Chapter II.

The same evening, after supper, Louise, taking her spinning-wheel with her, went to visit Mother Rochart, at whose cottage the good matrons and young girls of the village often met, and remained until near midnight, relating old legends, chatting of the rain, the weather, baptisms, marriages, the departure or return of conscripts, or any other matters of interest.

Hullin, sitting before his little copper lamp, nailed the sabots of the old wood-cutter. He no longer gave a thought to Yegof. His hammer rose and fell upon the thick wooden soles mechanically, while a thousand fancies roamed through his mind. Now his thoughts wandered to Gaspard, so long unheard of; now to the campaign, so long prolonged. The lamp dimly lighted the little room; without, all was still. The fire grew dull; Jean-Claude arose to pile on another log, and then resumed his seat, murmuring:

"This cannot last; we shall receive a letter one of these days."

The village clock struck nine; and as Hullin returned to his work, the door opened, and Catherine Lefevre, the mistress of the Bois-de-Chênes farm, appeared on the threshold, to the astonishment of the sabot-maker, for it was not her custom to be abroad at such an hour.

Catherine Lefevre might have been sixty years of age, but her form was straight and erect as at thirty. Her clear, gray eyes and hooked nose seemed to resemble the eyes and beak of the eagle. Her thin cheeks and the drooping corners of her mouth betokened habits of thought, and gave a sad and somewhat bitter expression to her face. A long brown hood covered her head and fell over her shoulders. Her whole appearance bespoke a firm and resolute character, and inspired in the beholder a feeling of respect, not untinged with fear.

"You here, Catherine?" exclaimed Hullin in his surprise.

"Even I, Jean-Claude," replied the old woman calmly. "I wish to speak with you. Is Louise at home?"

"She is at Madeleine Rochart's."

"So much the better," said Catherine, seating herself at the corner of the work-bench.

Hullin gazed fixedly at her. There was something mysterious and unusual in her manner which caused in him a vague feeling of alarm.

"What has happened?" he asked, laying aside his hammer.

"Yegof the fool passed last night at the farm."

"He was here this afternoon," said Hullin, who attached no importance to the fact.

"Yes," continued Catherine, in a low tone; "he passed last night with us, and in the evening, at this hour, before the kitchen fire, his words were fearful."

"Fearful!" muttered the sabot-maker, more and more astonished, for he had never before seen the old woman in such a state of alarm. "What did he say, Catherine?"

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"He spoke of things which awakened strange dreams."

"Dreams! You are mocking me."

"No, no," she answered. And then, after a moment of silence, fixing her eyes upon the wondering Hullin, she continued:

"Last evening, our people were seated, after supper, around the fire in the kitchen, and Yegof among them. He had, as usual, regaled us with the history of his treasures and castles. It was about nine o'clock, and the fool sat at the corner of the blazing hearth. Duchene, my laborer, was mending Bruno's saddle; Robin, the herdsman, was making a basket; Annette arranging her dishes on the cupboard; and I spinning before going to bed. Without, the dogs were barking at the moon, and it was bitter cold. We were speaking of the winter, which Duchene said would be severe, for he had seen large flocks of wild geese. The raven, perched on the corner of the chimney-piece, with his beak buried in his ruffled feathers, seemed to sleep."

The old woman paused a moment, as if to collect her thoughts; her eyes sought the floor, her lips closed tightly together, and a strange paleness overspread her face.

"What in the name of sense is she coming at?" thought Hullin.

She resumed:

"Yegof, at the edge of the hearth, with his tin crown upon his head and his sceptre laid across his knees, seemed absorbed in thought. He gazed at the huge black chimney, the great stone mantel-shelf, with its sculptured trees and men, and at the smoke which rose in heavy wreaths among the quarters of bacon. Suddenly he struck his sceptre upon the floor, and cried out like one in a dream, 'Yes, I have seen it all--all--long since!' And while we gazed on him with looks of astonishment, he proceeded:

"'Ay, in those days the forests of firs were forests of oak. Nideck, Dagsberg, Falkenstein--all the castles now old and ruined were yet unbuilt. In those days wild bulls were hunted through the woods; salmon were plenty in the Sarre; and you, the fair-haired race, buried in the snows six months of the year, lived upon milk and cheese, for you had great flocks on Hengst, Schneeberg, Grosmann, and Donon. In summer you hunted as far as the banks of the Rhine; as far as the Moselle, the Meuse. All this can I remember!'

"Was it not strange, Jean-Claude?" said the old woman. "As the fool spoke, I seemed, too, to remember those scenes, as if viewed in a dream. I let fall my distaff, and old Duchene and all the others stopped to listen. The fool continued:

"'Ay, it was long ago! You had already begun to build your tall chimneys; and you surrounded your habitations with palisades whose points had been hardened in the fire. Within you kept great dogs, with hanging cheeks, who bayed night and day.'

"Then he burst into a peal of crazy laughter, crying:

"'And you thought yourselves the lords of the land--you, the pale-faced and blue-eyed--you, who lived on milk and cheese, and touched no flesh save in autumn at your hunts--you thought yourselves lords of the mountain and the plain--when we, the red-bearded, came from the sea--we, who loved blood and the din of battle. 'Twas a rude war, ours. It lasted weeks and months; and your old chieftainess, Margareth, of the clan of the Kilberix, shut up in her palisades, surrounded by her dogs and her warriors, defended herself like a she-wolf robbed of her young. {25} But five moons passed, and hunger came; the gates of her stronghold opened, that its defenders might fly; and we, ambushed in the brook, slew them all--all--save the children. She alone defended herself to the last, and I, Luitprand, clove her gray head, and spared her blind father, the oldest among the old, that I might chain him like a dog to my castle gate.'

"Then, Hullin," said the old woman, "the fool sang a long ballad--the plaint of the old man chained to his gate. It was sad, sad as the _Miserere_. It chilled our very blood. But he laughed until old Duchene, in a transport of rage, threw himself upon him to strangle him; but the fool is strong, and hurled him back. Then brandishing his sceptre furiously, he shouted:

"'To your knees, slaves! to your knees! My armies are advancing. The earth trembles beneath them. Nideck, Haut-Barr, Dagsberg, Turkestein, will again tower above you. To your knees!'

"Never did I gaze upon a more fearful figure; but seeing my people about to fall upon him, I interposed in his defence. 'He is but a fool,' I cried. 'Are you not ashamed to mind his words?' This quieted them, but I could not close my eyes the entire night. His story--the song of the old man--rang through my ears, and seemed mingled with the barking of our dogs and the din of combat. Hullin, what think you of it? I cannot banish his threats from my mind!"

"I should think," said the sabot-maker, with a look of pity not unmixed with a sort of sorrowful sarcasm--"I should think, Catherine, if I did not know you so well, that you were losing your senses--you and Duchene and Robin and all the rest."

"You do not understand these matters," said the old woman in a calm and grave tone; "but were you never troubled by things of like nature?"

"Do you mean that you believe this nonsense of Yegof?"

"Yes, I believe it."

"You believe it! You, Catherine Lefevre! If it was Mother Rochart, I would say nothing; but you--!"

He arose as if angry, untied his apron, shrugged his shoulders, and then suddenly, again seating himself, exclaimed:

"Do you know who this fool is? I will tell you. He is one of those German schoolmasters who turn old women's heads with their Mother Goose stories; whose brains are cracked with overmuch study, and who take their visions for actual events--their crazy fancies for reality. I always looked upon Yegof as one of them. Remember the mass of names he knows; he talks of Brittany and Austrasia--of Polynesia and Nideck and the banks of the Rhine, and so gives an air of probability to his vagaries. In ordinary times, Catherine, you would think as I do; but your mind is troubled at receiving no news from Gaspard, and the rumors of war and invasion which are flying around distract you; you do not sleep, and you look upon the sickly fancies of a poor fool as gospel truth."

"Not so, Hullin--not so. If you yourself had heard Yegof--"

"Come, come!" cried the good man. "If I had heard him, I would have laughed at him, as I do now. Do you know that he has demanded the hand of Louise, that he might make her Queen of Austrasia?"

Catherine could not help smiling; but soon resuming her serious air, she said:

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"All your reasons, Jean-Claude, cannot convince me; but I confess that Gaspard's silence frightens me. I know my boy, and he has certainly written. Why have his letters not arrived? The war goes ill for us, Hullin; all the world is against us. They want none of our Revolution. While we were the masters, while we crowned victory with victory, they were humble enough, but since the Russian misfortune their tone is far different."

"There, there, Catherine; you are wandering; everything is black to you. What disturbs me most is not receiving any news from without; we are living here as in a country of savages; we know nothing of what is going on abroad. The Austrians or the Cossacks might fall upon us at any moment, and we be taken completely by surprise."

Hullin observed that as he spoke the old woman's look became anxious, and despite himself he felt the influence of the fears she spoke of.

"Listen, Catherine," said he suddenly; "as long as you talk reasonably I shall not gainsay you. You speak now of things that are possible. I do not believe they will attack us, but it is better to set our hearts at ease. I intended going to Phalsbourg this week. I shall set out to-morrow. In such a city--one which is, moreover, a post-station--they should have certain tidings of what is going on. Will you believe the news I bring back?"

"I will."

"Then it is understood. I will start early to-morrow morning. It is five leagues off. I shall have returned by about six in the evening, and you shall see, Catherine, that your mournful notions lack reason."

"I hope so," said she, rising; "indeed I hope so. You have somewhat reassured me, Jean-Claude, and I may sleep better than I did last night. Good-night, Jean-Claude."