Chapter VI.

An unusual agitation reigned along the entire line of the Vosges; rumors of the coming invasion spread from village to village. Pedlars, wagoners, tinkers, all that wandering population which is constantly floating from mountain to plain, from plain to mountain, brought each day budgets of strange news from Alsace and the banks of the Rhine. They said that every town was being put in a state of defence; that the roads to Metz, to Nancy, Huningue, and Strasbourg, were black with army and provision wagons. On every side were to be seen caissons of powder, shells, and shot, and cavalry, infantry, and artillery hurrying to their posts. Marshal Victor, with twelve thousand men, yet held the Saverne road, but the draw-bridges of all the fortified towns were raised from seven in the evening until eight in the morning.

Things looked gloomy enough, but the greater number thought only of defending their homes, and Jean-Claude was everywhere well received.

The same day, at about five in the evening, he reached the top of Hengst, and stopped at the dwelling of the hunter-patriarch, old Materne. There he passed the night; for in winter the days are short and the roads difficult. Materne promised to keep watch over the defile of Zorn, with his two sons, Kasper and Frantz, and to respond to the first signal that should be made from Falkenstein.

Early the next day, Jean-Claude arrived at Dagsbourg to see his friend Labarbe the wood-cutter. They went together to the hamlets around, to light in all hearts the love of country. Labarbe accompanied Hullin to the cottage of the Anabaptist Nickel, a grave and respectable man, but they could not draw him into their glorious enterprise. He had but one reply to all their arguments. "It is well," he said; "it is doubtless right; but the Scriptures say that he who takes up the sword shall perish by the sword." He promised, however, to pray for the good cause, and that was all they could obtain of him.

They went thence to Walsch, where they found Daniel Hirsch, an ancient gunner in the navy, who promised to bring with him all the men of his commune.

Here Labarbe left Jean-Claude to pursue his route alone.

For a week more our brave friend wandered over the mountains, from Soldatenthal to Leonsberg, from Meienthal to Voyer, Cirey, Petit-Mont, Saint-Sauveur, and the ninth day he found himself at the shoemaker Jerome's, at Saint-Quirin. They visited together the defile of Blanru, after which Hullin, entirely satisfied with the results of his journey, turned once more toward his village.

Since two o'clock in the afternoon he had been pressing on at a brisk pace, thinking of the life of the camp, the bivouac, the crash of battle, marches and countermarches--all those details of a soldier's life which he regretted so often and which he now looked forward to with ardor. The twilight shadows had begun to fall when he discovered the village of Charmes, afar off, with its little cottages, from which curled wreaths of light-blue smoke, scarcely perceptible against the snow-covered mountain-side, its little gardens with their fences, its slate-covered roofs, and to the left the great farm-house of Bois-de-Chênes, and below, in the already dark ravine, the saw-mill of Valtin.

And then, without his knowing why, a sadness filled his heart.

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He slackened his steps; thoughts of the calm, peaceful life he was losing, perhaps for ever, floated through his mind; he saw his little room, so warm in winter and so gay in spring, when he opened his window to the breezes from the woods; he heard the never-changing tick of the village clock; and he thought of Louise--his good little Louise--spinning in silence, her eyes cast down, or, mayhap, singing in her pure, clear voice at evening. Everything in his home arose before his eyes: the tools of his trade, his long, glittering chisels, the hatchet with the crooked handle, the porringers of glazed earthenware, the antique figure of Saint Michael nailed to the wall, the old curtained bed in the alcove, the lamp with the copper beak--all were before him, and the tears forced their way to his eyes.

But it was to Louise--his dear child, his Louise--that his thoughts turned oftenest. How she would weep and implore him not to expose himself to the dangers of war! How she would hang upon his neck and beg him not to leave her! He saw her large, affrighted eyes; he felt her arms around him. He would fain deceive her, but deceit was no part of Jean-Claude's character; his words only deepened her grief.

He tried to shake off his gloom, and, passing by the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, he entered to tell Catherine that all went well, and that the mountaineers only awaited the signal.

Fifteen minutes later, Master Jean-Claude stood before his own door.

Before opening it, he glanced through the window to see what Louise might be doing. She was standing in the alcove, and seemed busily arranging and rearranging some garments that lay upon the bed. Her face beamed with happiness, her eyes sparkled, and she was talking to herself aloud. Hullin listened, but the rattling of a passing wagon prevented his hearing her words.

He pushed open the door and entered, saying:

"Louise, here I am back!"

She bounded like a fawn to him and threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming:

"It is you, Father Jean-Claude! How I have been waiting for you! How long you were gone! But you are home again, at last."

"My child--many things"--said the good man, putting away his staff behind the door--"many things kept--"

But his heart was too full; he could say no more.

"Yes, yes, I know," cried Louise, laughing. "Mother Lefevre told me all."

"How is that! You know all and only laugh? Well, it proves your good sense. I expected to see you weep."

"Weep? And why, Father Jean-Claude? Oh! never fear for me; I am brave. You do not know me."

Her air was so prettily resolute that Hullin could not help smiling; but his smile quickly disappeared when she added:

"We are going to have war; we are going to fight, to defend the mountains!"

"_We_ are going! _We_ are going!" exclaimed the good man, astounded.

"Certainly. Are we not?" she asked, her smile disappearing at once.

"I must leave you for some time, my child."

"Leave me? Oh! no, no. I will go with you; it is agreed. See, my little bundle is all ready, and I am making up yours. Do not be uneasy; let me fix everything, and you will be satisfied."

Hullin stood stupefied.

"But, Louise," he cried, "you are dreaming. Think, my child! We must pass long winter nights without a roof to cover us; we must bear hardship, fatigue, cold, snow, hunger, and countless dangers! A musket-ball would mar my pretty bird's beauty."

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"You are only trying your little Louise," cried she, now in tears, and flinging herself upon his neck. "You will not leave me here alone."

"But you will be better here; you will have a good fire and food. Besides, you will receive news of us every day."

"No, no! I will go with you; I care not for cold. And I have been shut up here too long; I want the fresh air. The birds are out; the redbreasts are out all winter; and did I not know what hunger was when a child? Mother Lefevre says I may go; and will you whom I love so much be more cruel than she?"

Brave Jean-Claude sat down, his heart full of bitter sorrow. He turned away his head that she might not see the struggle going on within, while Louise eagerly continued:

"I will be safe; I will follow you. The cold! What is the cold to me? And if you should be wounded--if you should wish to see your little Louise for the last time, and she not be near to take care of you--to love you to the last! Oh! you must think me hard-hearted!"

She sobbed; Hullin could hold out no longer.

"Is it indeed true that Mother Lefevre consents?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, oh! yes, she told me so; she said, 'Try to get Father Jean-Claude to let you; I am satisfied.'"

"Well," said the sabot-maker, smiling sadly, "I can do little against two. You shall come! It is agreed."

The cottage echoed with her cry of joy, and with one sweep of her hand her tears were dried, and her face, like an April sky, beamed in smiles.

"You are a little gypsy still," cried Hullin, shaking his head. "Go trap a swallow."

Then, drawing her to him, he continued:

"Look you, Louise: it is now twelve years since I found you in the snow. You were blue with the cold, poor child; and when I brought you to the fire and warmed you, the first thing you did was to smile at me, and since that day your smile has ruled old Jean-Claude. But let us look at our bundles," said the good man with a sigh. "Are they well fastened?"

He approached the bed, and saw in wonder his warmest coats, his flannel jackets, all well brushed, well folded, and well packed. Then in Louise's bundle were her best dresses and her thick shoes. He could not restrain a laugh, as he cried:

"O gypsy, gypsy! It takes you to pack up."

Louise smiled.

"Then you are satisfied with them?" she asked.

"I must be; but in the midst of all this fine work, you did not think, I'll wager, of getting ready my supper."

"That is soon done," said she, "although I did not know you would return to-night, Papa Jean-Claude."

"That is true; but get something ready quickly; no matter what, for my appetite is sharp. In the meantime I will smoke a pipe."

"Yes, smoke a pipe."

He sat at the corner of his work-bench and drummed dreamily upon it. Louise flew to right and left like a veritable fairy, kindling up the fire, breaking eggs, and in the twinkle of an eye she had an omelette ready. Never had she looked so graceful, so joyous, so pretty. Hullin leaned his cheek upon his hand and gazed at her gravely, thinking how much firmness, will, resolution, there was in that little form, light as an antelope, but decided as a cuirassier. In a moment she had laid the omelette before him on a large plate, ornamented with blue flowers, a loaf of bread, his glass, and his bottle of wine.

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"There, Father Jean-Claude, eat your supper."

The fire leaped and crackled in the stove, throwing ruddy stains on the low rafters, the stairs half in shadow and the large bed in the alcove, and lighting up the poor dwelling so often made joyous by the merry humor of the sabot-maker and the songs of his daughter. And Louise would leave all this without regret to brave the wintry woods, the snow-covered paths, and the steep mountain-side, and all for love of him. Neither storm, nor biting wind, nor torrents staid her. She had but one thought, and that was to be near him.

The repast ended, Hullin arose, saying:

"I am weary, my child; kiss me for good-night."

"But do not forget to awake me, Father Jean-Claude, if you start before daybreak."

"Rest easy; you will come with us," he answered, as he climbed the narrow stairs.

All was silence without, save that the deep tones of the village clock told the hour of eleven. Jean-Claude sat down and unfastened his shoes. Just then his eyes fell upon his musket hung over the door. He took it down, slowly wiped it, and tried the lock. His whole soul was in the work in which he was engaged.

"It is strange--strange! The last time I fired it was at Marengo--fourteen years ago, and it seems but yesterday."

Suddenly the frozen snow crunched beneath a foot-fall. He listened. Two taps sounded upon the window-panes. He ran and opened the door, and the form of Marc-Dives, his broad hat stiff with ice, emerged from the darkness.

"Marc! What news?"

"Have you warned Materne, Jerome, Labarbe?"

"Yes, all."

"It is none too soon; the enemy are advancing."

"Advancing?"

"Yes; along their whole line. I have come fifteen leagues since morning to give you warning."

"Good. We must make the signal: a fire upon Falkenstein."

Hullin's face was pale, but his eyes flashed. He again put on his shoes, and two minutes after, with his cloak upon his shoulders and his staff firmly clinched in his hand, he opened the door softly, and with long steps followed Marc-Dives along the path to Falkenstein.