Chapter XXI.

Jerome of Saint-Quirin had made good his retreat upon the farm-house.

"Who goes there?" cried the sentries, as the party approached.

"People of the village of Charmes," replied Marc-Dives in his voice of thunder.

They were recognized and allowed to pass.

The house was silent; a sentinel with shouldered arms paced in front of the barn, where thirty partisans were sleeping upon the straw. Catherine, at sight of the great dark roofs, the old sheds, the stables, the ancient dwelling where her youth had passed, where the peaceful and laborious lives of her father and her grandfather had tranquilly glided away, the home which she was perhaps about to leave for ever, felt a terrible pain at her heart; but she spoke not of it, and springing from the sledge, as she had often done before on her returning from market, she said:

"Come, Louise, we are home at last; thanks to God."

Old Duchene had pushed open the door, crying,

"It is Madame Lefevre!"

"Yes, it is we. Any news from Jean-Claude?"

"No, madame."

Then every one entered the huge kitchen.

A few coals yet glowed upon the hearth, and, under the immense, overhanging chimney-piece, Jerome of Saint-Quirin was seated in the shadow, in his great-coat; his long-pointed red beard hanging on his breast; his thick staff between his knees, and his rifle leaning against the wall.

"Ha! good morning, Jerome!" cried the old woman.

"Good morning, Catherine!" answered the grave and solemn chief of Grossmann. "You come from Donon?"

"Yes. Things are going ill there, my poor Jerome. The Kaiserliks attacked the farm-house when we left the plateau. We could see only white coats on every side. They began to cross the abatis--"

"Then you think Hullin will be forced to abandon the road?"

"It is possible, indeed, if Pivrette does not come to his assistance."

The partisans had neared the fire. Marc-Dives bent over the coals to light his pipe; as he rose, he cried:

"Jerome, I ask only one thing of you; I know that they fought well where you commanded--"

"They did their duty," interrupted the shoemaker; "sixty men lie stretched on the side of Grossmann, who will bear witness to it on the judgment-day."

"Yes; but who guided the Germans? They never could find of themselves the pass of Blutfeld."

"It was Yegof--the fool Yegof," replied Jerome, and his gray eyes, surrounded with deep wrinkles and thick white lashes and brows, glittered through the darkness.

"Are you very sure of it?"

"Labarbe's men saw him ascend, leading the others."

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The partisans gazed at each other with angry looks.

At the same moment, Doctor Lorquin, who had remained without to unharness his horse, pushed open the door, crying:

"The battle is lost! Here are our men from Donon. I have heard Lagarmitte's horn."

It is easy to imagine the feelings with which this news was received. Every one thought of parent, friends, whom perhaps he was never more to see, and all who were in the kitchen and the barn rushed at once to the fields. Then Robin and Dubourg, posted as sentries, cried:

"Who goes there?"

"France!" replied a voice.

And despite the distance, Louise, recognizing her father's voice, would have fallen had not Catherine supported her.

Presently a great number of steps echoed upon the frozen snow, and Louise, no longer able to contain herself, cried in a trembling voice:

"Father Jean-Claude!"

"I am coming," replied Hullin; "I am coming."

"And my father?" cried Frantz, rushing to the sabot-maker.

"He is with us, Frantz."

"And Kasper?"

"He has received a little wound, but it is nothing: you will see them both."

Catherine threw herself into Hullin's arms.

"O Jean-Claude! what a happiness it is to see you again!"

"Ay," replied he in a low tone; "there are many who will never again see those they love."

"Frantz!" cried old Materne; "hallo! this way."

And on all sides, in the darkness, men sought each other, pressed each other's hands and embraced. Others called aloud for "Vielau" or "Sapheri," but no voice replied.

Then the calls grew hoarse, strangled, and finally ceased. The joy of some and the grief of others were in horrible contrast. Louise wept hot tears in Hullin's arms.

"Ah! Jean-Claude," said Mother Lefevre; "you have much to learn of your daughter. Now I will tell you nothing, but we were attacked--"

"Yes, we will talk of it by and by. Time presses," interrupted Hullin. "The Donon road is lost; the Cossacks may be here at daybreak, and we have yet many things to do."

He entered the farm-house. All followed. Duchene had just thrown a fagot upon the fire. Those faces, black with powder, but still breathing the fire of battle; those garments, torn by bayonet-thrusts, some of them bloody, advancing from darkness into the full light, offered a strange spectacle. Kasper, whose handkerchief was bound around his forehead, had received a sabre-cut; his bayonet, blouse, and high blue cloth gaiters were stained with blood. Old Materne, thanks to his imperturbable presence of mind, came safe and sound from the fray. The remnants of the two troops of Jerome and Hullin were thus united. They showed the same fierce countenances, animated by the same energy and desire for vengeance, save that the last, worn-out with weariness, sat wherever they might find room--on the fagots, the hearth--with their heads bowed upon their hands, and their elbows resting on their knees. The others looked around, unable to realize that Hans, Juson, Daniel, had disappeared for ever, and exchanging questions followed by long periods of silence. Materne's two sons held each other by the arms, as if each feared he would lose his brother, and their father, behind them, leaning against the wall, gazed on with looks of delight.

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"They are there; I see them," he seemed to say. "And they are famous fellows, and both have escaped." The good man coughed, and when some one came to speak to him about Pierre, or Jacques, or Nicolas--of a son or a brother--he replied at random, "Ay, ay, there are a good many stretched out yonder; but what would you have? War is war. Your Nicolas did his duty. Be consoled." And then he thought, "My boys are out of the scrape, and that is the principal thing."

Catherine set the table with Louise. Soon Duchene, returning from the cellar with a cask of wine upon his shoulder, placed it on the sideboard. He opened it, and each of the partisans presented his glass, or cup, or pitcher, to the purple fountain, which gave back the leaping flames on the hearth in a thousand reflections.

"Eat and drink!" cried the old mistress of the house. "All is not yet ended; you will yet need strength. Frantz, hand me down those hams. Here are bread and knives. Be seated, my children."

Frantz, with his bayonet, roasted the hams at the fire.

Benches were brought forward; the men sat down, and ate with that keen appetite which neither present grief nor thought of future evil can make mountaineers forget. But all this did not keep sorrow from the hearts of these brave fellows, and sometimes one, sometimes another, would stop, drop his fork, and leave the table, saying,

"I have had enough."

While the partisans thus recruited their strength, their chiefs met in the neighboring hall to make their last determinations relative to the defence. There were seated round the table, lighted by a tin lamp, Doctor Lorquin--his great dog Pluto near him, watching with uplifted muzzle; Jerome in the recess of a window to the right; Hullin at the left, very pale. Marc-Dives, with his elbow on the table and cheek resting in his hand, sat with his back to the door, and showed only his brown profile and one of the ends of his long moustache. Materne alone was standing, as was his habit, leaning against the wall behind Lorquin's chair, his rifle resting upon his foot. A murmur of voices came from the kitchen.

When Catherine, who was called by Jean-Claude, entered, she heard a sort of groan which made her tremble. It was Hullin speaking.

"Do you think," he cried, in a burst of wild grief, "that the fate of those brave sons, those white-haired fathers, moved not my heart? Would I not gladly have died a thousand times that they might live? You know not the woes with which this night has overwhelmed me. To lose life is but little; but to bear alone the burden of such a trust!"

He was silent, but his trembling lip, the tear that coursed slowly down his cheek, showed how heavily that trust weighed upon him, in a position where conscience itself hesitates and seeks support. Catherine noiselessly seated herself in the large arm-chair on his left. After a few moments' pause, Hullin proceeded more calmly:

"Between eleven o'clock and midnight, Zimmer came crying that we were turned; that the Germans were coming down from Grossmann; Labarbe was crushed; Jerome could hold out no longer. He said no more. What was to be done? Could I retreat--abandon a position which had cost us so much blood--the Donon road, the way to Paris? I were a wretch indeed to do so; but I had only three hundred against the four thousand at Grandfontaine, and I know not how many descending the mountain. {749} But cost what it might, I determined to hold out; it was our duty to do so. I thought that life is nothing void of honor; we might all die, but never would it be said that we yielded the road to France! Never, never, never!"

His voice again trembled, and his eyes filled with tears as he added:

"We held it--for more than two hours--my brave boys held it. I saw them fall; they died crying, 'God save France!' When the battle began, I sent word to Pivrette. He, with fifty men, came up--too late! too late! The enemy flanked us right and left; they held three fourths of the plateau, and we were driven among the firs toward Blanru, their fire crashing into our bosoms. All that I could do was to collect the wounded who could yet drag themselves along, and place them under the escort of Pivrette; a hundred men joined him. I kept only fifty to occupy Falkenstein. We cut through the Germans, who tried to cut off our retreat. Happily the night was dark, otherwise not one of us would have escaped. We are here, and all is lost. Falkenstein alone remains, and we are reduced to three hundred. Now we must try who will dare the bitter end. I tell you that my burden presses heavily upon me. While the Donon road was to be defended, our duty was clear; every man's life belonged to his country: but that road is lost; ten thousand men would be needed to regain it, and even now the enemy are entering Lorraine. What is to be done?"

"Resist to the last!" replied Jerome.

"To the last!" repeated the others.

"Is this your counsel, Catherine?" asked Hullin.

"Ay!" cried the old woman, with a glance of unconquerable determination.

Then Hullin, in firmer tones, laid his plan before them:

"Falkenstein is our point of retreat. There is our arsenal; there are our munitions; the enemy knows this, and will attempt to storm it. We must all be there to defend it; the eyes of all our countrymen must see us; they will say that Catherine Lefevre, Jerome, Materne and his sons, Hullin, Doctor Lorquin, are there; that they will not lay down their arms. This will revive the drooping courage of all who have hearts to feel for their country. Pivrette will remain in the woods; his force increasing day by day. The land will be covered with Cossacks, with robbers of every kind; and when the enemy's army has entered Lorraine, at my signal Pivrette will fling himself between Donon and the road, and the laggards scattered through the mountains will be caught as in a net. We can also watch our chance to carry off their wagons, harass their reserves; and if fortune favors, as we hope, when those Kaiserliks are beaten by our troops in Lorraine, we can cut off their retreat."

All rose, and Hullin, entering the kitchen, made this simple speech to the mountaineers:

"My friends, we have determined to resist to the last. Nevertheless each one is free to do as he pleases, to lay down his arms and return to his village; but those who seek vengeance will join us! They will share our last morsel of bread and divide our last cartridge."

The old wood-cutter, Colon, rose and replied:

"Hullin, we are all with you; we began the fight together, and together we will end it."

"Ay, ay!" cried every voice.

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"This is your resolution? Then listen! Jerome's brother will take command."

"My brother is dead," interrupted Jerome; "he lies on the side of Grossmann."

There was a moment's silence, and then Hullin continued:

"Colon, you will take command of all who remain, except those who formed the escort of Catherine Lefevre. I retain them with me. You will rejoin Pivrette in the valley of Blanru."

"And our munitions?" cried Marc-Dives.

"I have brought my wagon with me," said Jerome. "Colon can supply himself from it."

"Let them take the sledge too," cried Catherine. "The Cossacks are coming, and they will steal everything. Our people must not go away empty-handed; let them take with them oxen, cows, and goats--everything; for whatever they take is so much won from the enemy."

Five minutes after, the farm-house was a scene of pillage. The sledge was loaded with hams, smoked meats, and bread; the cattle driven from the stables; the horses harnessed to the great wagon, and soon the train began its march, Robin at the head, blowing his horn, and the partisans behind pushing at the wheels. When they had disappeared in the woods, and silence suddenly succeeded the tumult, Catherine, turning round, saw Hullin behind her as pale as a corpse.

"Well, Catherine," he said; "all is finished. We will begin the ascent."

Frantz, Kasper, and the men of the escort, Marc-Dives and Materne, awaited them in the kitchen, resting on their arms.

"Duchene," said the good old woman, "go down to the village; they must not ill-treat you on my account."

The old servant, shaking his white head, replied with eyes full of tears:

"I might as well die here, Madame Lefevre. It is fifty years since I came to this house. Do not force me away; that would kill me."

"As you will, my poor Duchene," answered Catherine, much affected. "Here are the keys of the house."

The old man seated himself on a stool by the hearth, with eyes fixed and lips parted like one in some sad dream.

The others started for Falkenstein. Marc-Dives, on horseback, his long blade hanging from his wrist, formed the rear-guard. Frantz and Hullin, on the left, reconnoitered the plateau, and Jerome, on the right, the valley; Materne and the men of the escort surrounded the women. Strange! At every threshold, at every window of the village of Charmes appeared faces, young and old, gazing with curious eyes at the flight of Mother Lefevre, and evil tongues were not wanting. "Ah! driven from your nest at last," they cried. "You would meddle with what did not concern you!"

Others muttered aloud that Catherine had been rich long enough, and that all had their turn. As for the labor, the wisdom, the kindness of heart, the thousand virtues of the old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes, the patriotism of Jean-Claude, the courage of Jerome and the three Maternes, the unselfishness of Doctor Lorquin, the devotion of Marc-Dives--about all these things no one had a word to say: their owners were beaten!

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