fat, red, round-faced Jew, with silver rings on his fingers and in his ears. His thin, yellow-skinned wife came down exclaiming that they had “had lodgers for two nights before, that the mayor’s secretary did it on purpose, that he sent soldiers every day, and that the neighbors did not have them,” and so on.

  But they allowed us to enter after all. The daughter came and stared at us, and behind her was a fat servant-woman, frizzled and very dirty. I seem to see those people before me still, in that old room with its oak wainscoting, and the great copper lamp hanging from the ceiling, and the grated window looking into the little court. The daughter, who was very pale and had very black eyes, said something to her mother and then the servant was ordered to show us to the garret, to the beggars’ chamber, for all the Jews feed and shelter beggars on Friday. My comrade from Harberg did not complain, but I was indignant. We followed the servant up a winding stair slippery with filth, to the room. It was separated from the rest of the garret by slats, through which we could see the dirty linen. It was lighted by a little window like a lozenge in the roof. Even if I had not been so miserable I should have thought it abominable. There was only one chair and a straw mattress on the floor and one single coverlet for us both. The servant stood staring at us at the door, as if she expected thanks or compliments. I took off my knapsack, sad enough as you can imagine, and Jean Buche did the same. The servant turned to go downstairs when I cried out: “Wait a minute, we will go down too, we do not want to break our necks on those stairs.” We changed our shoes and stockings and fastened the door and went down to the shop to buy some meat. Jean went to the baker opposite for some bread, and as our ticket gave us a place at the fire we went to the kitchen to make our soup. The butcher came to see us just as we were finishing our supper. He was smoking a big Ulm pipe. He asked where we were from. I was so indignant I would not answer him, but Jean Buche told him that I was a watch-maker from Pfalzbourg, upon which he treated me with more consideration. He said that his brother travelled in Alsace and Lorraine, with watches, rings, watch-chains, and other articles of silver and gold, and jewelry, and that his name was Samuel Meyer, and perhaps we had had business with him. I replied that I had seen his brother two or three times at Mr. Goulden’s, which was true. Thereupon he ordered the servant to bring us a pillow, but he did nothing more for us and we went to bed.

  We were very weary and were soon sound asleep. I thought to get up very early and go to the arsenal, but I was still asleep when my comrade shook me and said: “The assembly!”

  I listened—it was the assembly! We only had time to dress, buckle on our knapsacks, take our guns, and run down. When we reached the barracks the roll-call had begun. When it was finished two wagons came up, and we received fifty ball-cartridges each. The Commandant Gémeau, the captains, and all the officers were there. I saw that all was over, that I had nothing to count on longer, and that my letter to Colonel Desmichels might be good after the campaign was over, if I escaped and should be obliged to serve out my seven years. Zébédé looked at me from a distance—I turned away my head. The order came:

  “Carry arms! arms at will! by file! left! forward! march!”

  The drums rolled, we marked step, and the roofs, the houses, the windows, the lanes, and the people seemed to glide past us. We crossed over the first bridge and the drawbridge. The drums ceased to beat and we went on toward Thionville. The other troops followed the same route, cavalry and infantry.

  That night we reached the village of Beauregard, the next night we were at Vitry, near Thionville, where we were stationed till the 8th of June. Buche and I were lodged with a fat landlord named Pochon. He was a very good man and gave us excellent white wine to drink, and liked to talk politics like Mr. Goulden. During our stay in this village General Schoeffer came from Thionville, and we went to be reviewed with our arms at a large farm called “Silvange.”

  It is a woody country, and we often went, several of us together, to make excursions in the vicinity. One day Zébédé came and took me to see the great foundry at Moyeuvre where we saw then run bullets and bombs. We talked about Catherine and Mr. Goulden, and he told me to write to them, but somehow I was afraid to hear from home, and I turned my thoughts away from Pfalzbourg.

  On the 8th of June we left this village very early in the morning, returning near to Metz but without entering the city. The city gates were shut and the cannon frowned on the walls as in time of war. We slept at Chatel, and the next day we were at Etain, the day following at Dannevoux, where I was lodged with a good patriot named Sebastian Perrin. He was a rich man, and wanted to know the details of everything.

  As a great number of battalions had followed the same route before us, he said, “In a month perhaps we shall see great things, all the troops are marching into Belgium. The Emperor is going to fall upon the English and Prussians.”

  This was the last place where we had good supplies. The next day we arrived at Yong, which is in a miserable country. We slept on the 12th of June at Vivier, and the 13th at Cul-de-Sard. The farther we advanced the more troops we encountered, and as I had seen these things in Germany, I said to Jean Buche:

  “Now we shall have hot work.”

  On all sides and in every direction, files of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, were seen as far as the eye could reach. The weather was as delightful as possible, and nothing could be more promising than the ripening grain. But it was very hot. What astonished me was, that neither before nor behind, on the right hand nor on the left could we discover any enemies. Nobody knew anything about them. The rumor circulated amongst us that we were to attack the English. I had seen the Russians, Prussians, Austrians, Bavarians and Wurtemburgers and the Swedes. I knew the people of all the countries in the world, and now I was going to make the acquaintance of the English also. If we must be exterminated, I thought, it might as well be done by them as by the Germans. We could not avoid our fate—if I was to escape, I should escape, but if I were doomed to leave my bones here, all I could do would avail nothing—but the more we destroyed of them the greater would be the chances for us. This was the way I reasoned with myself, and if it did me no good it caused me at least no harm.

  CHAPTER XVI

  We passed the Meuse on the 12th, and during the 13th and 14th we marched along the wretched roads, bordered with grain fields, barley, oats, and hemp, without end. The heat was extraordinary, the sweat ran down to our hips from under our knapsacks and cartridge-boxes. What a misfortune to be poor, and unable to buy a man to march and take the musket-shots in our place! After having gone through the rain, wind, and snow, and mud, in Germany, the turn of the sun and dust had come. And I saw too, that the destruction was approaching, you could hear the sound of the drum and the bugle in every direction, and whenever the battalion passed over an elevation long lines of helmets and lances and bayonets were seen as far as the eye could reach.

  Zébédé, with his musket on his
shoulder, would exclaim cheerfully, “Well, Joseph! we are going to see the whites of the Prussians’ eyes again;” and I would force myself to reply, “Oh! yes, the weddings will soon begin again.” As if I wanted to risk my life and leave Catherine a young widow for the sake of something which did not in the least concern me.

  That same day at seven o’clock we reached Roly. The hussars occupied the town already, and we were obliged to bivouac in a deep road along the side of the hill. We had hardly stacked our arms when several general officers arrived. The Commandant Gémeau, who had just dismounted, sprang upon his horse and hurried to meet them. They conversed a moment together and came down into our road. Everybody looked on and said, “Something has happened.” One of the officers, General Pechaux, whom we knew afterward, ordered the drums to beat, and shouted, “Form a circle.” The road was too narrow, and some of the soldiers went up on the slope each side of the road, while the others remained on the road. All the battalion looked on while the general unrolled a paper, and said, “Proclamation from the Emperor.”

  When he had said that, the silence was so profound that you would have thought yourself alone in the midst of these great fields. Every one, from the last conscript to the Commandant Gémeau, listened, and, even to-day, when I think of it, after fifty years, it moves my heart; it was grand and terrible. This is what the general read:

  “Soldiers! To-day is the anniversary of Marengo and of Friedland, which twice decided the fate of Europe! Then, as after Austerlitz and after Wagram, we were too generous, we believed the protestations and the oaths of princes, whom we left on their thrones. They have combined to attack the independence and even the most sacred rights of France. They have commenced the most unjust aggressions, let us meet them! They and we,—are we no longer of the same race?”