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

by Émile Erckmann

  Corporal Winter, with his old faded blouse, coarse cotton cap, stooping shoulders, musket in shoulder-belt, pipe-end between his teeth, and lantern full of tallow swinging at arm’s length, walked before us, calling out: “Look out for the shells! Lie flat! Do you hear?”

  I have always thought that veterans of this sort despise citizens, and that he said this to frighten us still more.

  A little farther on, at the entrance of the cul-de-sac where Cloutier lived, he halted.

  “Come on!” he called, for we marched in file without seeing each other. When we had come up to him he said, “There, now, you men, try to keep together! Our patrol is to prevent fire from breaking out anywhere; as soon as we see a shell pass, Moses will run up and snatch the fuse.”

  He burst into a laugh as he spoke, so that my anger was roused.

  “I have not come here to be laughed at,” said I; “if you take me for a fool, I will throw down my musket and cartridge-box, and go to the casemates.”

  He laughed harder than ever. “Moses, respect thy superiors, or beware of the court-martial!” said he.

  The others would have laughed too, but the shell-flashes began again; they went down the rampart street, driving the air before them like gusts of wind; the cannon of the arsenal bastion had just fired. At the same time a shell burst in the street of the Capuchins; Spick’s chimney and half his roof fell to the ground with a frightful noise.

  “Forward! March!” called Winter.

  They had now all become sober. We followed the lantern to the French gate. Behind us, in the street of the Capuchins, a dog howled incessantly. Now and then Winter stopped, and we all listened; nothing was stirring, and nothing was to be heard but the dog and the cries: “Sentries, attention!” The city was as still as death.

  We ought to have gone into the guard-house, for there was nothing to be seen; but the lantern went on toward the gate, swinging above the gutter. That Winter had taken too much brandy!

  “We are of no use in this street,” said Cheyreux; “we can’t keep the balls from passing.”

  But Winter kept calling out: “Are you coming?” And we had to obey.

  In front of Genodet’s stables, where the old barns of the gendarmerie begin, a lane turned to the left toward the hospital. This was full of manure and heaps of dirt—a drain in fact. Well, this rascal of a Winter turned into it, and as we could not see our feet without the lantern, we had to follow him. We went groping, under the roofs of the sheds, along the crazy old walls. It seemed as if we should never get out of this gutter; but at last we came out near the hospital in the midst of the great piles of manure, which were heaped against the grating of the sewer.

  It seemed a little lighter, and we saw the roof of the French gate, and the line of fortifications black against the sky; and almost immediately I perceived the figure of a man gliding among the trees at the top of the rampart. It was a soldier stooping so that his hands almost touched the ground. They did not fire on this side; the distant flashes passed over the roofs, and did not lighten the streets below.

  I caught Winter’s arm, and pointed out to him this man; he instantly hid his lantern under his blouse. The soldier whose back was toward us, stood up, and looked round, apparently listening. This lasted for two or three minutes; then he passed over the rampart at the corner of the bastion, and we heard something scrape the wall of the rampart.

  Winter immediately began to run, crying out: “A deserter! To the postern!”

  We had heard before this of deserters slipping down into the trenches by means of their bayonets. We all ran. The sentry called out: “Who goes there?”

  “The citizen patrol,” replied Winter.

  He advanced, gave the order, and we went down the postern steps like wild beasts.

  Below, at the foot of the large bastions built on the rock, we saw nothing but snow, large black atones, and bushes covered with frost. The deserter needed only to keep still under the bushes; our lantern, which shone only for fifteen or twenty feet, might have wandered about till morning without discovering him: and we should ourselves have supposed that he had escaped. But unfortunately for him, fear urged him on, and we saw him in the distance running to the stairs which lead up to the covered ways. He went like the wind.

  “Halt! or I fire!” cried Winter; but he did not stop, and we all ran together on his track, calling out “Halt! Halt!”

  Winter had given me the lantern so as to run faster; I followed at a distance, thinking to myself: “Moses, if this man is taken, thou will be the cause of his death.” I wanted to put out the lantern, but if Winter had seen me he would have been capable of knocking me down with the butt-end of his musket. He had for a long time been hoping for the cross, and was all the time expecting it and the pension with it.

  The deserter ran, as I said, to the stairs. Suddenly he perceived that the ladder, which takes the place of the eight lower steps, was taken away, and he stopped, stupefied! We came nearer—he heard us and began to run faster, to the right toward the half-moon. The poor devil rolled over the snow-banks. Winter aimed at him, and called out: “Halt! Surrender!”

  But he got up and began to run again.

  Behind the outworks, under the drawbridge, we thought we had lost him: the corporal called to me, “Come along! A thousand thunders!” and at that moment we saw him leaning against the wall, as pale as death. Winter took him by the collar and said: “I have got you!”

  Then he tore an epaulette from his shoulder: “You are not worthy to wear that!” said he; “come along!”

  He dragged him out of his corner, and held the lantern before his face. We saw a handsome boy of eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender, with small, light mustaches, and blue eyes.

  Seeing him there so pale, with Winter’s fist at his throat, I thought of the poor boy’s father and mother; my heart smote me, and I could not help Baying: “Come, Winter, he is a child, a mere child! He will not do it again!”

  But Winter, who thought that now surely his cross was won, turned upon me furiously:

  “I tell thee what, Jew, stop, or I will run my bayonet through thy body!”

  “Wretch!” thought I, “what will not a man do to make sure of his glass of wine for the rest of his days?”

  I had a sort of horror of that man; there are wild beasts in the human race!

  Chevreux, Somme, and Dubourg did not speak.

  Winter began to walk toward the postern, with his hand on the deserter’s collar.

  “If he stops,” said he, “strike him on the back with your muskets! Ah, scoundrel, you desert in the face of the enemy! Your case is clear: next Sunday you will sleep under the turf of the half-moon! Will you come on? Strike him with the butt-end, you cowards!”

  What pained me most was to hear the poor fellow’s heavy sighs; he breathed so hard, from his fright at being taken, and knowing that he would be shot, that we could hear him fifteen paces off; the sweat ran down my forehead. And now and then he turned to me and gave me such a look as I shall never forget, as if to say: “Save me!”

  If I had been alone with Dubourg and Chevreux, we would have let him go; but Winter would sooner have murdered him.

  We came in this way to the foot of the postern. They made the deserter pass first. When we reached the top, a sergeant, with four men from the next station, was already there, waiting for us.

  “What is it?” asked the sergeant.

  “A deserter,” said Winter.

  The sergeant—an old man—looked at him, and said: “Take him to the station.”

  “No,” said Winter, “he will go with us to the station on the square.”

  “I will reinforce you with two men,” said the sergeant.

  “We do not need them,” replied Winter roughly. “We took him ourselves, and we are enough to guard him.”

  The sergeant saw that we ought to have all the glory of it, and he said no more.

  We started off again, shouldering our arms; the prisoner, all in tatters and without hi
s shako, walked in the midst.

  We soon came to the little square; we had only to cross the old market before reaching the guard-house. The cannon of the arsenal were firing all the time; as we were starting to leave the market, one of the flashes lighted up the arch in front of us; the prisoner saw the door of the jail at the left, with its great locks, and the sight gave him terrible strength; he tore off his collar, and threw himself from us with both arms stretched out behind.

  Winter had been almost thrown down, but he threw himself at once upon the deserter, exclaiming, “Ah, scoundrel, you want to run away!”

  We saw no more, for the lantern fell to the ground.

  “Guard! guard!” cried Chevreux.

  All this took but a moment, and half of the infantry post were already there under arms. Then we saw the prisoner again; he was sitting on the edge of the stairway among the pillars; blood was running from his mouth; not more than half his waistcoat was left, and he was bent forward, trembling from head to foot.

  Winter held him by the nape of the neck, and said to Lieutenant Schnindret, who was looking on: “A deserter, lieutenant! He has tried to escape twice, but Winter was on hand.”

  “That is right,” said the lieutenant. “Let them find the jailer.”

  Two soldiers went away. A number of our comrades of the National Guard had come down, but nobody spoke. However hard men may be, when they see a wretch in such a condition, and think, “the day after to-morrow he will be shot!” everybody is silent, and a good many would even release him if they could.

  After some minutes Harmantier arrived with his woollen jacket and his bunch of keys.

  The lieutenant said to him, “Lock up this man!”

  “Come, get up and walk!” he said to the deserter, who rose and followed Harmantier, while everybody crowded round.

  The jailer opened the two massive doors of the prison; the prisoner entered without resistance, and then the large locks and bolts fastened him in.

  “Every man return to his post!” said the lieutenant to us. And we went up the steps of the mayoralty.

  All this had so upset me that I had not thought of my wife and children. But when once above, in the large warm room, full of smoke, with all that set who were laughing and boasting at having taken a poor, unresisting deserter, the thought that I was the cause of this misery filled my soul with anguish; I stretched myself on the camp-bed, and thought of all the trouble that is in the world, of Zeffen, of Sâfel, of my children, who might, perhaps, some day be arrested for not liking war. And the words of the Lord came to my mind, which He spake to Samuel, when the people desired a king:

  “Hearken unto the voice of the people in all that they say unto thee; for they have not rejected thee, but they have rejected me, that I should not reign over them. Howbeit yet protest solemnly unto them, and show them the manner of the king that shall reign over them. He will take your sons and appoint them for himself; and some shall run before his chariots. He will set them to make his instruments of war. And he will take your daughters to be cooks and bakers. And he will take your fields and your vineyards, and your olive-yards, even the best of them, and give them to his servants. He will take your men-servants, and your maid-servants, and your goodliest young men. He will take the tenth of your sheep; and ye shall be his servants. And ye shall cry out in that day, and the Lord will not hear you.”

  These thoughts made me very wretched; my only consolation was in knowing that my sons Frômel and Itzig were in America. I resolved to send Sâfel, David, and Esdras there also, when the time should come.

  These reveries lasted till daylight. I heard no longer the shouts of laughter or the jokes of the ragamuffins. Now and then they would come and shake me, and say, “Go, Moses, and fill your brandy jug! The sergeant gives you leave.”

  But I did not wish to hear them.

  About four o’clock in the morning, our arsenal cannon having dismounted the Russian howitzers on the Quatre-Vents hill, the patrols ceased.

  Exactly at seven we were relieved. We went down, one by one, our muskets on our shoulders. We were ranged before the mayoralty, and Captain Vigneron gave the orders: “Carry arms! Present arms! Shoulder arms! Break ranks!”

  We all dispersed, very glad to get rid of glory.

  I was going to run at once to the casemates when I had laid aside my musket, to find Sorlé, Zeffen, and the children; but what was my joy at seeing little Sâfel already at our door! As soon as he saw me turn the corner, he ran to me, exclaiming: “We have all come back! We are waiting for you!”

  I stooped to embrace him. At that moment Zeffen opened the window above, and showed me her little Esdras, and Sorlé stood laughing behind them. I went up quickly, blessing the Lord for having delivered us from all our troubles, and exclaiming inwardly: “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and plenteous in mercy. Let the glory of the Lord endure forever! Let the Lord rejoice in his works!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  BURGUET’S VISIT TO THE DESERTER

  I still think it one of the happiest moments of my life, Fritz. Scarcely had I come up the stairs when Zeffen and Sorlé were in my arms; the little ones clung to my shoulders, and I felt their lovely full lips on my cheeks; Sâfel held my hand, and I could not speak a word, but my eyes filled with tears.

  Ah! if we had had Baruch with us, how happy we should have been!

  At length I went to lay aside my musket, and hang my cartridge-box in the alcove. The children were laughing, and joy was in the house once more. And when I came back in my old beaver cap, and my large, warm woollen stockings, and sat down in the old arm-chair, in front of the little table set with porringers, in which Zeffen was pouring the soup; when I was again in the midst of all these happy faces, bright eyes, and outstretched hands, I could have sung like an old lark on his branch, over the nest where his little ones were opening their beaks and flapping their wings.

  I blessed them in my heart a hundred times over. Sorlé, who saw in my eyes what I was thinking, said: “They are all together, Moses, just as they were yesterday; the Lord has preserved them.”

  “Yes, blessed be the name of the Lord, forever and ever!” I replied.

  While we were at breakfast, Zeffen told me about their going to the large casemate at the barracks, how it was full of people stretched on their mattresses in every direction—the cries of some, the fright of others, the torment from the vermin, the water dropping from the arch, the crowds of children who could not sleep, and did nothing but cry, the lamentations of five or six old men who kept calling out, “Ah! our last hour has come! Ah! how cold it is! Ah! we shall never go home—it is all over!”

  Then suddenly the deep silence of all, when they heard the cannon about ten o’clock—the reports, coming slowly at first, then like the roar of a tempest—the flashes, which could be seen even through the blindages of the gate, and old Christine Evig telling her beads as loud as if she were in a procession, and the other women responding together.

  As she told me this, Zeffen clasped her little Esdras tightly, while I held David on my knees, embracing him as I thought to myself, “Yes, my poor children, you have been through a great deal!”

  Notwithstanding the joy of seeing that we were all safe, the thought of the deserter in his dungeon at the town-house would come to me; he too had parents! And when you think of all the trouble which a father and mother have in bringing up a child, of the nights spent in soothing his cries, of their cares when he is sick, of their hopes in seeing him growing up; and then imagine to yourself some old soldiers sitting around a table to try him, and coolly send him to be shot behind the bastion, it makes you shudder, especially when you say to yourself: “But for me, this boy would have been at liberty; he would be on the road to his village; to-morrow perhaps he would have reached the poor old people’s door, and have called out to them, ‘Open! it is I!’”

  Such thoughts are enough to make one wild.

  I did not dare to speak to my wife and children of the poor f
ellow’s arrest; I kept my thoughts to myself.

  Without, the detachments from La Roulette, Trois-Maisons, and La Fontaine-du-Chateau, passed through the street, keeping step; groups of children ran about the city to find the pieces of shells; neighbors collected to talk about the events of the night—the roofs torn off, chimneys thrown down, the frights they had had. We heard their voices rising and falling, and their shouts of laughter. And I have since seen that it is always the same thing after a bombardment; the shower is forgotten as soon as it is over, and they exclaim: “Huzza! the enemy is routed!”

  While we were there meditating, some one came up the stairs. We listened, and our sergeant, with his musket on his shoulder, and his cape and gaiters covered with mud, opened the door, exclaiming: “Good for you, Father Moses! Good for you!—You distinguished yourself last night!”

  “Ha! what is it, sergeant?” asked my wife in astonishment.

  “What! has he not told you of the famous thing he did, Madame Sorlé? Has he not told you that the national guard Moses, on patrol about nine o’clock at the Hospital bastion, discovered and then arrested a deserter in the very act! It is on Lieutenant Schnindret’s affidavit!”

  “But I was not alone,” I exclaimed in despair; “there were four of us.”

  “Bah! You discovered the track, you went down into the trenches, you carried the lantern! Father Moses, you must not try to make your good deed seem less; you are wrong. You are going to be named for corporal. The court-martial will sit to-morrow at nine. Be easy, they will take care of your man!”

  Imagine, Fritz, how I looked; Sorlé, Zeffen, and the children looked at me, and I did not know what to say.

  “Now I must go and change my clothes,” said the sergeant, shaking my hand. “We will talk about it again, Father Moses. I always said that you would turn out well in the end.”

  He gave a low laugh as was his custom, winking his eyes, and then went across the passage into his room.

  My wife was very pale.

  “Is it true, Moses?” she asked after a minute.

  “He! I did not know that he wanted to desert, Sorlé,” I replied. “And then the boy ought to have looked round on all sides; he ought to have gone down on the Hospital square, gone round the dunghills, and even into the lane to see if any one was coming; he brought it on himself; I did not know anything, I—”