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

by Émile Erckmann

  “Make haste!” cried he; “we have not an instant to lose.”

  “What has happened then?” asked Catherine.

  The fusillade came nearer.

  “Eh!” exclaimed Jean-Claude, throwing up his arms, “have I time now to explain to you?”

  The old dame understood that the only thing to be done was to obey. She put on her hood and descended the staircase with Louise. By the flickering light of the shots, Catherine saw Materne, bare-necked, and his son Kasper, firing from the entrance of the alley upon the abatis, and ten others behind handing them muskets, so that they had only to aim and fire. All these men, in a throng, loading, shouldering, and firing, had a terrible aspect. Three or four dead bodies lying against the old wall added to the horror of the scene. The smoke was at the point of reaching the dwelling.

  Coming down the stairs, Hullin cried, “Here they are, thank heaven!” And all the brave fellows who were there, looking up, cried out, “Courage, Mother Lefèvre!”

  Whereupon the poor old lady, worn out by her emotions, began to weep and lean on Jean-Claude’s shoulder; but he lifted her up like a feather, and ran along by the wall to the right. Louise followed, sobbing loudly.

  Out of doors, one could only hear the whizzing of bullets and the dull heavy blows against the wall; the bricks and mortar were tumbling down, the tiles rolling about; while in front, near the abatis, and three hundred yards off, one could see the white uniforms in line, lit up by their own fire in the dark night; and, to their left, on the other side of the ravine of Minières, the mountaineers attacking them in flank.

  Hullin disappeared at the corner of the farm,—where all was in darkness;—Doctor Lorquin, on horseback in front of a sledge, having a large cavalry sword in his hand and two pistols passed through his belt, with Frantz Materne and a dozen other armed men, being barely distinguishable. Hullin placed Catherine in the sledge, on some straw, and Louise by her side.

  “There you are!” exclaimed the doctor. “It is well for you.”

  And Frantz Materne added: “If it were not for you, Mother Lefèvre, you may well believe that not one of us would quit the plateau this night; but there is nothing to be said since you are in the case.”

  “No,” cried the others, “there is nothing to be said!”

  Just at that moment, a tall fellow, with legs long as a heron’s and a round back, came running behind the wall and shouting, “They are coming! Fly! fly!”

  Hullin turned pale.

  “It is the big knife-grinder of the Harberg!” he exclaimed, grinding his teeth.

  Frantz without saying a word put his musket to his shoulder, aimed and fired; and Louise saw the grinder at thirty yards in the dim light, throw up his arms and fall face downward on the ground. Frantz reloaded, smiling grimly.

  Hullin then said: “Comrades, here is our mother—she who has given us powder and furnished us with food for the defence of our country; and here is my child: save them!”

  They all replied: “We will save, or die with, them.”

  “And do not forget to warn Divès to stay at the Falkenstein till further orders.”

  “All right, Jean-Claude.”

  “Then forward, doctor, forward!” cried the gallant man.

  “And you, Hullin?” exclaimed Catherine.

  “My place is here; our position must be defended till death!”

  “Papa Jean-Claude!” cried Louise, holding out her arms to him.

  But he had already turned the corner,—the doctor flicked his horse, and the sledge passed quickly along the snow. Frantz Materne and his men, with their muskets on their shoulders, marched behind; while a rolling fire of musketry was still kept up around the farm.

  That was what Catherine Lefèvre and Louise saw in the space of a few minutes. No doubt something strange and terrible had happened in the night. The old farm-mistress, recalling her dream, became very thoughtful. Louise dried her eyes and looked toward the plateau, which was lighted up as by a fire. The horse bounded away under the doctor’s whip, so that the mountaineers could hardly keep up. For some distance the tumult and clamor of the battle, the explosions, and whizzing of the balls among the branches, were distinctly heard; but all this grew fainter and fainter, and soon, at the descent of the path, vanished as in a dream.

  The sledge had reached the opposite side of the mountain, and was flying like an arrow through the darkness. The only sounds which broke the silence were the galloping of the horse, the quick breathing of the escort, and from time to time the doctor’s cry, “Here, Bruno! here then!”

  A current of cold wind, coming up from the valley of the Sarre, carried upon its breeze, like a great sigh, the endless roar of the torrents and soughing of the woods. The moon was peering out from behind a cloud, and looking down on the black forests of Blanru, with their tall pines loaded with snow.

  Ten minutes later the sledge had gained an angle of the woods, and Doctor Lorquin, turning round in his saddle, exclaimed, “Now, Frantz, what have we to do? Here is the way which leads toward the hills of St. Quirin, and there is another road which descends to Blanru. Which shall we take?”

  Frantz and the men of the escort came up. As they were then on the western slope of the Donon, they began to see again, high in the air, on the other side of the hill, the fusillade of the Germans, who were advancing by way of the Grosmann. First they saw the flashes, and then heard the rolling echoes in the depths of the valleys.

  “The road by the hills of St. Quirin,” said Frantz, “is the shortest cut to the farm of Bois-de-Chênes; it would save at least three-quarters of an hour.”

  “Yes,” rejoined the doctor, “but we should risk being stopped by the Germans, who now occupy the defile of the Sarre. See, they are already masters of the heights; they have no doubt sent detachments to the Sarre-Rouge in order to turn the Donon.”

  “Let us take the Blanru road, then,” said Frantz; “it is longer, but safer.”

  The sledge passed down the left along the woods. The partisans, gun in hand, advanced one after the other along the top of the bank, while the doctor on his horse swept along the snow in the roadway. Above, the great pine-branches met across the road, and enveloped it with their deep shadows, while the moon lit up the surrounding scenery. This road was so majestic and picturesque, that, under any other circumstances, Catherine would have been astonished at it, and Louise would not have failed to admire the garlands of icicles, looking like crystals in the pale rays of the moon; but just then they were filled with uneasiness; and, moreover, when the sledge entered the gorge, all the brightness vanished, and only the summits of the high mountains around remained visible. They had been going in this way for a quarter of an hour, when Catherine, having kept silence for some time, at last could contain herself no longer, but exclaimed: “Doctor Lorquin, now that you have us in the depths of Blanru, and can do with us what you please, will you explain to me why we have been dragged away by force? Jean-Claude carried me off, and flung me on this heap of straw—and here I am!”

  “Up, Bruno,” cried the doctor.

  Then he gravely answered her: “This night, Dame Catherine, a great misfortune has overtaken us. You must not attribute it to Jean-Claude: it is by another’s fault that we have lost the fruit of all our sacrifices!”

  “Through whose fault?”

  “That unlucky Labarbe’s, who did not guard the defile of the Blutfeld. He died afterward fulfilling his duty; but that does not repair the disaster; and if Piorette does not come up in time to aid Hullin, all is lost; it will be necessary to abandon the road and to fight retreating.”

  “What! the Blutfeld is taken?”

  “Yes, Mistress Catherine. Who the deuce could ever have thought that the Germans would enter that? A defile almost impracticable for foot-passengers, enclosed by rugged rocks, where the goatherds can barely descend with their flocks. Well, they marched that way, two at a time; they turned Roche-Creuse, crushed Labarbe, and then fell upon Jérome, who defended himself like a lion till
nine in the evening; but, at last, he was obliged to take refuge in the pine-woods, and leave the pass to the ‘kaiserlichs.’ That is the whole story. It is shocking. Indeed, there must be some one among us base and vile enough to have guided the enemy, and would deliver us over to him bound hands and feet. Oh, the wretch!” cried Lorquin, furiously. “I am not revengeful, but if he came into my clutches, how I would serve him! Up, Bruno! up, then!”

  The partisans were marching along the bank like spectres, without saying a word.

  The old farm-mistress became silent in order to collect her ideas.

  “I begin to understand,” said she at last. “We were attacked to-night on both sides.”

  “Exactly so, Catherine. Fortunately, ten minutes before the attack, one of Marc Divès’s smugglers, Zimmer, the old dragoon, had come full gallop to warn us. Had it not been for that, we would have been lost. He fell in with our vanguard, after having run the gauntlet of a detachment of Cossacks on the plateau of Grosmann. The poor fellow had received a terrible sabre-thrust; and his bowels were protruding over the saddle—was it not so, Frantz?”

  “Yes,” replied the hunter, sadly.

  “And what did he say?” demanded Catherine.

  “He had only time to cry, ‘To arms! We are hemmed in! Jérome sends me. Labarbe is dead! The Germans have passed the Blutfeld!’”

  “He was a gallant fellow,” exclaimed Catherine.

  “Yes, a gallant fellow,” replied Frantz, with his head bent down.

  Then they relapsed into silence, and for some time the sledge swept through the winding valley. Now and then they were obliged to stop, the snow was so deep—when three or four mountaineers would take the horse by the bridle—and so they continued their way.

  “All the same,” said Catherine, suddenly rousing up from her reverie, “Hullin might have told me.”

  “But if he had mentioned these two attacks,” interrupted the doctor, “you would have wanted to remain.”

  “And who can hinder me from doing what I like? If it pleased me to get out of the sledge this very moment, should I not be free? I had forgiven Jean-Claude, but I am sorry for it!”

  “Oh, Maman Lefèvre, supposing he is killed while you are saying that!” murmured Louise.

  “She is right, poor child,” thought Catherine; and then quickly added, “I said I was sorry for it; but he is such a good man, that one cannot be angry with him. I forgive him with all my heart; in his place I should have done the same.”

  Two or three hundred yards farther on they entered the defile of Roches. The snow had ceased falling, and the moon was shining between great white clouds. The narrow gorge, hemmed in by steep precipices, expanded in the distance, its sides covered with tall pines. Nothing disturbed the deep calm of the woods; one could have imagined one’s self far away from all human agitation. The silence was so great that every step the horse made in the snow could be heard, and even his sharp quick breathing. Frantz Materne halted at times to gaze upon the black slopes, and then hurried on to overtake the others.

  They crossed valley after valley; the sledge mounted and descended, now to the right and then to the left; and the partisans, with their bayonets fixed, followed continually.

  Toward three in the morning they reached the meadow of Brimbelles, where at the present day an old oak can still be seen bending over the valley. To the left, in the midst of the snow-covered, heather, behind a low stone wall, stood the old house of the guard Cuny. Three beehives were placed on a bench, a gnarled vine hung down from the roof and a small pine-bough was suspended over the door by way of sign-board, for Cuny carried on the business of innkeeper in this solitary place.

  At this spot the road runs close under the meadow wall, and as a large cloud obscured the light of the moon, the doctor, fearing to be upset, halted beneath the oak.

  “We have only one hour’s journey more, Mother Lefèvre,” said he; “take courage; there is no hurry.”

  “Yes,” said Frantz; “the heaviest part of the road is over, and the horse may breath a while.”

  The small party collected round the sledge, and the doctor got down. Some lit their pipes; but no one spoke: they were all busy thinking of the Donon. What was going on there? Would Jean-Claude be able to defend the plateau till Piorette arrived? So many dread thoughts and dismal reflections passed through the minds of the worthy people, that not one seemed able to speak.

  They had been standing thus about five minutes, when the black cloud passed slowly away, and the pale moonlight lit up the gorge. Suddenly, a dark figure on horseback appeared two hundred paces from them, in the path between the pine-trees. By the light of the moon they quickly perceived that it was the figure of a Cossack with his sheepskin cap, and bearing a lance under his arm. He was advancing slowly; Frantz was already taking aim, when other Cossacks with their lances appeared behind him. They advanced deliberately in the direction of the sledge, like people on the search, some with their heads turned upward, others peering into the shrubs from their saddles. They numbered more than thirty.

  Imagine the feelings of Louise and Catherine, seated in the middle of the road. They looked on open-mouthed. In another minute they would be surrounded by these bandits. The mountaineers were stupefied; it was impossible to return: they were hemmed in on one side by the meadow wall, on the other by the mountain-side. The old farm-wife seized Louise by the hand, and said, in a stifled voice, “Let us escape to the woods!”

  She sprang from the sledge, leaving her shoe in the straw.

  Suddenly one of the Cossacks uttered a guttural cry, which was repeated along the whole line.

  “We are discovered!” exclaimed the doctor, as he drew his sword.

  The words had scarcely escaped his lips when twelve musket-shots lit up the path from end to end; a regular savage whoop answered the report of the muskets. The Cossacks made off from the path to the meadow in front, gave their horses the reins, bent down in their saddles, and flew toward the guard-house like deer.

  “Ha! they are off like the devil!” said the doctor.

  But the worthy man was too hasty. Suddenly, when they had gone two or three hundred yards along the valley, the Cossacks again wheeled round and massed themselves firmly together; then, with their lances in rest, and bending over their horses’ heads, they rushed straight at the partisans, shouting in hoarse voices—“Hourah! hourah!”

  It was a terrible moment.

  Frantz and the others sprang toward the wall, to protect the sledge.

  In another second, the clashing of lances and screams of rage could alone be heard, mingled with imprecations. Under the shadow of the old oak, through the straggling moonbeams, could be seen the horses prancing with tossing manes, as they endeavored to clear the meadow wall; while the barbarian Cossacks, with gleaming eyes and uplifted arms, struck furiously with their lances, advancing, retreating, and uttering piercing yells.

  Louise, deathly pale, and Catherine, with her gray dishevelled hair, stood up in the straw.

  Doctor Lorquin, in front of them, parried the strokes with his sabre, and all the time kept shouting to them—“Lie down! lie down!” But they did not hear him.

  Louise, in the midst of the tumult and shouting, thought only of sheltering Catherine; and the old dame, in the midst of her terror, had recognized Yégof, on a tall, gaunt horse—Yégof, with his tin crown, bristling beard, long lance, and dog-skin floating from his shoulders. She saw him as distinctly as though it were broad daylight. He stood about ten feet distant, with sparkling eyes, brandishing his blue lance in the darkness, and striving to reach her. What could she do? Submit to her fate! Thus do the most resolute characters succumb to inevitable destiny. The old dame thought her fate was sealed. She saw all these people tearing like wolves, thrusting and parrying in the moonlight. She saw some fall; and horses running, riderless through the fields. She saw the topmost window of the guard-house thrown open; and old Cuny, in his shirt-sleeves, shoulder his gun, though not daring to fire into the crowd. All
passed before her eyes with wonderful clearness. “The madman has returned,” she said to herself. “Do what they will, he will hang my head to the side of his saddle. It will end as I saw in my dream.”

  And, indeed, everything seemed to justify her fears: the mountaineers, inferior in numbers, were giving way. The Cossacks had cleared the wall, and were already on the footpath. A well-aimed thrust passed through the old dame’s back-hair, and she felt the cold iron against her neck.

  “Oh, the murderers!” she screamed, falling back and clutching fast at the reins.

  Doctor Lorquin himself had been hurled against the sledge. Frantz and the others, surrounded by twenty Cossacks, could afford them no help. Louise felt a hand on her shoulder: it was the hand of the madman, seated on his great horse.

  At this fearful moment, the poor child, mad with terror, uttered a scream of distress; then she saw something gleaming in the darkness: it was Lorquin’s pistols. Quick as lightning, tearing them from the doctor’s belt, she fired them off both at once, singeing Yégof’s beard, and blowing out the brains of a Cossack who was bending toward her with flaming eyes. She then seized Catherine’s whip, and pale as death, lashed the horse, who bounded away. The sledge flew through the bushes, swaying from right to left. Suddenly there was a shock. Catherine, Louise, the straw, and all rolled in the snow on the slopes of the ravine. The horse stopped short on its haunches, its mouth full of bloody foam. It had struck against an oak-tree.

  Rapid as was the fall, Louise had seen figures passing like the wind behind the underwood. She had heard a powerful voice, that of Divès, crying out, “Forward! Cut them down!”

  It was like a vision—one of those confused apparitions which pass before the eyes in moments of supreme danger; but, on rising, the young girl had no longer any doubts. Fighting was going on only a few paces distant behind the cover of some trees, and the voice of Marc was heard shouting, “Go it, my old fellows! Give them no quarter!”