CHAPTER IV.
Whilst Hullin, informed of the disasters that had befallen our armies, was walking with downcast head and knitted brows towards the village of Charmes, all was going on as usual at the farm of Bois-de-Chenes. The fantastic stories of Yegof--the rumours of war--were alike forgotten for the present; old Duchene led his oxen to the water, the shepherd Robin foddered his cattle, and Annette and Jeanne skimmed their pans of milk, and made their curds-and-whey. Catherine Lefevre alone, gloomy and silent, mused continually on the past, while, at the same time, overlooking with an impassive face the doings of her household. She was too old, and of too serious a nature, to forget from one day to the next anything that had so greatly moved her.
When night came, after the evening meal, she went into the inner apartment, where her people heard her take the heavy ledger from the cupboard, and lay it on the table, to make up her accounts, as it was her custom to do.
They immediately began to load the heavy cart with corn, vegetables, and poultry, for on the morrow it was market-day at Sarrebourg, and Duchene was to set out at daybreak.
Picture to yourself this large kitchen, and all these honest people making haste to finish their work before going to bed; the big black pan smoking on an immense fire made of fir cones, and glowing with crimson heat; the dishes, pots, and porringers shining like suns upon the dresser; the bunches of garlic and golden onions hanging in rows from the brown rafters of the ceiling, among the hams and flitches of bacon; Jeanne, with her bright blue head-dress and short scarlet petticoat, stirring the contents of the pan with a great wooden spoon; large wicker hencoops, with the clucking fowls, and the great red cock thrusting his head between the bars, and watching the fire with a surprised eye, and head twisted on one side; the mastiff, Michel, with flat head and hanging jaws, prowling about in quest of some stray morsel; Dubourg descending the creaking staircase on the left, with bent back, a sack on his shoulder, and his other hand placed archwise on his hip; whilst outside, in the darkness of the night, old Duchene, standing upright in the cart, holds up his lantern, and calls out:--"That makes the fifteenth, Dubourg; two more."
There was also hanging against the wall an old brown hare brought by the huntsman Heinrich to be sold in the market, and a fine grouse, his green and red feathers glistening in the firelight, with glazed eye, and a drop of blood at the tip of his beak.
It was about half-past seven when the sound of footsteps was heard in the court-yard. The mastiff went growling towards the door. He listened, sniffed the night air, and then quietly returned to his place by the fire.
"It is some one belonging to the farm," said Annette. "Michel does not stir."
Directly after, old Duchene was heard outside, saying, "Good night, Master Jean-Claude. Is it you?"
"Yes; I have just arrived from Phalsbourg, and I have come to rest for a moment before going down to the village. Is Catherine in?"
And as he spoke, the honest man appeared in the bright firelight, standing at the door, his broad-brimmed hat pushed back on to the nape of his neck, and his bundle of sheepskins on his shoulder.
"Good night, my children," said he; "good night; always at work?"
"Yes, Master Hullin, as you see," replied Jeanne, with a smile. "If one had nothing to do, life would be very tedious."
"True, my pretty girl, true; there is nothing like work to give you those fresh cheeks and large bright eyes."
Jeanne was going to reply when the inner door opened, and Catherine Lefevre entered, casting a searching look at Hullin as if to guess beforehand the news he brought.
"Well, Jean-Claude, you are back again."
"Yes, Catherine. There is both good and bad news."
They went into the inner room, a high and spacious apartment, wainscoted to the very ceiling, with its cupboards of old oak with bright locks, its porcelain stove, its old clock marking the seconds in its walnut case, and its large arm-chair of embossed leather, which had been in use for ten generations. Jean-Claude never went into this room without thinking of Catherine's grandfather, whom he seemed still to see sitting in the shadow behind the stove.
"Well!" inquired the farm-mistress, offering a seat to the sabot-maker, who had just placed his bundle on the table.
"Well, of Gaspard, the news is good; the lad is well. He has seen some hardships--so much the better; that is the making of a young man; but for the rest, Catherine, everything is very bad. War! war!"
He shook his head, and the old woman, with compressed lips, sat opposite to him, upright in her arm-chair, her eyes fixed, and listening eagerly.
"So everything is going wrong; we shall have wars at our very doors?"
"Yes, Catherine, from one day to the next we may expect to see the Allies in our mountains."
"I dreaded as much. I was sure of it; but speak, Jean-Claude."
Hullin then, with his elbows on his knees, his great red ears between his hands, and lowering his voice, began to relate all that he had seen: the defences round the town, the formation of batteries on the ramparts, the publication of the state of siege, the carts filled with the wounded in front of the church, his meeting with the old sergeant at the house of Wittman, and the renewal of the campaign. From time to time he made a pause, and the old farm-mistress would slowly wink her eyes, as though to fix the facts in her memory. When Jean-Claude came to the wounded, the good woman murmured, in a low voice, "Gaspard has escaped that."
Then at the close of this dismal story there was a long silence, and they both looked at each other without uttering a word.
What reflections, what bitter feelings passed through their minds!
After a few moments the old woman strove to rouse herself from these thoughts.
"You see, Jean-Claude," said she, in a calm, grave tone, "Yegof was not wrong."
"No doubt, no doubt he was not wrong," replied Hullin; "but what does that prove? A fool--a maniac, who goes from village to village--who comes down from Alsace, goes back to Lorraine, wanders right and left--it would be very surprising if he saw nothing, and if there should not be from time to time a mixture of truth in his mad sayings. All kinds of things get mixed up in his head, and then people think they understand what he does not understand himself. But it is not now a question of a fool's babblings, Catherine. The Austrians are here. The question is, whether we shall allow them to pass, or whether we shall have the courage to defend ourselves."
"To defend ourselves!" exclaimed the old woman, her pale cheeks flushing with excitement; "whether we shall have the courage to defend ourselves! You must forget, Hullin, that it is to me you are speaking. What! are we then unworthy of our forefathers? Did they not defend themselves, even to the death--men, women, and children?"
"Then you are for fighting, Catherine?"
"Yes, yes, as long as a morsel of flesh is left on my bones! Let them come! The old woman is prepared!"
Her long gray hair seemed to stand erect upon her head; her pale and withered cheeks trembled, and her eyes flashed fire.
She was really grand to look upon, as she stood, flushed and excited, like that aged Margareth of whom Yegof had spoken. Hullin silently held out his hand to her, and smiled approvingly.
"Right!" said he; "right! The same as ever. You are like yourself, Catherine; your own true, brave self, as you stand there before me; but now be a little calm, and listen to me. We are going to fight, and with what means?"
"All and every means; all are good--hatchets, scythes, pitchforks."
"Truly, truly; but guns and bullets are best of all. We have guns: every dweller in the mountains hangs his own over his door; unluckily we have neither powder nor ball."
The old farm-mistress grew calm in a moment; pushing her gray locks back under her cap, she stood absently gazing straight before her, with a thoughtful look.
"Yes," she suddenly replied, in a sharp, short tone; "that is quite true; we have neither powder nor ball, but we soon will have. Marc Dives, the smuggler, has some. You shall go to him to-morrow from me. You will tell him that Catherine Lefevre buys of him all his powder and all his bullets, that she pays him for them, that she will sell all her cattle, her farm, her land, all--all--to procure some. Do you understand, Hullin?"
"I understand. This is well done of you, Catherine; it is splendid!"
"Stuff! splendid and well done!" sharply retorted the old woman; "it is only natural that I should avenge myself! These Austrians, these Prussians, these red men, who have already half destroyed us--well! I would pay them back. I hate them, father to son. Now, you see! Buy the powder; and this wandering beggar, this fool shall see if we will rebuild his castles!"
Hullin then perceived that she was still brooding over Yegof's stories; but seeing how exasperated she was, and that, besides, her having this notion contributed to the defence of the country, he made no remark on this subject, and simply said:
"Then, Catherine, it's agreed that I go to Dives to-morrow?"
"Yes: you will buy all his powder and his bullets. Some one must also go the round of all the villages in the mountain, to warn the people of what is going on, and arrange a signal with them for assembling in case of attack."
"Make your mind easy," said Jean-Claude; "I will undertake that, too."
They had both risen, and were proceeding towards the door. For the last half-hour the sounds in the kitchen had ceased: the farm people had gone to bed. The old woman placed her lamp in a corner of the hearth, and drew the bolts. Out of doors, it was cold and sharp, the air calm and clear. All the tops of the surrounding trees and the dark firs of the Jaegerthal stood out against the sky in dark or luminous masses. Far off in the distance the shrill yelp of a fox resounded in the valley of the Blanru.
"Good night, Hullin," said Dame Lefevre.
"Good night, Catherine."
Jean-Claude rapidly descended the steep hill, and the farm-mistress, after having looked after him for a second, went in and shut the door.
I leave you to imagine the joy of Louise, when she learnt that Gaspard was safe and sound. The poor child, for the last two months, could hardly be said to have lived. Hullin was very careful not to show her the dark cloud that was slowly, but surely, moving towards them. All the night long he could hear her prattling to herself in her little room, talking low, as if congratulating herself upon her happiness, murmuring the name of Gaspard, and opening her drawers, her boxes; no doubt in search of some of her treasures to which she might whisper of her love.
Thus the little bird, who has been drenched by the storm, while still shivering with cold and wet, begins to sing and to hop from branch to branch at the faint glimmer of sunshine.