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

by Émile Erckmann

  No one thought that all this could bode any good. Nevertheless, though many were seriously afraid of war, and though the old women lifted up their hands to heaven, crying, “Jesus! Mary! Joseph!” the greater number were preparing the means of defence. Under such circumstances, Jean-Claude Hullin was well received by all.

  The same day, toward five in the evening, he reached the summit of the Hengst, and halted with the patriarch of forest-hunters, old Materne. He spent the night there; for in winter the days are short and the roads difficult. Materne promised to keep watch over the defile of the Zorn, with his two sons Kasper and Frantz, and to reply to the first signal which was made from the Falkenstein.

  On the following day, Jean-Claude started early for Dagsburg, so as to come to an understanding with his friend Labarbe, the wood-cutter. They visited together the nearest hamlets, reanimating the love of country in the people’s hearts; and the next day Labarbe accompanied Hullin into Christ-Nickel’s, the anabaptist farmer of Painbach—a sensible and respectable man, but who could not be prevailed upon to participate in their glorious enterprise. Christ-Nickel had only one reply for all their observations; “It is well, it is just, but the Bible saith, ‘Put up thy sword into its place. He who lives by the sword shall perish by the sword.’” He promised them, however, to pray for the good cause: it was all they could obtain.

  They went from there to Walsch, and had some hearty shakes of the hand with Daniel Hirsch, a former marine gunner, who agreed to collect all the people of his district.

  At this place Labarbe left Jean-Claude to make his way by himself.

  For eight days longer he beat about the mountain, from Soldatenthal, to Léonsberg, Meienthal, Abreschwiller, Voyer, Loëttenbach, Cirey, Petit-Mont, and Saint-Sauveur; and on the ninth day he reached St. Quirin and saw the bootmaker Jérome. They visited the pass of Blanru together; after which Hullin, satisfied with what he had done, took his way to the village. He had been walking briskly for about two hours, picturing to himself the life of the camp,—the bivouac, marches and counter-marches—all that life of a soldier which he had so often regretted, and which he now saw returning with enthusiasm—when in the far distance, amidst the shades of the twilight, he perceived the hamlet of Charmes in a bluish mist, his little cottage sending forth a scarcely perceptible line of smoke, the small gardens surrounded with palisades, the stone-covered roofs, and to the left, bordering the hill, the great farm of Bois-de-Chênes, with the saw-mills of Valtin at the end of the now dark ravine.

  Then suddenly, and without knowing why, his soul was filled with a great sadness.

  He slackened his pace, and thought of the calm, peaceable life he was abandoning—perhaps forever; of his little room, so warm in the winter, and cheerful in spring when he opened his windows to the breath of the woods; of the tic-tac of the old timepiece, and then of Louise, his good little Louise, spinning in the silence with downcast eyes, and in the evenings singing some quaint strain with her pure penetrating voice when they were both feeling weary. These reflections laid such hold of him that the slightest objects, every instrument used in his profession,—the long shining augers, the round-handled hatchet, the mallets, the little stove, the old closet, the platters of varnished wood, the ancient figure of Saint Michael nailed to the wall, the old four-post bed at the bottom of the alcove, the stool, the trunk, the copper lamp,—all these things impressed themselves on his mind like a living picture, and the tears came into his eyes.

  But it was Louise, his darling child, whom he pitied. How she would weep, and implore him to renounce the war! And how she would hang on his neck, saying: “Oh! do not leave me, Papa Jean-Claude! Oh, I will love you so much! Oh, surely you will not abandon me!”

  And the honest fellow could see the terror in her beautiful eyes—he could feel her arms round his neck. For a moment he fancied that he might deceive her, make her believe anything, no matter what, and so account for his absence to her satisfaction; but such means were not in accordance with his character, and his sadness increased the more.

  Arrived at the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, he went in to tell Catherine Lefèvre that all was going well, and that the mountaineers were only awaiting the signal.

  A quarter of an hour after, Master Jean-Claude came down by the Houx road in front of his own little house.

  Before pushing open the creaking door, the idea struck him to see what Louise was about at that moment. He glanced into the little room through the window: Louise was standing by the curtains of the alcove; she seemed very animated, arranging, folding and unfolding clothes on the bed. Her sweet face beamed with happiness, and her large blue eyes sparkled with a sort of enthusiasm; she even talked aloud. Hullin listened; but a cart happening to pass at the time in the street, he could hear nothing. Making a firm resolve, he entered, saying quietly: “Louise, I have returned.”

  Immediately the young girl, joyous and skipping like a deer, ran to embrace him.

  “Ah! it is you, Papa Jean-Claude! I was expecting you. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! how long you stayed away! At length you are back.”

  “It was, my child,” replied the honest fellow, in a more undecided tone, putting his stick behind the door and his hat on the table, “it was because—”

  He could say nothing else.

  “Yes, yes, you went to see our friends,” said Louise, laughing: “I know all about it—Mamma Lefèvre has told me everything.”

  “What! thou knowest? And dost thou not mind? So much the better, so much the better! it shows thy sense. And I, who fancied thou wouldst have cried!”

  “Cry! and what for, papa Jean-Claude? Oh, I am courageous; you don’t know me yet—go!” She put on a resolute air, which made Hullin smile; but he did not smile long when she continued: “We are going to war—we are going to fight—we are going to pass up the mountain!”

  “Hullo! we are going! we are going!” exclaimed he in astonishment.

  “Certainly. Then are we not going?” said she, regretfully.

  “That is to say—I must leave thee for a little time, my child.”

  “Leave me—oh, no! I go with thee; it is all agreed upon. Look, see! my small parcel is ready, and here is yours, which I have arranged. Don’t trouble yourself, let me alone, and you will be satisfied!”

  Hullin could not get over his stupefaction. “But, Louise,” he exclaimed, “thou canst not think of such a thing. Consider: we must pass nights abroad, and march and run; consider the cold, the snow, the musketry! It cannot be.”

  “Come,” said the young girl, in a tearful voice, throwing herself into his arms, “do not pain me! You are only making fun of your little Louise. You cannot forsake her!”

  “But thou wilt be much safer here—thou wilt be warm—thou wilt hear from us every day.”

  “No, no. I will not—I must go too. The cold does not harm me. Only too long have I been shut up. I, too, must breathe a little. Are not the birds out of doors? The robins are out all the winter. Have I not known what cold was when I was quite tiny? and hunger also?”

  She stamped, and, for the third time, putting her arms round Jean-Claude’s neck, “Come then, Papa Hullin,” said she softly, “Mamma Lefèvre said yes. Would you be more naughty than she was? Ah, if you only knew how much I love you!”

  The good man had sat down and turned away his head, so as not to yield, and did not allow himself to be embraced.

  “Oh, how naughty you are to-day, Papa Jean-Claude!”

  “It is for thy sake, my child.”

  “Well, all the worse. I will run away after you. Cold—what is cold? And if you are wounded—if you ask to see your little Louise for the last time, and she is not there—near you, to take care of you, and love you to the end—oh, you must think me very cold-hearted.”

  She sobbed, and Hullin could not stand it any longer.

  “Is it true that Mamma Lefèvre consents?”

  “Oh, yes—oh, yes—she told me so. She said to me,—‘Try and make Papa Jean-Claude decide. I am willing, and q
uite satisfied.’”

  “Well, what can I do against two of you. Thou shalt come with us; it is quite decided.”

  She gave a scream of delight which ran through the cottage, “Oh, how kind you are!”

  And with one rub she wiped all her tears away, “We are going to be off, to take to the woods and to make war.”

  “Ah,” said Hullin, shaking his head, “I see it now; thou art always the little gypsy. As soon try to tame a swallow.”

  Then making her sit on his knees: “Louise, it is now twelve years since I found thee in the snow: thou wast blue, poor little one. And when we were in the cottage, near a good fire, and thou wert slowly reviving, the first thing thou didst was to smile at me. And since that time thy will has always been mine. With that smile thou hast led me wherever thou wouldst.”

  Then Louise began again to smile at him, and they embraced each other. “Now we will look at the packages,” he said, sighing. “Are they well made, I wonder?”

  He approached the bed, and was surprised to see his warmest clothes, his flannel-waistcoats, all well brushed, folded, and packed; and Louise’s bundle, with her best dresses, petticoats, and stout shoes, in nice order. At last he could not help laughing and crying out—“O gypsy, gypsy! you are the one for making fine bundles, and going away without ever turning the head.”

  Louise smiled. “Are you satisfied?”

  “I suppose I must be. But during all this piece of work, I will venture to say thou hast never thought of preparing my supper.”

  “Oh, it will soon be ready. I did not know you would return this evening, Papa Jean-Claude.”

  “That is true, my child. Bring me something—no matter what—quickly, for I am hungry. Meanwhile I shall smoke a pipe.”

  “Yes, that’s it; smoke a pipe.”

  He sat down on the side of the bench and struck the tinder-box quite dreamily. Louise rushed right and left like a sprite, seeing to the fire, breaking the eggs, and turning out an omelette with surprising celerity. Never had she appeared so lively, smiling, and pretty. Hullin, his elbow on the table and his face in his hand, watched her gravely, thinking how much will, firmness, and resolution there was in this girl—as light as a fairy, yet determined as a hussar. In a few seconds she served him with the omelette on a large china plate, with bread, and the glass and bottle.

  “There, Papa Jean-Claude, be hungry no longer.” She observed him eating with a look of tenderness.

  The flame sprang up in the stove, lighting clearly the low beams, the wooden stair in the shadow, the bed at the end of the alcove, the whole of the abode, so often cheered by the joyous humor of the shoemaker, the little songs of his daughter, and the industry of both. And all this Louise was leaving without any hesitation: she cared only for the woods, the snow-covered paths, and the endless mountains, reaching from the village into Switzerland, and even beyond. Ah, Master Jean-Claude had reason to cry “gypsy, gypsy!” The swallow cannot be tamed: it needs the open air, the broad sky—continual motion. Neither storms, nor wind, nor rain in torrents frighten it, when the hour of its departure is at hand. It has only one thought, one desire, one cry—“Let us away! Let us away.”

  The meal finished, Hullin rose and said to his daughter, “I am tired, my child; kiss me, and let us go to bed.”

  “Yes; but do not forget to awake me, Papa Jean-Claude, if you start before daybreak.”

  “Do not trouble thyself. It is understood thou shalt come with us.” And seeing her mount the stair and disappear in the garret: “Isn’t she afraid of stopping in the nest, that’s all!” said he to himself.

  The silence was great outdoors. Eleven o’clock had struck from the village church. The good man was sitting down to take off his boots, when he caught sight of his musket suspended above the door: he took it down, wiped it, and drew the trigger. His whole soul was intent on the business in hand.

  “It is all right,” he murmured: and then in a grave tone: “It is curious.… The last time I held it…at Marengo…was fourteen years ago, and yet it seems like yesterday!”

  Suddenly the hardened snow cracked under a quick footstep. He listened: “Someone!” At the same time two little sharp taps resounded on the panes. He ran to the window and opened it. The head of Marc Divès, with his broad hat stiff with the frost, bent forward from the darkness.

  “Well, Marc, what news?”

  “Hast thou warned the mountaineers—Materne, Jérome, Labarbe?”

  “Yes, all.”

  “It was time: the enemy has passed.”

  “Passed?”

  “Yes, along the whole line. I have walked fifteen leagues through the snow since this morning to announce it to thee.”

  “Good; the signal must be given: a great fire on the Falkenstein.”

  Hullin was very pale. He put on his boots. Two minutes later, his large blouse on his shoulders and his stick in his hand, he softly opened the door, and with long strides followed Marc Divès on the way to the Falkenstein.

  CHAPTER VII

  RISING OF THE PARTISANS

  From midnight till six in the morning a flame shone through the darkness on the summit of the Falkenstein, and the whole mountain was on the alert.

  All the friends of Hullin, Marc Divès, and of Mother Lefèvre, their long gaiters on their legs and old muskets on their shoulders, journeyed, through the silent woods, toward the gorges of the Valtin. The thought of the enemy traversing the plains of Alsace to surprise the passes, was present to the minds of all. The tocsins of Dagsburg, Abreschwiller, Walsch, and St. Quirin, and of all the other villages, began to call the defenders of the country to arms.

  Now you must picture to yourself the Jägerthal, at the foot of the old castle, in unusually snowy weather, at that early hour when the clumps of trees begin to creep out of the shadow, and when the extreme cold of night softens at the approach of day. Picture, also, to yourself the old Sawyerie, with its flat roof, its heavy wheel burdened with icicles, the low interior dimly lit up by a pine-wood fire, whose blaze fades away in the glimmer of the coming dawn; and, around the fire, fur bonnets, caps, and black profiles, gazing one over the other, and squeezing close together like a wall; and farther on, in the woods, more fires lighting up groups of men and women squatting in the snow.

  The agitation began to decrease. As the sky became grayer the people recognized each other.

  “Ah, it is Cousin Daniel of Soldatenthal. You have come too?”

  “Yes, as you see, Heinrich, with my wife also.”

  “What, Cousin Nanette! Where is she?”

  “Down there, near the old oak, by Uncle Hans’ fire.”

  They shook hands. Many could be heard yawning loudly: others threw on the fire bits of planks. The gourds went round; some retired from the circles to make room for their shivering neighbors. Meanwhile the crowd began to grow impatient.

  “Ah,” cried some, “we did not come here only to get our feet warmed. It is time to see and come to an understanding.”

  “Yes, yes! Let them hold a council, and name the chiefs.”

  “No; everybody is not yet arrived. See, there are more coming from Dagsburg and St. Quirin.”

  Indeed, the lighter it became, the more people could be seen hastening along all the mountain paths. At that time there must have been many hundreds of men in the valley—wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, raftsmen—without counting the women and children.

  Nothing could be more picturesque than that gathering in the midst of the snows, in the depths of the defile, closed in as it was by tall pines losing themselves in the clouds. To the right, the valleys opening away into each other as far as the eye could reach; to the left, the ruins of the Falkenstein rising into the sky. From a distance one would have said it was a flock of cranes settled on the ice; but, nearer, these hardy men could be distinguished, with stiff beards bristling like a boar, gloomy fierce eyes, broad square shoulders, and horny hands. Some few, taller than the rest, belonged to the fiery race of red men, white-skinned, and hairy
to the tips of their fingers, with strength enough to pull an oak up by the roots. Among this number was old Materne of Hengst, with his two sons Kasper and Frantz. These sturdy fellows—all three armed with little rifles from Innsprück—having blue cloth gaiters with leathern buttons reaching above their knees, their loins girdled with goat-skin, and their felt hats coming down low over their necks—did not deign to approach the fire. For an hour they had been sitting on a trunk by the river-side, on the watch, with their feet in the snow. From time to time the old man would say to his sons, “What do they shiver for over there? I never knew a milder night for the season: it is nothing—the rivers are not even touched.”

  All the forest-hunters of the country passing by came to shake hands with them, then congregated round them and formed a circle apart. These fellows spoke little, being used to silence for whole days and nights, for fear of frightening away their game.

  Marc Divès, standing in the middle of another group, a head taller than any of them, spoke and gesticulated—pointing now to one part of the mountain, now to another. In front of him was the old herdsman Lagarmitte, with his large gray smock, a long bark trumpet on his shoulder, and his dog at his feet. He listened to the smuggler, open-mouth, and kept on bowing his head. The others all seemed attentive: they were composed of charcoal-burners and wood-carriers, with whom the smuggler had daily intercourse.