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

by Émile Erckmann

  Hullin, owing to his robust constitution and jovial disposition, never had any fears for the future, and considered all rumors of retreat, rout, and invasion, which circulated in the country, as so many lies propagated by dishonest individuals; so that one may judge of his stupefaction when, on leaving the mountains and from the outskirts of the woods, he saw the whole surroundings of the town laid as bare as a pontoon: not a garden, not an orchard, not a promenade, or a tree, or even a shrub—all was destroyed within cannon-range. A few poor creatures were picking up the last remnants of their little houses, and carrying them into the town. Nothing was to be seen on the horizon but the line of ramparts standing out clearly above the hidden roads. It had the effect of a thunder-bolt on Jean-Claude.

  For some moments he could neither articulate a word nor make a step forward.

  “Oh, ho!” said he, at last, “this is bad—this is very bad. They expect the enemy.”

  Then his warlike instincts prevailed; a dark flush came over his brown cheeks. “It is those rascally Austrians, Prussians, and Russians, and all the other wretches picked up out of the dregs of Europe, who are the cause of this,” cried he, waving his stick. “But beware! we will make them pay for the damages!”

  He was possessed with one of those white rages such as honest people feel when they are driven to extremities. Woe to him who annoyed Hullin just then!

  Twenty minutes later he entered the town, at the rear of a long file of carriages, each harnessed to five or six horses, pulling, with much trouble, enormous trunks of trees, destined to construct block-houses on the place-d’armes. Among the conductors, the peasants, and neighing, stamping horses, marched gravely a mounted gendarme—Father Kels—who did not seem to hear anything, and said, in a rough voice, “Courage, courage, my friends! We will make two more journeys before evening. You will have deserved well of your country!”

  Jean-Claude crossed the bridge.

  A new spectacle opened before him in the town. There reigned the ardor of defence: all the doors were open; men, women, and children came and ran, helping to transport the powder and projectiles. They stopped in groups of three, four, six, to make themselves acquainted with the news.

  “Hé neighbor!”

  “What then?”

  “A courier has just arrived in great speed. He entered by the French gate.”

  “Then he has come to announce the National Guard from Nancy.”

  “Or, perhaps, a convoy from Metz.”

  “You are right. We want sixteen-pounders, and shot also. The stoves are to be broken up to make some.”

  A few worthy tradespeople in their shirt-sleeves, standing on tables along the pavement, were busying themselves with barricading their windows with large pieces of wood and mattresses; others rolled up to their doors tubs of water. This enthusiasm reanimated Hullin.

  “Excellent!” said he; “everybody is making holiday here. The allies will be well received.”

  In front of the College, the squeaky voice of the Sergeant-de-ville Harmentier was proclaiming:

  “Let it be known that the casemates are to be opened: therefore everybody may take a mattress there, and two blankets each. And the commissaries of this place are going to commence their rounds of inspection, to ascertain that each inhabitant possesses food for three months in advance, which he must certify.—This day, 20th December, 1813.—JEAN PIERRE MEUNIER, Governor.”

  All this Hullin saw and heard in less than a minute, for the whole town was in the greatest excitement. Strange, serious, and comic scenes succeeded each other without interruption.

  Near the narrow street leading to the Arsenal, a few National Guards were drawing a twenty-four pounder. These honest fellows had a very steep ascent to climb; they could do no more. “Ho! all together! Mille tonnerres! Once again! Forward!” They all shouted at once, pushing the wheels, and the great cannon, stretching out its long neck over its immense carriage, above their heads, rolled slowly along, making the pavement tremble.

  Hullin, quite rejoiced, was no longer the same man. His soldier-like instincts, the remembrance of the bivouac, of the marches, of the firing, and of the battles—all returned. His eyes sparkled, his heart beat faster, and already thoughts of defence, of entrenchments, of death-struggles came and went in his head.

  “Faith!” said he, “all goes well! I have made enough shoes in my life, and since the occasion to take up the musket presents itself, well, so much the better: we will show the Prussians and Austrians that we have not forgotten to charge at the double.”

  Thus reasoned the good man, carried away by his warlike instincts; but his joy did not last long.

  Before the church, on the place-d’armes, were standing fifteen or twenty carts, full of wounded, arrived from Leipzig and Hanau. These unhappy creatures, pale, ghastly, heavy-eyed, some whose limbs were already amputated, others with their wounds still untouched, tranquilly awaited death. Near them, a few worn-out jades were eating their meagre allowance, while the conductors, poor wretches, who had been brought into requisition in Alsace, wrapped in their old mantles, slept notwithstanding the cold—their great hats turned down over their faces and their arms folded—on the steps of the church. One shuddered to see these sad groups of men, with their gray hoods, heaped up on the bloody straw—one carrying his broken arm on his knees; another with his head bandaged in an old handkerchief; a third, already dead, being used as a seat for the living, his black hands hanging down the ladder. Hullin, in front of this mournful spectacle, stopped rooted to the ground. He could not lift his eyes from it. Great human suffering has this strange power of fascination over us: we look to see men perish, how they regard death: the best among us are not exempt from this frightful curiosity. It seems as though eternity is going to deliver up its secret!

  There, then, near the shafts of the first cart, to the right of the file, were crouched two carbineers in little sky-blue vests, veritable giants, whose powerful natures gave way under the clutch of pain: like two caryatides crushed by the weight of some heavy mass. One, with great red mustaches and ashy cheeks, looked at you out of his sunken eyes, as though from the depths of some fearful nightmare; the other, bent double, with blue hands, and shoulder torn by shot, sank more and more; then would raise himself with a jerk, talking softly as though dreaming. Behind lay stretched, two and two, some infantry soldiers, the greater number struck by ball, with a leg or an arm broken. They seemed to support their fate with more firmness than the giants. These poor creatures said nothing: a few only, the youngest, furiously demanded water and bread; and in the next cart, a plaintive voice—the voice of a conscript—called, “My mother! my mother!” while the older men smiled gloomily, as though to say: “Yes, yes, she will come, thy mother!” Perhaps they did not think of anything all the time.

  Now and then a shudder would pass along the whole of them. Then several wounded could be seen half lifting themselves, with deep groans, and falling back as if death had gone its rounds at that moment.

  And again everything relapsed into silence. While Hullin was watching, and feeling sick to his heart’s core, a shopkeeper in the vicinity, Sôme the baker, came out of his house carrying a large basin of soup. Then you should have seen all these spectres move, their eyes sparkle, their nostrils dilate; they seemed born again. The unhappy fellows were dying of hunger!

  Good Father Sôme, with tears in his eyes, approached, saying, “I am coming, my children. A little patience! It is I, you know me!”

  But hardly was he near the first cart, when the great carbineer with the ashy cheeks, reviving, plunged his arm up to the elbow in the boiling basin, seized the meat, and hid it under his vest. It was done with the rapidity of lightning. Savage yells arose on all sides: those men, if they had had strength to move, would have devoured their comrade. He, his arms pressed tightly to his chest, the teeth on has prey, and glaring round him, appeared to hear nothing. At these cries an old soldier, a sergeant, rushed out of the nearest inn. He was an old hand; he understood at once
what it was about, and, without useless reflections, he tore away the meat from the wild beast, saying to him, “Thou dost not deserve any! It must be divided into parts. We will cut ten rations!”

  “We are only eight!” said one of the wounded, very calm to all appearance, but with eyes gleaming out of their bronze mask.

  “How, eight?”

  “You can see, sergeant, that those two are dying fast: it would be so much food lost!”

  The old sergeant looked.

  “Eight,” said he; “eight rations!”

  Hullin could bear it no longer. He went over to the innkeeper Wittmann’s opposite, as white as death; Wittmann was also a fur and leather merchant. Seeing him enter, “Hé! is it you, Master Jean-Claude?” he exclaimed. “You arrive sooner than usual; I did not expect you till next week.” Then seeing how he staggered—“But say, you are ill?”

  “I have just seen the wounded.”

  “Ah, yes! the first time, it shocks you; but if you had seen fifteen thousand pass, as we have, you would not think anything more about it.”

  “A glass of wine, quick?” said Hullin, who felt badly. “Oh, mankind, mankind! And to think that we are brothers!”

  “Yes, brothers until it touches your purse,” replied Wittmann. “Come, drink! that will set you right.”

  “And you have seen fifteen thousand go by?” rejoined the shoemaker.

  “At the least, for two months, without speaking of those who have remained in Alsace and the other side of the Rhine; for, you comprehend, they cannot find carts enough for all, and then many are not worth the trouble of being carried away.”

  “Yes, I comprehend! But why are they there, those poor creatures? Why do they not go into the hospital?”

  “The hospital! What is one hospital, ten hospitals, for fifty thousand wounded? Every hospital, from Mayence and Coblentz as far as Phalsbourg, is crowded. And, besides, that terrible fever, typhus, you see, Hullin, kills more than the bullet. All the villages of the plain twenty leagues round are infected with it; they die everywhere like flies. Luckily the town has been in a state of siege these three days; the gates will be closed, and no more will enter. I have lost, for my part, my Uncle Christian and my Aunt Lisbeth, as healthy, solid people as you and I, Master Jean-Claude. At last the cold has arrived; last night there was a white frost.”

  “And the wounded remained on the pavements all night?”

  “No, they came from Saverne this morning; in an hour or two, when the horses are rested, they will leave for Sarrebourg.”

  At that moment, the old sergeant, who had re-established order in the carts, came in rubbing his hands.

  “Hé! hé!” said he, “it freshens, Papa Wittmann. You did well to light the fire in the stove. A little glass of cognac to drive away the fog. Hum! hum!”

  His small half-closed eyes, his beaked nose, the cheek-bones being separated from it by two flourishing wrinkles, which were lost to sight in a long reddish imperial—everything looked gay in his face, and told of a jovial, kind disposition. It was a regular military face, scorched, burnt by the open air, full of frankness, but also of a cheery slyness; his great shako, his blue-gray cloak, the shoulder-belt, the epaulette, seemed to partake of his individuality. One could not have represented him without them. He walked up and down the room, continuing to rub his hands, while Wittmann poured him a glass of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had at once noticed the number of his regiment—6th Light Infantry. Gaspard, the son of Madame Lefèvre, served in this regiment. Jean-Claude could now obtain some tidings of the lover of Louise; but, as he was going to speak, his heart beat loud. If Gaspard was dead; if he had perished like so many others!

  The worthy shoemaker felt nearly suffocated; he kept silent. “Better to know nothing,” thought he. However, a few minutes later, he could do so no longer. “Sergeant,” said he, in a hoarse voice, “you are in the 6th Light Infantry?”

  “Yes, my citizen,” said the other, turning round in the middle of the room.

  “Do you know one called Gaspard Lefèvre?”

  “Gaspard Lefèvre, of the 2d division of the 1st? Parbleu, if I know him! It is I who taught him his drill. A brave soldier! hardened against fatigue. If we had a hundred thousand of that stamp—”

  “Then he lives? he is well?”

  “Yes, citizen. Eight days ago I left the regiment at Fredericsthal to escort this convoy of wounded. You understand, it is hot there—one cannot answer for anything. From one moment to the other, each of us may have his business settled for him. But eight days ago, at Fredericsthal—the 15th December—Gaspard Lefèvre still answered to the roll-call.”

  Jean-Claude breathed. “But then, sergeant, have the goodness to tell me why Gaspard has not written to his village for two months?”

  The old soldier smiled, and blinked his little eyes. “Ah! now, citizen, do you then believe that one has nothing else to do on the march but to write?”

  “No. I have served; I was in the campaigns of Sambre-et-Meuse, of Egypt and Italy, but that did not prevent me from giving some news of myself.”

  “One instant, comrade,” interrupted the sergeant. “I have passed through Egypt and Italy also; the campaign we are finishing is altogether different.”

  “It has then been very severe?”

  “Severe! one must have one’s soul driven into every part of one’s members, so as not to leave one’s bones there. All was against us: sickness, traitors, peasants, townsfolk, our allies—in fact all! From our company, which was complete when we quitted Phalsbourg, the 21st of last January, only thirty-four men remain. I believe Gaspard Lefèvre is the only conscript left. Those poor conscripts! they fought well; but they were not accustomed to endure hardships: they melted like butter in an oven.” So saying, the old sergeant approached the counter and drank his glass off at one draught. “To your health, my citizen. Are you perchance the father of Gaspard?”

  “No, I am a relation.”

  “Well, you can pride yourselves on being stoutly built in your family. What a man at twenty! He has gone through everything—he has, while the others fell away in dozens.”

  “But,” rejoined Hullin, after an instant’s silence, “I cannot see anything so very different in this last campaign; for we also had sickness and traitors.”

  “Anything different!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Everything was different! Formerly, if you have gone through the war in Germany, you ought to remember that, after one or two victories, it was over: the people received you well; one drank the little white wines, and ate sauerkraut and ham with the townsfolk; one danced with the buxom wives. The husbands and grandpapas laughed heartily, and when the regiment left, everybody cried. But this time, after Lutzen and Bautzen, instead of feeling kindly, the people regarded us with diabolical faces; we could get nothing out of them but by force; one could have fancied one’s self in Spain or Vendée. I do not know what stuff they had in their heads against us. Better had we only been French, had we not had Saxons and other allies, who only awaited the moment to spring at our throats: we should then have pulled through all the same, one against five! But the allies—don’t talk to me of the allies! Why, at Leipzig, the 18th of October last, in the hottest part of the battle, our allies turned against us and shot at us from behind; those were our good friends the Saxons. A week later, our former friends the Bavarians came and threw themselves across our retreat: we had to pass over them at Hanau. The day after, near Frankfort, another column of good friends presented themselves, and we had to crush them. The more one kills, the more they come! Here we are now this side of the Rhine. Well, there are decidedly more of these good friends marching from Moscow. Ah! if we could have foreseen it after Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Wagram!”

  Hullin had become very thoughtful. “And now how do we stand, sergeant?”

  “We have had to repass the Rhine, and all our strongholds on the other side are blockaded. The 10th of November last the Prince of Neufchâtel reviewed the regiment at Bleckheim. T
he 3d battalion had been amalgamated with the 2d, and the ‘cadre’ received orders to be in readiness to leave for the depot. Cadres are not wanting, but men. As for twenty years we have been bled on all sides, it is not astonishing. All Europe is down upon us. The Emperor is at Paris; he is laying down a plan of the campaign. If we may only have breathing time till the spring—”

  Just then Wittmann, who was standing by the window, said, “Here is the governor come from inspecting the clearings around the town.”

  It was the commandant, Jean-Pierre Meunier, wearing a three-cornered hat, and a tricolor scarf around his waist, who crossed over the square.

  “Ah,” said the sergeant, “I must get him to sign my papers. Pardon, citizen; I must leave you.”

  “Do so, sergeant; and thank you. If you meet Gaspard, tell him that Jean-Claude Hullin embraces him, and that they expect tidings from him in the village.”

  “Good—good. I will not fail to do so.”

  The sergeant went out, and Hullin finished his wine in a reverie.

  “Father Wittmann,” said he, after a pause, “what of my parcel?”

  “It is ready, Master Jean-Claude.” Then, looking into the kitchen, “Grédel! Grédel! bring Hullin’s parcel.”

  A little woman appeared, and put down on the table a roll of sheepskins. Jean-Claude passed his stick through it, and lifted it over his shoulder.