CHAPTER VII.

Before pushing open the creaking door, the idea struck Jean-Claude to see what Louise was doing at that moment. So he took a peep through the casement into the little room, and there he saw Louise standing by the curtains in the alcove; she seemed very busily employed in folding and unfolding some clothes spread out upon the bed. Her sweet face beamed with happiness, and her large blue eyes shone with a sort of enthusiasm; she was speaking aloud to herself at the same time. Hullin listened, but a cart that happened to be passing just at that moment prevented his hearing what she said.

So, taking his resolution boldly, he entered, saying, in a firm voice; "Well, Louise, here I am back again."

In an instant, the young girl, radiant with joy, and bounding like a fawn, was in his arms.

"Ah! it is you, father dear; I was expecting you. Oh! what a time you have been away, but here you are at last!"

"Because, my child," replied the brave man, in a tone a trifle less firm, placing his stick behind the door, and his hat upon the table; "because----"

He could say no more.

"Oh! yes, yes, because you have been to see our friends," said Louise, with a smile; "I know all; Mother Lefevre has told me everything."

"What! you know all, and yet you are the same as usual? So much the better; it shows your good sense. And I, who was dreading to see your tears!"

"Tears! and why, Father Jean-Claude? That shows you do not know me; you shall find I have courage."

The resolute air with which she uttered these words made Hullin smile; but the smile very quickly vanished when she added: "We are going to war, we are going to fight, we are going into the mountain."

"Heyday! hoity-toity! 'We are going, we are going!' what's all this?" exclaimed the good man, quite wonderstruck.

"Yes. Are we not going, then?" said she, in a tone of regret.

"Well--that is to say--I shall have to leave you for some time, my child."

"To leave me! Oh! no. I shall go with you, that's settled. Stay, see, my little bundle is ready already, and I am preparing yours. Don't you trouble yourself about anything; leave it all to me, and it will be all right."

Hullin could not recover from his surprise.

"But, Louise," he exclaimed, "you cannot be thinking of it. Only consider. Why, you would have to pass whole nights out of doors, marching, running; and then the cold, the snow, and, above all, the firing! It cannot be."

"Pray, now," said the young girl, in a voice that shook with emotion, as she threw herself into his arms, "don't make me unhappy; you are jesting with your little Louise; you cannot mean to leave her!"

"But you will be much better here. You will be warm and comfortable. You shall hear from me every day."

"No, no; I will not stay behind; I will go with you. I don't mind the cold. I've been shut up too long; I want a little change of air, too. The birds don't stay at home. The robin redbreasts are out of doors all the winter long. Did I not have to bear the cold when I was quite a little thing, and hunger, too?"

She stamped impatiently with her foot, and then, for the third time, threw her arms round Jean-Claude's neck.

"Come, Papa Hullin," said she, in a coaxing voice, "Mother Lefevre has said 'Yes.' Will you be less kind than she? Ah! if you but knew how I love you!"

The honest fellow, touched beyond measure, had sat himself down, and turned aside his head to hide his emotion and avoid her persuasive caresses.

"Oh! how unkind and naughty you are to-day, Papa Jean-Claude!"

"It is for your sake, my child."

"So much the worse, then, for I shall run away; I shall run after you. The cold, indeed! What do I care for the cold? And if you are wounded, and if you ask to see your little Louise for the last time, and she is not there close to you, to tend you, to love you to the last? Oh! you must think me very hard-hearted!"

She sobbed and cried. Hullin could restrain himself no longer.

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

"Oh! yes; oh! yes; she told me so. She said, 'Try to persuade Papa Jean-Claude; for my part, I ask no better; I am quite willing.'"

"In that case, what can I do against you both? You shall come with us. It is settled."

There was then a shriek of joy that made the whole house echo.

"Oh! how good and kind you are!" and with a brush of the hand the tears were dried up.

"We are going away, to ramble over the mountains, and make war," was now the joyful cry.

"Ha!" said Hullin, with a shake of the head; "I see now you are still the same little _heimathslos_ as ever. As well try and tame a swallow." Then, drawing her to his knee: "Ah! Louise," said he, "it is now twelve years since I found you in the snow; you were quite blue with the cold, poor little thing! And when we got home to the little cabin, and the warm fire brought you gently round, the first thing you did was to smile upon me. And from that time I have always done whatever you wanted. With that smile you have led me by the nose."

Then Louise began to smile upon him again, and they embraced each other very lovingly.

"And now, then, let us look at the bundles," said the good man with a sigh. "Are they well packed up, eh, child?"

He approached the bed, and stood quite surprised to see his warm clothing, his flannel waistcoats, all well brushed, well folded, and well packed up. Then came Louise's bundle, with her best frocks, her petticoats and thick shoes, all in good order. He could not help laughing at last, and exclaiming:

"Oh! _heimathslos, heimathslos!_ there are none like you for packing up, when once you've set your mind upon it!"

Louise smiled.

"You are pleased?"

"I must be so! But all this time, while you have been so busy about this work, you never thought, I suppose, of preparing my supper?"

"Oh! that is soon done! I did not know, Papa Jean-Claude, that you were coming back this evening."

"That is true, my child. Cook me, then, something--no matter what, but quickly, for I've a good appetite. In the meanwhile, I'll smoke a pipe."

He seated himself in his old corner, and lit his pipe in an absent, thoughtful manner. Louise bustled about, right and left, like a frisky sprite, now stirring the fire, now breaking eggs into the pan, and tossing up an omelet in the twinkling of an eye. Never had she seemed so gay, so smiling, so pretty. Hullin, with his elbow on the table, his cheek in his hand, sat gravely watching her, and thinking what will, firmness, and resolution there was in that fragile creature, light as a fairy, and determined as a hussar. In another moment she had brought him his omelet on a large-patterned dish, along with the bread, a glass and bottle.

"Now then, Papa Jean-Claude, feast away."

She watched him fondly as he ate his meal.

The fire blazed brightly in the stove, reflecting its warm light on the low rafters, the wooden staircase just visible in the gloom, the great bed at the bottom of the alcove, all the little details of the home so often cheered by the gay humour of the shoemaker, the songs of his daughter, and the pleasant bustle of work. And all this Louise could quit without a sigh of regret; she thought of nothing but the woods, the snowy path across the endless chain of mountains from their village to Switzerland, and farther still. Ah! Master Jean-Claude had, indeed, good reason to exclaim, "_Heimathslos! Heimathslos!_" The swallow cannot be tamed!--she needs the open air, the boundless sky, the eternal voyage over the wide expanse of waters! She fears neither storm nor wind, nor torrents of rain, as the hour of departure approaches. Henceforth, she has but one thought, one sigh, one cry: "On! on!"

The meal over, Hullin rose, and said to his daughter:

"I am tired, my child; kiss me, and let us go to bed."

"Yes; but don't forget to wake me, Papa Jean-Claude, if you go before daybreak."

"Be easy. It's settled; you shall come with us."

Then, as he looked after her as she ascended the narrow wooden staircase, and disappeared within her own little attic--"Is she afraid of being left alone in the nest?" said he to himself.

Out of doors the silence was so great that it might almost be said to be heard. The village clock had just struck eleven. The good man sat down to take off his shoes. Just at that moment his eye happened to fall upon his gun, suspended over the door. He took it down, wiped it slowly, and tried the lock. He had thrown his whole soul into the business before him.

"There's work in the old gun still," he murmured to himself; and then added in a grave voice:

"It's droll, it's droll; the last time I used it--at Marengo--that's fourteen years ago--it seems to me but yesterday!"

All at once, outside, the crisp snow crackled beneath a rapid footstep. He listened--there was some one. And almost immediately after he heard two little taps at the window. He ran and opened it. The rough head of Marc Dives, with his broad-brimmed hat quite stiff with frost, was visible in the gloom.

"Well, Marc, what news?"

"Have you warned the mountaineers--Materne, Jerome, Labarbe?"

"Yes, all."

"It is but just in time: the enemy has passed."

"Passed?"

"Yes, along the whole line. I have come fifteen leagues through the snow since morning to tell you."

"Good! we must give the signal--a large bonfire on the Falkenstein."

Hullin was very pale. He put on his shoes again. Two minutes after, with his thick great-coat flung over his shoulders, and his stick in his hand, he softly opened the door, and was following Marc with hasty strides along the footpath of the Falkenstein.