The Invasion of France in 1814 Part 9

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 gla.s.s 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 Dives, with his broad hat stiff with the frost, bent forward from the darkness.

"Well, Marc, what news?"

"Hast thou warned the mountaineers--Materne, Jerome, Labarbe?"

"Yes, all."

"It was time: the enemy has pa.s.sed."

"Pa.s.sed?"

"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 Dives 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 Dives, and of Mother Lefevre, 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 pa.s.ses, 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 Jagerthal, 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 h.o.r.n.y 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 st.u.r.dy fellows--all three armed with little rifles from Innspruck--having blue cloth gaiters with leathern b.u.t.tons 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 pa.s.sing 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 Dives, 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.

Between the saw-mills and the first fire, on the bridge over the dam, sat the bootmaker Jerome of St. Quirin--a man of from fifty to sixty years of age, with a long brown face, hollow eyes, big nose--his ears covered with a badger-skin cap--and a yellow beard reaching to his waist in a peak. His hands, enveloped in great green woollen gloves, were clasped over an immense stick of knotty service-tree. He wore a long sackcloth hood; and might easily have been taken for a hermit. At every rumor that arose, Father Jerome would slowly turn his head, and try to catch what it was, frowning.

Jean Labarbe, grasping his axe, remained immovable. He was a white-faced man, with an aquiline nose and thin lips. He exercised great influence over the men of Dagsburg, owing to his resolution and the clearness of his ideas. When they shouted around him, "We must deliberate; we cannot stay here doing nothing," he simply contented himself with saying, "Let us wait: Hullin has not arrived, nor Catherine Lefevre. There is no hurry." Everybody then was silenced, and looked impatiently toward the path from Charmes.

The sawyer Piorette--a small, brisk, thin, energetic man, whose black eyebrows met above his eyes--stood on the threshold of his hut, with his pipe between his teeth, contemplating the general appearance of this scene.