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

by Émile Erckmann

  I should say too much if I continued on this head. I would rather go on.

  The Lord granted me a great consolation. I had scarcely laid aside my cartridge-box and musket, so as to sit at the table, when Sorlé smilingly handed me a letter.

  “Read that, Moses,” said she, “and you will feel better.”

  I opened and read it. It was the notice from Pézenas that my dozen pipes of spirits were on their way. I drew a long breath.

  “Ah! that is good, now!” I exclaimed; “the spirits are coming by the ordinary conveyance; they will be here in three weeks. We hear nothing from the direction of Strasburg and Sarrebruck; the allies are collecting still, but they do not move; my spirits of wine are safe! They will sell well! It is a grand thing!”

  I smiled, and was quite myself again, when Sorlé pushed the arm-chair toward me, saying: “And what do you think of that, Moses?”

  She gave me, as she spoke, a second letter, covered with large stamps, and at the first glance I recognized the handwriting of my two sons, Frômel and Itzig.

  It was a letter from America! My heart swelled with joy, and I silently thanked the Lord, deeply moved by this great blessing. I said: “The Lord is good. His understanding is infinite. He delighteth not in the strength of a horse; he taketh not pleasure in the legs of a man. He taketh pleasure in those that hope in his mercy.”

  Thus I spoke to myself while I read the letter, in which my sons praised America, the true land of commerce, the land of enterprising men, where everything is free, where there are no taxes or impositions, because people are not brought up for war, but for peace; the land, Fritz, where every man becomes, through his own labor, his intelligence, his economy, and his good intentions, what he deserves to be, and every one takes his proper place, because no important matter is decided without the consent of all;—a just and sensible thing, for where all contribute, all should give their opinions.

  This was one of their first letters. Frômel and Itzig wrote me that they had made so much money in a year, that they need no longer carry their own packs, but had three fine mules, and that they had just opened at Catskill, near Albany, in the State of New York, an establishment for the exchange of European fabrics with cow-hides, which were very abundant in that region.

  Their business was prospering, and they were respected in the town and its vicinity. While Frômel was travelling on the road with their three mules, Itzig stayed at home, and when Itzig went in his turn his brother had charge of the shop.

  They already knew of our misfortunes, and thanked the Lord for having given them such parents, to save them from destruction. They would have liked to have us with them, and after what had just happened, in being maltreated by a Monborne, you can believe that I should have been very glad to be there. But it was enough to receive such good news, and in spite of all our misfortunes, I said to myself, as I thought of Frichard: “But it is only to me that you can be an ass! You may harm me here, but you can’t hurt my boys. You are nothing but a miserable secretary of mayoralty, while I am going to sell my spirits of wine. I shall gain double and treble. I will put my little Sâfel at your side, under the market, and he will beckon to everybody that is going into your shop; and he will sell to them at cost price rather than lose their custom, and he will make you die of anger.”

  The tears came into my eyes as I thought of it, and I ended by embracing Sorlé, who smiled, full of satisfaction.

  We pardoned Sâfel over again, and he promised to go no more with the cursed race. Then, after dinner, I went down to my cellar, one of the finest in the city, twelve feet high and thirty-five feet long, all built of hewn stone, under the main street. It was as dry as an oven, and even improved wine in the long run.

  As my spirits of wine might arrive before the end of the month, I arranged four large beams to hold the pipes, and saw that the well, cut in the rock, had enough water for mixing it.

  On going up about four o’clock, I perceived the old architect, Krômer, who was walking across the market, his measuring-stick under his arm.

  “Ah!” said I, “come down a minute into my cellar; do you think it will be safe against the bombs?”

  We went down together. He examined it, measured the stones and the thickness of the arch with his stick, and said: “You have six feet of earth over the key-stone. When the bombs enter here, Moses, it will be all over with all of us. You may sleep with both ears shut.”

  We took a good drink of wine from the spout, and went up in good spirits.

  Just as we set foot on the pavement, a door in the main street opened with a crash, and there was a sound of glass broken. Krômer raised his nose, and said: “Look yonder, Moses, at Camus’s steps! Something is going on.”

  We stopped and saw at the top of the railed staircase a sergeant of veterans, in a gray coat, with his musket dangling, dragging Father Camus by the collar. The poor old man clung to the door with both hands to keep himself from falling; he succeeded at last in getting loose, by tearing the collar from his coat, and the door shut with a noise like thunder.

  “If war begins now between citizens and soldiers,” said Krômer, “the Germans and Russians will have fine sport.”

  The sergeant, seeing the door shut and bolted within, tried to force it open with blows from the butt-end of his musket, which caused a great uproar; the neighbors came out, and the dogs barked. We were watching it all, when we saw Burguet come along the passage in front, and begin to talk vehemently with the sergeant. At first the man did not seem to hear him, but after a moment he raised his musket to his shoulder with a rough movement, and went down to the street, with his shoulders up and his face dark and furious. He passed by us like a wild boar. He was a veteran with three chevrons, sunburnt, with a gray mustache, large straight wrinkles the whole length of his cheeks, and a square chin. He muttered as he passed us, and went into the little inn of the Three Pigeons.

  Burguet followed at a distance, with his broad hat down to his eyebrows, wrapped in his beaver-cloth great-coat, his head thrown back, and his hands in his pockets. He smiled.

  “Well,” said I, “what has been going on at Camus’s?”

  “Oh!” said he, “it is Sergeant Trubert, of the fifth company of veterans, who had just been playing his tricks. The old fellow wants everything to go by rule and measure. In the last fortnight he has had five different lodgings, and cannot get along with anybody. Everybody complains of him, but he always makes excuses which the governor and commandant think excellent.”

  “And at Camus’s house?”

  “Camus has not too much room for his own family. He wished to send the sergeant to the inn; but the sergeant had already chosen Camus’s bed to sleep in, had spread his cloak upon it, and said, ‘My billet is for this place. I am very comfortable here, and do not wish to change.’ Old Camus was vexed, and finally, as you have just seen, the sergeant tried to pull him out, and beat him.”

  Burguet smiled, but Krômer said: “Yes, all that is laughable. And yet when we think of what such people must have done on the other side of the Rhine!”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Burguet, “it was not very pleasant for the Germans, I am sure. But it is time to go and read the newspaper. God grant that the time for paying our old debts may not have come! Good-evening, gentlemen.”

  He continued his walk on the side of the square. Krômer went toward his own house, while I shut the two doors of my cellar; after which I went home.

  This was the tenth of December. It was already very cold. Every night, after five or six o’clock, the roofs and pavements were covered with frost. There was no more noise without, because people kept at home, around their stoves.

  I found Sorlé in the kitchen, preparing our supper. The red flame flickered upon the hearth around the saucepan. These things are now before my eyes, Fritz—the mother, washing the plates at the stone sink, near the gray window; little Sâfel blowing in his big iron pipe, his cheeks round as an apple, his long curly hair all disordered, and myself sitting on the st
ool, holding a coal to light my pipe. Yes, it all seems here present!

  We said nothing. We were happy in thinking of the spirits of wine that were coming, of the boys who were doing so well, of the good supper that was cooking. And who would ever have thought, then, that twenty-five days afterward the city would be surrounded by enemies, and shells hissing in the air?

  CHAPTER VI

  A DISAGREEABLE GUEST

  Now, Fritz, I am going to tell you something which has often made me think that the Lord takes an interest in our affairs, and that He orders everything for the best. At first it seems dreadful, and we exclaim, “Lord have mercy on us!” and afterward we are surprised to find that it has all been for our good.

  You know that Frichard, the secretary of the mayoralty, disliked me. He was a little, yellow, dried-up old man, with a red wig, flat ears, and hollow cheeks. This rascal was bent on doing me an injury, and he soon found an opportunity.

  As the time of the blockade drew nearer, people were more and more anxious to sell, and the day after I received the good news from America—it was Friday, a market-day—so many of the Alsatian and Lorraine people came with their great dossers and panniers of fruit, eggs, butter, cheese, poultry, etc., that the market-place was crowded with them.

  Everybody wanted money, to hide it in his cellar, or under a tree in the neighboring wood. You know that large sums were lost at that time; treasures which are now discovered from year to year, at the foot of oaks and beeches, hidden because it was feared that the Germans and Russians would pillage and destroy everything, as we had done to them. The men died, or perhaps could not find the place where they had hidden their money, and so it remained buried in the ground.

  This day, the eleventh of December, it was very cold; the frost penetrated to the very marrow of your bones, but it had not yet begun to snow. Very early in the morning, I went down, shivering, with my woollen waistcoat buttoned up to my throat, and my seal-skin cap drawn down over my ears.

  Both the little and the great squares were already swarming with people, shouting and disputing about prices. I had only time to open my shop, and to hang up my large scales in the arch, before a crowd of country people stood about the door, some asking for nails, others iron for forging; and some bringing their own old iron with the hope of selling it.

  They knew that if the enemy came there would be no way of entering the city, and that was what brought the crowd, some to sell and others to buy.

  I opened shop and began to weigh. We heard the patrols passing without; the guard was everywhere doubled, the drawbridges in good condition, and the outside barriers fortified anew. We were not yet declared to be in a state of siege, but we were like the bird on the branch; the last news from Mayence, Sarrebruck, and Strasburg announced the arrival of the allies on the other bank of the Rhine.

  As for me, I thought of nothing but my spirits of wine, and all the time I was selling, weighing, and handling money, it was never out of my mind. It had, as it were, taken root in my brain.

  This had lasted about an hour, when suddenly Burguet appeared at my door, under the little arch, behind the crowd of country people, and said to me:

  “Moses, come here a minute, I have something to say to you.”

  I went out.

  “Let us go into your passage,” said he.

  I was much surprised, for he looked very grave. The peasants behind called out:

  “We have no time to lose. Make haste, Moses!”

  But I paid no attention. In the passage Burguet said to me:

  “I have just come from the mayoralty, where they are busy in making out a report to the prefect in regard to the state of feeling among our population, and I accidentally heard that they are going to send Sergeant Trubert to your house.”

  This was indeed a blow for me. I exclaimed:

  “I don’t want him! I don’t want him! I have lodged six men in the last fortnight, and it isn’t my turn.”

  He answered:

  “Be quiet, and don’t talk so loud. You will only make the matter worse.”

  I repeated:

  “Never, never shall this sergeant enter my house! It is abominable! A quiet man like myself, who has never harmed any one, and who asks nothing but peace!”

  While I was speaking, Sorlé, on her way to market, with her basket on her arm, came down, and asked what was the matter.

  “Listen, Madame Sorlé,” said Burguet to her; “be more reasonable than your husband! I can understand his indignation, and yet for all that, when a thing is inevitable we must submit to it. Frichard dislikes you; he is secretary of the mayoralty; he distributes the billets for quartering soldiers according to a list. Very well; he sends you Sergeant Trubert, a violent, bad man, I allow, but he needs lodging as well as the others. To everything which I have said in your favor, Frichard has always replied: ‘Moses is rich. He has sent away his boys to escape conscription. He ought to pay for them.’ The mayor, the governor, everybody thinks he is right. So, you see, I tell you as a friend, the more resistance you make, so much the more the sergeant will affront you, and Frichard laugh at you, and there will be no help for it. Be reasonable!”

  I was still more angry on finding that I owed these misfortunes to Frichard. I would have exclaimed, but my wife laid her hand on my arm, and said:

  “Let me speak, Moses. Monsieur Burguet is right, and I am much obliged to him for telling us beforehand. Frichard has a spite against us. Very well; he must pay for it all, and we will settle with him by and by. Now, when is the sergeant coming?”

  “At noon,” replied Burguet.

  “Very well,” said my wife; “he has a right to lodging, fire, and candles. We can’t dispute that; but Frichard shall pay for it all.”

  She was pale, and I listened, for I saw that she was right.

  “Be quiet, Moses,” she said to me afterward, “and don’t say a word; let me manage it.”

  “This is what I had to say to you,” said Burguet, “it is an abominable trick of Frichard’s. I will see, by and by, if it is possible to rid you of the sergeant. Now I must go back to my post.”

  Sorlé had just started for the market. Burguet pressed my hand, and as the peasants grew more impatient in their cries, I had to go back to my scales.

  I was full of rage. I sold that day more than two hundred francs’ worth of iron, but my indignation against Frichard, and my fear of the sergeant, took away all pleasure in anything. I might have sold ten times more without feeling any better.

  “Ah! the rascal!” I said to myself; “he gives me no rest. I shall have no peace in this city.”

  As the clock struck twelve the market closed, and people went away by the French gate. I shut up my shop and went home, thinking to myself:

  “Now I shall be nothing in my own house; this Trubert is going to rule everything. He will look down upon us as if we were Germans or Spaniards.”

  I was in despair. But in the midst of my despair on the staircase, I suddenly perceived an odor of good things from the kitchen, and I went up in surprise, for I smelt fish and roast, as if it were a feast day.

  I was going into the kitchen, when Sorlé appeared and said:

  “Go into your chamber, shave yourself, and put on a clean shirt.”

  I saw, at the same time, that she was dressed in her Sabbath clothes, with her ear-rings, her green skirt, and her red silk neckerchief.

  “But why must I shave, Sorlé?” I exclaimed.

  “Go quick; you have no time to lose!” replied she.

  This woman had so much good sense, she had so many times set things right by her ready wit, that I said nothing more, and went into my bedroom to shave myself and put on a clean shirt.

  As I was putting on my shirt I heard little Sâfel cry out:

  “Here he is, mamma! here he is!”

  Then steps were heard on the stairs, and a rough voice called:

  “Holla! you folks. Ho!”

  I thought to myself: “It is the sergeant,” and I listened.<
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  “Ah! here is our sergeant!” cried Sâfel, triumphantly.

  “Oh! that is good,” replied my wife, in a cheerful tone. “Come in, Mr. Sergeant, come in! We were expecting you. I knew that we were to have the honor of having a sergeant; we were glad to hear it, because we have had only common soldiers before. Be so good as to come in, Mr. Sergeant.”

  She spoke in this way as if she were really pleased, and I thought to myself:

  “O Sorlé, Sorlé! You shrewd woman! You sensible woman! I see through it now. I see your cunning. You are going to mollify this rascal! Ah, Moses! what a wife you have! Congratulate yourself! Congratulate yourself!”

  I hastened to dress myself, laughing all the while; and I heard this brute of a sergeant say:

  “Yes, yes! It is all very well. But that isn’t the point! Show me my room, my bed. You can’t pay me with fine speeches; people know Sergeant Trubert too well for that.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Sergeant, certainly,” replied my wife, “here is your room and your bed. See, it is the best we have.”

  Then they went into the passage, and I heard Sorlé open the door of the handsome room which Baruch and Zeffen occupied when they came to Phalsburg.

  I followed them softly. The sergeant thrust his fist into the bed to feel if it was soft. Sorlé and Sâfel looked on smilingly behind him. He examined every corner with a scowl. You never saw such a face, Fritz; a gray bristling mustache, a long thin nose, hooked over the mouth; a yellow skin, full of wrinkles: he dragged the butt-end of his gun on the floor, without seeming to notice anything, and muttered ill-naturedly:

  “Hem! hem! What is that down there?”

  “It is the wash-basin, Mr. Sergeant.”

  “And these chairs, are they strong? Will they bear anything?”

  He knocked them rudely down. It was evident he wanted to find fault with something.

  On turning round he saw me, and looking at me sideways, asked:

  “Are you the citizen?”