CHAPTER III.

On the morrow, at daybreak, Hullin, attired in his Sunday pantaloons of thick blue cloth, his ample brown velvet surcoat, his red waistcoat with metal buttons, and a broad-brimmed felt hat on his head, which, looped up in front like a cockade, exposed to view his rubicund face, set out on his way to Phalsbourg, with a stout walking-stick in his hand.

Phalsbourg is a little fortified place on the high road between Strasbourg and Paris. It commands the borders of Saverne, the defiles of the upper Barr, of Roche-Plate, of Bonne Fontaine, and of the Graufthal. Its bastions, its outworks, its half-moons, are carved in zig-zag on a rocky platform. At a distance, it seems as if you could clear the walls with a single stride; but, as you approach, you discover the ditch, which is a hundred feet broad and thirty feet deep, and the gloomy ramparts cut in the rock opposite. That brings you to a stand. For the rest, with the exception of the church, the commune hall, the two gates of France and Germany in form of a mitre, and the belfreys of the two powder-mills, all is hidden behind the glacis. Such is the little town of Phalsbourg, which is not wanting in a certain character of grandeur, especially when you cross its bridges, and enter beneath its low massive portals and bristling portcullises. In the interior, the houses are built at regular intervals; they are low, well-constructed buildings, built of hewn stone: everything about the place has a military look.

Hullin, inclined, by his sturdy nature and jovial disposition, never to give himself unnecessary alarm about the future, considered all the reports of retreat and invasion that were flying about the country as so many lies spread by scandal. You may, therefore, judge his surprise when, on quitting the mountain, and arrived at the outskirts of the forests, he saw the suburbs of the town razed to the ground; not a garden, not an orchard, not a walk, not a tree, not a shrub was left: all had been levelled that was within reach of gun-shot. A few poor wretches were trying to collect the scattered fragments of their habitations, and were carrying them to the town. Nothing was visible on the horizon but the long, gloomy line of ramparts towering overhead. Jean-Claude felt as if struck by a thunderbolt; for a few minutes he could not utter a single word, or take a single step.

"Oh, ho!" said he, at length, "this looks bad--this looks very bad! They are expecting the enemy!"

And then his warlike instincts began quickly to get the upper hand of him, and his brown cheeks grew crimson.

"And it is those beggars of Austrians, Prussians, and Russians, and all the scum collected from one end of Europe to the other, that are the cause of this," he exclaimed, flourishing his stick; "but let them beware! we will make them pay dearly for it!"

He was in a sort of white rage, such as honest men feel when urged beyond bounds. Woe to any one who had thwarted him at that moment!

About twenty minutes afterwards he entered the town at the end of a long file of vehicles, to which five and even six horses were harnessed, and who were drawing with great efforts enormous trunks of trees, destined to form block-houses. Among the drivers, the country people, and the horses, neighing, rearing, and stamping, gravely rode a mounted _gendarme_ named Kels, who seemed to take no note of anything, and only said in a bluff voice: "Courage, courage, my friends--we have two more stages to do by the evening. You will have deserved well of your country!"

Jean-Claude passed over the bridge.

In the town a fresh spectacle presented itself to his eyes. There all were ardently preparing for its defence, every door was open, and men, women, and children were coming and going in every direction, to assist in the transport of gunpowder and projectiles. At times they collected in groups of three, four, and six, to gather the news.

"Hey! neighbour!"

"What now?"

"A courier has just arrived at full gallop; he came in by the French gate."

"Then he comes to announce the arrival of the National Guard from Nancy."

"Or, perhaps, a convoy from Metz."

"You are right--we are short of sixteen-pound shot, and also want grape-shot. They are going to cast a lot."

Some honest citizens in shirt-sleeves, mounted on tables along the footpaths, were busily engaged in blocking up their windows with thick planks of wood and mattrasses. Others were rolling water-barrels in front of their doors. Hullin felt reassured at witnessing so much enthusiasm.

"All right!" he exclaimed; "everybody seems to be making holiday here. The Allies will meet with a warm reception."

Opposite the college the shrill voice of the town-crier, Harmentier, was heard proclaiming: "This is to give notice that the casemates will be thrown open, in order that every one may be able to transport thither a mattrass and two coverlets for his own personal use; and that the commissioners are to commence their tour of inspection, to ascertain that every inhabitant has three months' provisions laid up in store, the which he is to certify.--This 20th of December, 1813. Jean-Pierre Meunier, Governor."

All this Hullin heard and saw in less than a minute, for the whole town seemed to have turned out. Strange, serious, and comic scenes followed close upon each other without interruption.

Some National Guards were dragging a twenty-four pounder in the direction of the arsenal. These brave fellows had a steep ascent to climb, and their strength was nearly exhausted. "Hoy!--all together! A thousand thunders! Put your shoulder to it! Forward!" Thus shouting all together, and pushing with all their strength at the wheels, the great cannon, stretching out its long, bronze neck over its immense carriage, which rose above everything, rolled slowly over the pavement, trembling beneath its weight.

Hullin was in such a state of delight that he was no longer like the same man. His martial instincts--the recollection of the camp, the march, the fire, and the battle--all returned at full speed; his eye sparkled, his heart beat quicker, and already ideas of defence, entrenchments, death-struggles, whirled rapidly through his brain.

"Upon my word!" said he to himself, "all this looks well! I have made sabots enough in my life-time; and since I have a chance of shouldering a musket again, well and good!--so much the better; we will show the Prussians and Austrians that we have not forgotten our old trade."

So reasoned the brave man, carried away by warlike recollections; but his joy was not of long duration.

In the square in front of the church were stationed fifteen or twenty carts filled with the wounded that kept arriving from Leipzig and Hanau. These unfortunates--pale, wan, with fast glazing eye; some whose limbs had been already amputated, others whose wounds had not been even dressed--were patiently awaiting death. Beside them stood some old, worn-out horses, munching their meagre allowance; while their drivers, poor devils taken into employ at Alsace, wrapped in their ragged cloaks, were sleeping, with their hats pulled over their brows, and their arms folded across their breasts, on the steps of the church. It made one shudder to see these wretched groups of human beings, in their large gray coats, as they lay jumbled together upon the bloody straw; one supporting his broken arm upon his knees; another with his head bandaged with an old handkerchief; a third, already dead, serving as a seat for the living--his blackened hands hanging over the side of the cart. Hullin stood rooted to the ground in the presence of this dismal spectacle. He could not turn his eyes aside. It is in the power of great human griefs to fascinate us thus; we have a morbid wish to see how men perish--how they face death: the best of us are not free from this frightful curiosity. It seems as if eternity was revealing its secrets to us.

There, too, near the shafts of the first cart, to the right of the file, were squatted two carbineers in sky-blue tunics--two real Colossuses, whose iron frames were bowed beneath the pressure of hardship. They might have been taken for two caryatides, crushed beneath the weight of an enormous mass. One with thick red moustaches, and hollow cheeks, gazed around with lustreless eyes, as if just awakening from a frightful dream. The other, bent double, his shoulder torn by a grape-shot wound, was gradually growing weaker and weaker, at times raising himself up with a start, and talking low, as if dreaming. Behind lay, stretched in couples, infantry soldiers, most of them struck by a ball, and with a broken arm or leg. They seemed to endure their fate with more firmness than the giants. These unfortunates did not speak a word, with the exception of a few among the youngest, who passionately cried for water and bread. And in one of the carts, a plaintive voice, the voice of a conscript, was heard calling, "Mother! mother!"--whilst some of the older ones smiled gloomily, as much as to say: "Your mother!--oh! yes, she will be sure to come!" This was what their looks said; perhaps, in reality, they were past thinking of anything.

From time to time a sort of shudder ran through this sad assemblage of human beings. That was when several of the wounded half raised themselves, and instantly fell back again, as if Death, at that precise moment, had been going his rounds among them.

Then all was silent again!

And as Hullin stood watching all this, and feeling his very heart sicken within him,--just at that moment a shopkeeper in the Square, Some the baker, came out of his house, carrying a large saucepan filled with soup. It was then a sight, to behold all those ghosts move restlessly on their straw, their eyes sparkling, their nostrils dilating; new life seemed to be given them, for the poor wretches were dying of hunger.

The good baker, Some, with tears in his eyes, approached, saying:

"Here I am, my children!--a little patience! It's I--you know me?"

But he had no sooner reached the first cart than the huge carbineer with hollow cheeks plunged his arm up to the elbow in the boiling soup, seized the meat, and hid it under his coat; all this was done with the rapidity of lightning. Immediately, savage yells broke forth on all sides. Those who had strength to move seemed as if they would have devoured their comrade; while he, with his two arms crossed upon his breast, his teeth fixed in his prey, and his squinting eye looking both ways at once, seemed deaf to their threats. On hearing the uproar, an old soldier, a sergeant, rushed out of a neighbouring inn. He was an old campaigner; he saw at a glance what was the matter, and, without loss of time, snatched the meat from the ferocious beast, saying:

"You deserve to have none at all. It is going to be divided. We shall cut it into ten rations!"

"There are only eight of us!" said one of the wounded--very calm in appearance, but whose eye glared with feverish excitement.

"How, eight?"

"You can see, sergeant, that these two are going to kick the bucket--it'd be wasting good provisions!"

The old sergeant cast a look at the cart.

"He is right," said he; "divide it into eight portions!"

Hullin could see no more; he withdrew to the house of the innkeeper, Wittman, opposite, as pale as death. Wittman was also a dealer in leather and furs. On seeing him enter, he exclaimed:

"What! is that you, Master Jean-Claude?--you come earlier than usual; I did not expect you till next week."

Then, seeing him stagger, he continued:

"But, what is it? There is something the matter?"

"I have just been seeing the wounded."

"Oh! I see; the first time--I know it makes you feel queer; but if you had seen fifteen thousand of them go by, as we have, you'd think nothing of it."

"A pint of wine--quick!" said Hullin, who felt himself turning sick. "Oh, men, men--and we call ourselves brothers!"

"Yes, brothers; as far as the pocket is considered," replied Wittman. "Here, take a drink, it will set you right."

"And do you mean to tell me you have seen fifteen thousand such go by?"

"At the very least, during the last two months, to say nothing of those who are left in Alsace and the other side of the Rhine; for, you see, they couldn't find carts enough for all, and then some of them weren't worth the trouble of carrying away."

"Oh! yes, I see! but why are these unfortunate men there? Why do they not take them to the hospital?"

"The hospital! what is the good of a hospital--of ten hospitals--for fifty thousand wounded? All the hospitals, from Mayence and Coblentz to Phalsbourg, are crowded. And besides, that terrible malady, the typhus fever, do you see, Hullin, kills more than the cannon-ball. All the villages of the plain for twenty leagues round are infected; they are dying off everywhere like flies. Luckily, the town has been in a state of siege for the last three days, the gates are going to be shut, no person will be allowed to enter. Why, I myself have lost my uncle Christian and my aunt Lisbeth--both as well and hearty as you and I are at this present moment, Master Jean-Claude. And now the cold has come at last. There was a white frost last night."

"And were the wounded left out in the open air all night?"

"No, they arrived from Saverne this morning; in an hour or two, just time to give the horses a little rest, they will set out for Sarrebourg."

At this moment, the old sergeant, who had been settling affairs with the wounded in the carts, entered, rubbing his hands.

"Ha! ha!" said he, "it's sharp weather, Master Wittman; and you have done wisely to light the fire in the stove. A little sup of brandy, just to keep the fog out. Hum! hum!"

In spite of his little puckered-up eyes and hatchet-shaped nose, the countenance of the old soldier beamed with good humour and joviality. His whole figure was martial, his face bronzed by exposure to the open air, frank and open, though tinged with an expression of sly humour; his tall shako, large great-coat of grayish-blue, the belt, the very epaulette, all seemed part and parcel of himself. He could not have been sketched otherwise. He kept striding up and down the room, rubbing his hands, while Wittman poured him out a dram of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had instantly noticed the number of his regiment--6th Light Infantry. Gaspard, son of the farm-mistress Lefevre, served in this regiment. Jean-Claude could now hear news of Louise's betrothed; but just as he was about to speak, his heart nearly failed him: "If Gaspard were dead; if he had perished, like so many others!"

The worthy sabot-maker felt as if he were choking. He was silent. "Better," thought he, "to know nothing at all."

And yet, in a few minutes' time, he was unable to restrain himself.

"Sergeant," said he, in a hoarse voice, "you belong to the 6th Light?"

"Yes, neighbour," said the other, returning to the middle of the room.

"Do you happen to know a young man named Gaspard Lefevre?"

"Gaspard Lefevre, of the 2nd division of the 1st--do I know him? Why, I taught him his drill: a brave soldier, by all that's blue! hard as iron. If we had about a hundred thousand of his mettle----"

"Then he is alive?--he is well?"

"Yes, friend. That is to say, he was on Dec. 15th, when I quitted the regiment at Fredericsthal, to escort this convoy of wounded; but in such times as these, you see, we can't answer for anything; from one moment to the next we are each of us liable to be sent to our account. But a week ago, at Fredericsthal, Gaspard Lefevre answered to the muster-roll."

Jean-Claude drew a long breath.

"But, sergeant," said he, "do me the favour to tell me why Gaspard has not written home for two months?"

The old soldier smiled, and winked his little twinkling eyes.

"What the deuce, my good friend," said he; "do you think people have nothing better to do in war time than write letters?"

"No; for I served myself in the campaigns of Sambre-et-Meuse, Italy, and Egypt; but that did not prevent my writing home to let them know how I was getting on."

"One moment, comrade," interrupted the sergeant; "I, too, have served in Italy and Egypt; but the campaign we have just ended is not like either of those; it's quite another sort of thing."

"It has been very severe, then?"

"Severe! I believe you! All may thank their lucky stars who have not left their bones to bleach there. Everything was against us. Sickness, traitors, the peasants, the shopkeepers, our Allies--in short, everything. Of our company, which left Phalsbourg in full marching order on the 21st of last January, there have returned only thirty-two men. I think Gaspard Lefevre is the only one of the conscripts left. Poor fellows! they fought well; but they were not used to starving, and they melted away like butter on a stove."

So saying, the old soldier approached the counter, and tossed off his brandy at a single draught.

"Your health, friend. Are you, by chance, the father of Gaspard?"

"No; I am a relation."

"Well, you have reason to be proud of him. What a fine young fellow for twenty! Yes, in spite of all, he has kept his post while others gave in by dozens."

"But still," pursued Hullin, after a moment's silence, "I'm at a loss to see what there was in this last campaign so different to all others; for we also had sicknesses--traitors to encounter."

"Different!" exclaimed the sergeant; "everything was different. Formerly, if you fought with us in Germany, you must remember that after one or two victories it was all over; people received you well; you drank wine and ate sour-krout and ham with the worthy citizens, or danced with their fat wives. The husbands and grandpapas shook their sides with laughing, and when the regiment took its departure, everybody was ready to cry their eyes out. But this time, after Lutzen and Bautzen, instead of coming round, the people only made wry faces at you; you could get nothing, except by force, till you would almost have thought yourself in Spain or La Vendee. I don't know what they had taken into their heads against us. Again, if we had been nothing but Frenchmen, and hadn't had heaps of Saxons and other allies, who were only waiting the opportunity to spring at our throats, we should have gained the day all the same, one against five; but the Allies!--never talk to me of allies again! Why, look now at Leipzig, the 18th of last October, in the very midst of the battle, our Allies turned against us, and fired at us from behind: those were our fine friends, the Saxons. A week after, our once excellent friends, the Bavarians, came and threw themselves in the way of our retreat. We had to cut our way through them at Hanau. The next day, close to Frankfort, another column of good friends present themselves. They had to be crushed. In short, the more of them you kill, the more spring up in your path. And now, here we are on this side of the Rhine. Well, rest assured we have yet more of these good friends all the way from Moscow on our track. Oh, if we could only have foreseen this after Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, and Wagram!"

Hullin had grown quite thoughtful.

"And what is the state of things with us now?" he asked.

"The state of things is, that we have been obliged to re-cross the Rhine, and that all our strong places on the other side are besieged. The 10th of last November, the Prince of Neufchatel reviewed the regiment at Bleckheim. The soldiers of the third battalion were transferred to the second, and the skeleton of the regiment was to hold itself in readiness to set out for the depot. The skeletons exist sure enough, but where are the men? No wonder there are none, bled as they have been at every pore. All Europe is up in arms. The Emperor is at Paris; he is preparing his plan of campaign. Let them only give us breathing-time till spring!"

Just at this moment, Wittman, who was standing by the window, said:--"Here comes the Governor--he has been examining the abattis and defences round the town."

And they saw the commandant, Jean-Pierre Meunier, his head adorned with a large three-cornered hat, and wearing a tricolour scarf round his waist, crossing the square.

"Ah," said the sergeant, "I must go and get him to sign the order of march. Excuse me, friend, I must leave you."

"Good-bye, sergeant, and thank you. If you see Gaspard again, tell him that Jean-Claude Hullin desires to be remembered to him, and that all in his village are anxiously expecting to hear from him."

"Certainly, certainly. I will not fail." The sergeant went out, and Hullin sat thoughtfully and silently finishing his pint of wine.

"Neighbour Wittman," said he, after a moment's pause, "where is my parcel?"

"It is ready, Master Jean-Claude."

Then, looking in at the kitchen door, he called out:--"Gredel, Gredel, bring Master Hullin's parcel!"

A little woman appeared at this summons, and placed on the table a bundle of sheepskins. Jean-Claude passed his stick through the bundle, and put it on his shoulder.

"What, are you going to start directly?"

"Yes, neighbour Wittman; the days are short, and it is bad travelling through the woods after six o'clock. I must get home betimes."

"A safe journey to you, then, Master Jean-Claude."

Hullin went out, and crossed the square, keeping his eyes turned aside from the convoy of wounded and dying, who were still stationed in front of the church.

And the innkeeper, as he watched him from his window setting off at a good round pace, said to himself--

"How pale he was when he came in; he could scarcely stand upon his legs. It's droll now, a rough man, an old soldier like him, to be so upset, while I could see fifty regiments of wounded go by in carts without thinking more about it than my morning pipe."