Some discontented folks might say that China yet remained to be conquered; such mar-joys are always to be found.
A week after, we learned that our forces were in Moscow, the largest and richest city in Russia, and then everybody figured to himself the booty we would capture, and the reduction it would make in the taxes. But soon came the rumor that the Russians had set fire to their capital, and that it was necessary to retreat on Poland or to die of hunger. Nothing else was spoken of in the inns, the breweries, or the market; no one could meet his neighbor without saying, "Well, well, things go badly; the retreat has commenced."
People grew pale, and hundreds of peasants waited morning and night at the post-office, but no letters came now. I passed and repassed through the crowd without paying much attention to it, for I had seen so much of the same thing. And besides, I had a thought in my mind which gladdened my heart, and made everything seem rosy to me.
You must know that for six months past I had wished to make Catharine a magnificent present for herfêteday, which fell on the 18th of December. Among the watches which hung in Monsieur Goulden's window was one little one, of the prettiest kind, with a silver case full of little circles, which made it shine like a star. Around the face, under the glass, was a thread of copper, and on the face were painted two lovers, the youth evidently declaring his love, and giving to his sweetheart a large bouquet of roses, while she modestly lowered her eyes and held out her hand.
The first time I saw the watch, I said to myself: "You will not let that escape; that watch is for Catharine, and, although you must work every day till midnight for it, she must have it." Monsieur Goulden, after seven in the evening, allowed me to work on my own account. He had old watches to clean and regulate; and, as this work was often very troublesome, old father Melchior paid me reasonably for it. But the little watch was thirty-five francs, and one can imagine how many hours at night I would have to work for it. I am sure that, if Monsieur Goulden knew that I wanted it, he would have given it me for a present, but I would not have let him take a farthing less for it; I would have regarded doing so something shameful. I kept saying, "You must earn it; no one else must have any claim upon it." Only for fear somebody else might take a fancy to buy it, I put it aside in a box, telling father Melchior that I knew a purchaser.
Under these circumstances, every one can readily understand how it was that all these stories of war went in at one ear and out at the other with me. While I worked I imagined Catharine's joy, and for five months that was all I had before my eyes. I thought how pleased she would look, and asked myself what she would say. Sometimes I imagined she would cry out, "O Joseph what are you thinking of? It is much too beautiful for me. No, no; I cannot take so fine a watch from you!" Then I thought I would force it upon her; I would slip it into her apron-pocket, saying, "Come, come, Catharine! Do you wish to give me pain?" I could see how she wanted it, and that she spoke so only to seem to refuse it. Then I imagined her blushing, with her hands raised, saying, "Joseph, now I know indeed that you love me!" And she would embrace me with tears in her eyes. I felt very happy. Aunt Grédel approved of all.In a word, a thousand such scenes passed through my mind, and when I retired at night I said: "There is no one as happy as you, Joseph. See what a present you can make Catharine by your toil; and she surely is preparing something for yourfête, for she thinks only of you; you are both very happy, and, when you are married, all will go well."
While I was thus working on, thinking only of happiness, the winter began, earlier than usual, toward the commencement of November. It did not begin with snow, but with dry, cold weather and strong frosts. In a few days all the leaves had fallen and the earth was hard as ice and all covered with hoar-frost; tiles, pavement, and window-panes glittered with it. Fires had to be made to keep the cold out, and, when the doors were opened for a moment, the heat seemed to disappear at once. The wood crackled in the stoves and burnt away like straw in the fierce draught of the chimneys.
Every morning I hastened to wash the panes of the shop-window with warm water, and I scarcely closed it when a frosty sheen covered it. Without, people ran puffing with their coat-collars over their ears and their hands in their pockets. No one stood still, and, when doors opened, they soon closed.
I don't know what became of the sparrows, whether they were dead or living, but not one twittered in the chimneys, and, save the reveille and retreat sounded in the barracks, no sound broke the silence.
Often when the fire crackled merrily did Monsieur Goulden stop his work, and, gazing on the frost-covered panes, exclaim:
"Our poor soldiers! our poor soldiers!"
He said this so mournfully that I felt a choking in my throat as I replied:
"But, Monsieur Goulden, they ought now to be in Poland in good barracks; for to suppose that human beings could endure a cold like this, it is impossible."
"Such a cold as this," he said; "yes, here it is cold, very cold, from the winds from the mountains; but what is this frost to that of the north, of Russia and of Poland? God grant that they started early enough. My God! my God! the leaders of men have a heavy weight to bear."
After the frosts so much snow fell that the couriers were stopped on the road toward Quatre-Vents. I feared that I could not go to see Catharine on herfêteday; but two companies of infantry set out with pickaxes, and dug through the frozen snow a way for carriages, and that road remained open until the commencement of the month of April, 1813.
Nevertheless, Catharine'sfêteapproached day by day, and my happiness increased in proportion. I had already the thirty-five francs, but I did not know how to tell Monsieur Goulden that I wished to buy the watch; I wanted to keep the whole matter secret; and it annoyed me greatly to talk about it.
At length, on the eve of the eventful day, between six and seven in the evening, while we were working in silence, the lamp between us, suddenly I took my resolution, and said:
"You know, Monsieur Goulden, that I spoke to you of a purchaser for the little silver watch."
"Yes, Joseph," said he, without raising his head, "but he has not come yet."
"It is I who am the purchaser, Monsieur Goulden."
Then he looked up in astonishment. I took out the thirty-five francs and laid them on the work-bench. He stared at me.
"But," he said, "it is not such a watch as that you want, Joseph; you want one that will fill your pocket and mark the seconds. Those little watches are only for women."
I knew not what to say.
Monsieur Goulden, after meditating a few moments, began to smile.
"Ah!" he exclaimed; "good! good! I understand now; to-morrow is Catharine'sfête. Now I know why you worked day and night. Hold! take back this money; I do not want it."
I was all confusion.
"Monsieur Goulden, I thank you," I replied; "but this watch is for Catharine, and I wish to have earned it. You will pain me if you refuse the money; I would as lief not take the watch."
He said nothing more, but took the thirty-five francs; then he opened his drawer, and chose a pretty steel chain, with two little keys of silver-gilt, which he fastened to the watch. Then he put all together in a box with a rose-colored favor. He did all this slowly, as if affected; then he gave me the box.
"It is a pretty present, Joseph," said he. "Catharine ought to deem herself happy in having such a lover as you. She is a good girl. Now we can take our supper. Set the table."
The table was arranged, and then Monsieur Goulden took from a closet a bottle of his Metz wine, which he kept for great occasions, and we supped like old friends rather than as master and apprentice; all the evening he never stopped speaking of the merry days of his youth; telling me how he once had a sweetheart, but that, in 1792, he left home in thelevée en masseat the time of the Prussian invasion, and that on his return to Fénétrange, he found her married—a very natural thing, since he had never mustered courage enough to declare his love. However, this did not prevent his remaining faithful to the tender remembrance, and when he spoke of it he seemed sad indeed. I recounted all this in imagination to Catharine, and it was not until the stroke of ten, at the passage of the rounds, which relieved the sentries on post every twenty minutes on account of the great cold, that we put two good logs in the fire, and at length went to bed.
The next day, the 18th of December, I arose about six in the morning. It was terribly cold; my little window was covered with a sheet of frost.
I had taken care the night before to lay out on the back of a chair my sky-blue coat, my trousers, my goat-skin vest, and my fine black silk cravat. Everything was ready; my well-polished shoes lay at the foot of the bed; I had only to dress myself; but the cold I felt upon my face, the sight of those window-panes, and the deep silence without made me shiver in advance. If it were not Catharine'sfête, I would have remained in bed until midday; but suddenly that recollection made me rush to the great delf stove, where some embers of the preceding night almost always remained among the cinders. I found two or three, and hastened to collect and put them under some split wood and two large logs, after which I ran back to my bed.
Monsieur Goulden, under the huge curtains, with the coverings pulled up to his nose and his cotton night-cap over his eyes, woke up, and cried out:
"Joseph, we have not had such cold for forty years. I never felt it so. What a winter we shall have!"
I did not answer, but looked out to see if the fire was lighting; the embers burnt well; I heard the chimney draw, and at once all blazed up. The sound of the flames was merry enough, but it required a good half-hour to feel the air any warmer.
At last I arose and dressed myself. Monsieur Goulden kept on chatting, but I thought only of Catharine, and when at length, toward eight o'clock, I started out, he exclaimed:
"Joseph, what are you thinking of? Are you going to Quatre-Vents in that little coat? You would be dead before you accomplished half the journey. Go into my closet, and take my great cloak, and the mittens, and the double-soled shoes lined with flannel."
I was so smart in my fine clothes that I reflected whether it would be better to follow his advice, and he, seeing my hesitation, said:
"Listen! a man was found frozen yesterday on the way to Wecham. Doctor Steinbrenner said that he sounded like a piece of dry wood when they tapped him. He was a soldier, and had left the village between six and seven o'clock, and at eight they found him; so that the frost did not take long to do its work. If you want your nose and ears frozen, you have only to go out as you are."
I knew, then, that he was right; so I put on the thick shoes, and passed the cord of the mittens over my shoulders, and put the cloak over all. Thus accoutred, I sallied forth, after thanking Monsieur Goulden, who warned me not to stay too late, for the cold increased toward night, and great numbers of wolves were crossing the Rhine on the ice.
I had not gone as far as the church when I turned up the fox-skin collar of the cloak to shield my ears. The cold was so keen that it seemed as though the air were filled with needles, and one's body shrank involuntarily from head to foot.
Under the German gate, I saw the soldier on guard, in his great gray mantle, standing back in his box like a saint in his niche; he had his sleeve wrapped about his musket where he held it, to keep his fingers from the iron, and two long icicles hung from his mustaches. No one was on the bridge, but, a little further on, I saw three carts in the middle of the road with their canvas-tops all covered with frost; they were unharnessed and abandoned. Everything in the distance seemed dead; all living things had hidden themselves from the cold; and I could hear nothing but the snow crunching under my feet. On each side were walls of ice, as I ran along the trench the soldiers had dug in the snow; in some places swept by the wind, I could see the oak forest and the bluish mountain, both seeming much nearer than they were, on account of the clearness of the air. Not a dog barked in a farm-yard; it was even too cold for that.
But the thought of Catharine warmed my heart, and soon I descried the first houses of Quatre-Vents. The chimneys and the thatched roofs, to the right and left of the road, were scarcely higher than the mountains of snow, and the villagers had dug trenches along the walls, so that they could pass to each other's houses. But that day every family kept around its hearth, and the little round window-panes seemed painted red, from the great fires burning within. Before each door was a truss of straw to keep the cold from entering beneath it.
At the fifth door to the right I stopped to take off my mittens; then I opened and closed it very quickly. I was at the house of Grédel Bauer, the widow of Matthias Bauer and Catharine's mother.
As I entered, and while Aunt Grédel, astonished at my fox-skin collar, was yet turning her gray head, Catharine, in her Sunday dress—a pretty striped petticoat, a kerchief with long fringe folded across her bosom, a red apron fastened around her slender waist, a pretty cap of blue silk with black velvet bands setting off her rosy and white face, soft eyes, and slightlyretroussénose—Catharine, I say, exclaimed:
"It is Joseph!"
And she ran to greet me, saying:
"I knew the cold would not keep you from coming."
I was so happy that I could not speak. I took off my cloak, which I hung upon a nail on the wall, with my mittens; I took off Monsieur Goulden's great shoes, and felt myself pale with joy.
I would have said something agreeable, but could not; suddenly I exclaimed:
"See here, Catharine; here is something for yourfête."
She ran to the table. Aunt Grédel also came to see the present. Catharine untied the cord and opened the box. I was behind them, my heart bounding—I feared that the watch was not pretty enough. But in an instant, Catharine, clasping her hands, said in a low voice:
"How beautiful! It is a watch!"
"Yes," said Aunt Grédel; "it is beautiful; I never saw so fine a one. One would think it was silver."
"But itissilver," returned Catharine, turning toward me inquiringly.
Then I said:
"Do you think, Aunt Grédel, that I would be capable of giving a gilt watch to one whom I love better than my own life? If I could do such a thing, I would despise myself more than the dirt of my shoes."
Aunt Grédel asked:
"But what is this painted upon the face?"
"That painting, Aunt Grédel," said I, "represents two lovers who love each other more than they can tell: Joseph Bertha and Catharine Bauer; Joseph is offering a bouquet of roses to his sweetheart, who is stretching out her hand to take them."
When Aunt Grédel had sufficiently admired the watch, she said:
"Come until I kiss you, Joseph. I see very well that you must have economized very much and worked hard for this watch, and I think it is very pretty, and that you are a good workman, and will do us no discredit."
From then until midday we were happy as birds. Aunt Grédel bustled about to prepare a large pancake with dried prunes, and wine, and cinnamon and other good things in it; but we paid no attention to her, and it was only when she put on her red jacket and black sabots, and called, "Come, my children; to table!" that we saw the fine table-cloth, the great porringer, the pitcher of wine, and the large round, golden pancake on a plate in the middle. The sight rejoiced us not a little, and Catharine said:
"Sit there, Joseph, opposite the window, that I may look at you. But you must fix my watch, for I do not know where to put it."
I passed the chain around her neck, and then, seating ourselves, we ate gayly. Without, not a sound was heard; within the fire crackled merrily upon the hearth. It was very pleasant in the large kitchen, and the gray cat, a little wild, gazed at us through the balusters of the stairs without daring to come down.
Catharine, after dinner, sangDer liebe Gott. She had a sweet, clear voice, and it seemed to float to heaven. I sang low, merely to sustain her. Aunt Grédel, who could never rest doing nothing, began spinning; the hum of her wheel filled up the silences, and we all felt happy. When one air was ended, we began another. At three o'clock, Aunt Grédel served up the pancake, and as we ate it, laughing, she would exclaim:
"Come, come, now, you are children in reality."
She pretended to be angry, but we could see in her eyes that she was happy from the bottom of her heart. This lasted until four o'clock, when night began to come on apace; the darkness seemed to enter by the little windows, and, knowing that we must soon part, we sat sadly around the hearth on which the red flames were dancing. I would almost have given my life to remain longer. Another half-hour passed, when Aunt Grédel cried:
"Listen, Joseph! It is time for you to go; the moon does not rise till after midnight, and it will soon be dark as a kiln outside, and an accident happens so easily in these great frosts."
These words seemed to fall like a bolt of ice, and I felt Catharine's clasp tighten on my hand. But Aunt Grédel was right.
"Come," said she, rising and taking down the cloak from the wall; "you will come again Sunday."
I had to put on the heavy shoes, the mittens, and the cloak of Monsieur Goulden, and would have wished that I were a hundred years doing so, but, unfortunately, Aunt Grédel assisted me. When I had the great collar drawn up to my ears, she said:
"Now, Joseph, you must go!"
Catharine remained silent. I opened the door, and the terrible cold, entering, admonished me not to wait.
"Hasten, Joseph," said my aunt.
"Good-night, Joseph, good-night!" cried Catharine, "and do not forget to come Sunday."
I turned around to wave my hand; then I ran on without raising my head, for the cold was so intense that it brought tears to my eyes even behind the great collar.
I ran on thus some twenty minutes, scarcely daring to breathe, when a drunken voice called out:
"Who goes there?"
I looked through the dim night, and saw, fifty paces before me, Pinacle, the pedler, with his huge basket, his otter-skin cap, woollen gloves, and iron-pointed staff. The lantern, hanging from the strap of his basket lit up his debauched face, his chin bristling with yellow beard, and his great nose shaped like an extinguisher. He glared with his little eyes like a wolf, and repeated, "Who goes there?"
This Pinacle was the greatest rogue in the country. He had, the year before, a difficulty with Monsieur Goulden, who demanded of him the price of a watch which he undertook to deliver to Monsieur Anstett, the curate of Homert, and the money for which he put into his pocket, saying he had paid it to me. But, although the villain made oath before the justice of the peace, Monsieur Goulden knew the contrary, for on the day in question neither he nor I had left the house. Besides, Pinacle wanted to dance with Catharine at a festival at Quatre-Vents, and she refused because she knew the story of the watch, and was, besides, unwilling to leave me.
The sight, then, of this rogue with his iron-shod stick in the middle of the road did not tend to rejoice my heart. Happily a little path which wound around the cemetery was at my left, and, without replying, I dashed through it, although the snow reached my waist.
Then he, guessing who I was, cried furiously:
"Aha! it is the little lame fellow! Halt! halt! I want to bid you good-evening. You came from Catharine's, you watch-stealer."
But I sprang like a hare through the heaps of snow; he at first tried to follow me, but his pack hindered him, and, when I gained the ground again, he put his hands around his mouth, and shrieked:
"Never mind, cripple, never mind! Your reckoning is coming all the same; the conscription is coming—the grand conscription of the one-eyed, the lame, and the hunch-backed. You will have to go, and you will find a place under ground like the others."
He continued his way, laughing like the sot he was, and I, scarcely able to breathe, kept on, thanking Heaven that the little alley was so near me; for Pinacle, who was known always to draw his knife in a fight, might have done me an ill turn.
In spite of my exertion, my feet, even in the thick shoes, were intensely cold, and I again began running.
That night the water froze in the cisterns of Phalsbourg and the wines in the cellars—things that had not happened before for sixty years.
On the bridge and under the German gate the silence seemed yet deeper than in the morning, and the night made it seem terrible. A few stars shone between the masses of white cloud that hung over the city. All along the street I met not a soul, and when I reached home, after shutting the door of our lower passage, it seemed warm to me, although the little stream that ran from the yard along the wall was frozen. I stopped a moment to take breath; then I ascended in the dark, my hand on the baluster.
When I opened the door of my room, the cheerful warmth of the stove was grateful indeed. Monsieur Goulden was seated in his arm-chair before the fire, his cap of black silk pulled over his ears, and his hands resting upon his knees.
"Is that you, Joseph?" he asked without turning round.
"It is," I answered. "How pleasant it is here, and how cold out of doors! We never had such a winter."
"No," said he gravely. "It is a winter that will long be remembered."
I went into the closet and hung the cloak and mittens in their places, and was about relating my adventure with Pinacle, when he resumed:
"You had a pleasant day of it, Joseph,"
"I have had, indeed. Aunt Grédel and Catharine wished me to make you their compliments."
"Very good, very good," said he; "the young are right to amuse themselves, for when we grow old, and suffer, and see so much of injustice, selfishness, and misfortune, everything is spoiled in advance."
He spoke as if talking to himself, gazing at the fire. I had never seen him so sad, and I asked:
"Are you not well, Monsieur Goulden?"
But he, without replying, murmured:
"Yes, yes; this is to be a great military nation; this is glory!"
He shook his head and bent over gloomily, his heavy gray brows contracted in a frown.
I knew not what to think of all this, when, raising his head again, he said:
"At this moment, Joseph, there are four hundred thousand families weeping in France; the grand army has perished in the snows off Russia; all those stout young men whom for two months we saw passing our gates are buried beneath them. The news came this afternoon. Oh! it is horrible! horrible!"
I was silent. Now I saw clearly that we must have another conscription, as after all campaigns, and this time the lame would most probably be called. I grew pale, and Pinacle's prophecy made my hair stand on end.
"Go to bed, Joseph; rest easy," said Monsieur Goulden. "I am not sleepy; I will stay here; all this upsets me. Did you remark anything in the city?"
"No, Monsieur Goulden."
I went to my room and to bed. For a long time I could not close my eyes, thinking of the conscription, of Catharine, and of so many thousands of men buried in the snow, and then I plotted flight to Switzerland.
About three o'clock Monsieur Goulden retired, and a few minutes after, through God's grace, I fell asleep.
When I arose in the morning, about seven, I went to Monsieur Goulden's room to begin work; but he was still in bed, looking weary and sick.
"Joseph," said he, "I am not well. This horrible news has made me sick, and I have not slept at all. I will get up by and by. But this is the day to regulate the city clocks; I cannot go; for to see so many good people—people I have known for thirty years—in misery, would kill me. Listen, Joseph; take those keys hanging behind the door, and go. I will try to sleep a little. If I could sleep an hour or two, it would do me good."
"Very well, Monsieur Goulden," I replied; "I will go at once."
After putting more wood in the stove, I took the cloak and mittens, drew Monsieur Goulden's bed-curtains, and went out, the bunch of keys in my pocket. The illness of Father Melchior grieved me very much for a while, but a thought came to console me, and I said to myself: "You can climb up the city clock-tower, and see the house of Catharine and Aunt Grédel." Thinking thus, I arrived at the house of Brainstein, the bell-ringer, who lived at the corner of the little court, in an old, tumble-down barrack. His two sons were weavers, and in their old home the noise of the loom and the whistle of the shuttle was heard from morning till night. The grand-mother, old and blind, slept in an arm-chair, on the back of which perched a magpie. Father Brainstein, when he did not have to ring the bells for a christening, a funeral, or a marriage, kept reading his almanac behind the small round panes of his window.
The old man, when he saw me, rose up, saying:
"It is you, Monsieur Joseph."
"Yes, Father Brainstein; I come in place of Monsieur Goulden, who is not well."
"Very well; it is all the same."
He took up his staff and put on his woollen cap, driving away the cat that was sleeping upon it; then he took the great key of the steeple from a drawer, and we went out together, I [was] glad to find myself again in the open air, despite the cold; for their miserable room was gray with vapor, and as hard to breathe in as a kettle; I could never understand how people could live in such a way.
At last we gained the street, and Father Brainstein said:
"You have heard of the great Russian disaster, Monsieur Joseph?"
"Yes, Father Brainstein; it is fearful
"Ah!" said he, "there will be many a Mass said in the churches; every one will weep and pray for their children, the more that they are dead in a heathen land."
We crossed the court, and in front of the tower-hall, opposite the guard-house, many peasants and city people were already standing, reading a placard. We went up the steps and entered the church, where more than twenty women, young and old, were kneeling on the pavement, in spite of the terrible cold.
"Is it not as I said?" said Brainstein. "They are coming already to pray, and half of them have been here since five o'clock."
He opened the little door of the steeple leading to the organ, and we began climbing up in the dark. Once in the organ-loft, we turned to the left of the bellows, and went up to the bells.
I was glad to see the blue sky and breathe the free air again, for the bad odor of the bats which inhabited the tower almost suffocated me, But how terrible the cold was in that cage, open to every wind, and how dazzlingly the snow shone over twenty leagues of country! All the little city of Phalsbourg, with its six bastions, threedemilunes, two advanced works; its barracks, magazines, bridges,glacis, ramparts; its great parade-ground, and little, well-aligned houses, were beneath me, as if drawn on white paper. I was not yet accustomed to the height, and I held fast on the middle of the platform for fear I might jump off, for I had read of people having their heads turned by great heights. I did not dare go to the clock, and, if Brainstein had not set me the example, I would have remained there, pressed against the beam from which the bells hung; but he said:
"Come, Monsieur Joseph, and see if it is right."
Then I took out Monsieur Goulden's large watch which marked seconds, and I saw that the clock was considerably slow. Brainstein helped me to wind it up, and we regulated it.
"The clock is always slow in winter," said he, "because of the iron working."
After becoming somewhat accustomed to the elevation, I began to look around. There were the oak-wood barracks, the upper barracks, Bigelberg, and lastly, opposite me, Quatre-Vents, and the house of Aunt Grédel, from the chimney of which a thread of blue smoke rose toward the sky. And I saw the kitchen, and imagined Catharine, in sabots and woollen skirt, spinning at the corner of the hearth and thinking of me. I no longer felt the cold; I could not take my eyes from their cottage.
Father Brainstein, who did not know what I was looking at, said: "Yes, yes, Monsieur Joseph; now all the roads are covered with people in spite of the snow. The news has already spread, and every one wants to know the extent of his loss."
He was right; every road and path was covered with people coming to the city; and, looking in the court, I saw the crowd increasing every moment before the guard-house, and the mairie, and the post-office. A deep horror arose from the mass.
At length, after a last, long look at Catharine's house, I had to descend, and we went down the dark, winding stairs, as if descending into a well. Once in the organ-loft, we saw that the crowd had greatly increased in the church; all the mothers, the sisters, the old grandmothers, the rich, and the poor, were kneeling on the benches in the midst of the deepest silence; they prayed for the absent, offering all only to see them once again.
At first I did not realize all this; but suddenly the thought that, if I had gone the year before, Catharine would be there praying and asking me of God, fell like a bolt on my heart, and I felt all my body tremble.
"Let us go! let us go!" I exclaimed, "this is terrible."
"What is?" he asked.
"War."
We descended the stairs under the great gate, and I went across the court to the house of Monsieur the Commandant Meunier, while Brainstein took the way to his house.
At the corner of the Hotel de Ville, I saw a sight which I shall remember all my life. There, around a placard, were more than five hundred people, men and women crowded against each other, all pale and with necks outstretched, gazing at it as at some horrible apparition. They could not read it, and from time to time one would say in German or French:
"But they are not all dead! Some will return."
Others cried out:
"Let us see it! let us get near it."
A poor old woman in the rear lifted up her arms, and cried:
"Christopher! my poor Christopher!"
Others, angry at her clamor, called out to silence her.
Behind, the crowd continued to pour through the German gate.
At length, Harmautier, thesergent-de-ville, came out of the guard-house, and stood at the top of the steps, with another placard like the first; a few soldiers followed him. Then a rush was made toward him, but the soldiers kept off the crowd, and old Harmautier began to read the placard, which he called the twenty-ninth bulletin, and in which the emperor informed them that during the retreat the horses perished every night by thousands. He said nothing of the men!
Thesergent-de-villeread slowly; not a breath was heard in the crowd; even the old woman, who did not understand French, listened like the others. The buzz of a fly could have been heard. But when he came to this passage, "Our cavalry was dismounted to such an extent that we were forced to collect the officers who yet owned horses to form four companies of one hundred and fifty men each. Generals rated as captains, and colonels as under-officers"—when he read this passage, which told more of the misery of the grand army than all the rest, cries and groans arose on all sides; two or three women fell and were carried away.
It is true that the bulletin added, "The health of his majesty was never better," and that was a great consolation. Unfortunately it could not restore life to three hundred thousand men buried in the snow; and so the people went away very sad. Others came by dozens who had not heard the news read, and from time to time Harmautier came out to read the bulletin.
This lasted until night; still the same scene over again.
I ran from the place; I wanted to know nothing about it.
I went to Monsieur the Commandant's. Entering a parlor, I saw him at breakfast. He was an old man, but hale, with a red face and good appetite.
"Ah! it is you!" said he, "Monsieur Goulden is not coming, then?"
"No, Monsieur the Commandant, the bad news has made him ill."
"Ah! I understand," he said, emptying his glass, "yes, it is unfortunate."
And while I was regulating the clock, he added:
"Bah! tell Monsieur Goulden that we will have our revenge. We cannot always have the upper hand. For fifteen years we have kept the drums beating over them, and it is only right to let them have this little morsel of consolation. And then our honor is safe; we were not beaten fighting; without the cold and the snow, those poor Cossacks would have had a hard time of it. But patience; the skeletons of our regiments will soon be filled, and then let them beware."
I wound up the clock; he rose and came to look at it, for he was a great amateur in clock-making. He pinched my ear in a merry mood; and then, as I was going away, he cried as he buttoned up his overcoat, which he had opened before beginning breakfast:
"Tell Father Goulden to rest easy, the dance will begin again in the spring; the Kalmucks will not always have winter fighting for them. Tell him that."
"Yes, Monsieur the Commandant," I answered, shutting the door.
His burly figure and air of good humor comforted me a little; but in all the other houses I went to, at the Horwiches, the Frantz-Tonis, the Durlachs, everywhere I heard only lamentations. The women especially were in misery; the men said nothing, but walked about with heads hanging down, and without even looking to see what I was doing.
Toward ten o'clock there only remained two persons for me to see: Monsieur de la Vablerie-Chamberlin, one of the ancient nobility, who lived at the end of the main street, with Madame Chamberlin-d'Ecof and Mademoiselle Jeanne, their daughter, They wereémigrés, and had returned about three or four years before. They saw no one in the city, and only three or four old priests in the environs. Monsieur de la Vablerie-Chamberlin loved only the chase. He had six dogs at the end of the yard, and a two-horse carriage; Father Robert, of the Rue des Capucins, served them as coachman, groom, footman, and huntsman. Monsieur de la Vablerie-Chamberlin always wore a hunting vest, a leathern cap, and boots and spurs. All the town called him the hunter, but they said nothing of Madame nor of Mademoiselle de Chamberlin.
I was very sad when I pushed open the heavy door, which closed with a pulley whose creaking echoed through the vestibule. What was then my surprise to hear, in the midst of general mourning, the tones of a song and harpsichord! Monsieur de la Vablerie was singing, and Mademoiselle Jeanne accompanying him. I knew not, in those days, that the misfortune of one was often the joy of others, and I said to myself, with my hand on the latch: "They have not heard the news from Russia."
But while I stood thus, the door of the kitchen opened, and Mademoiselle Louise, their servant, putting out her head, asked:
"Who is there?"
"It is I, Mademoiselle Louise."
"Ah! it is you, Monsieur Joseph. Come this way."
They had their clock in a large parlor which they rarely entered; the high windows, with blinds, remained closed; but there was light enough for what I had to do. I passed then through the kitchen and regulated the antique clock, which was a magnificent piece of work of white marble. Mademoiselle Louise looked on.
"You have company, Mademoiselle Louise?" I asked.
"No, but monsieur ordered me to let no one in."
"You are very cheerful here."
"Ah! yes," she said; "and it is for the first time in years; I don't know what is the matter."
My work done, I left the house, meditating on these occurrences, which seemed to me strange. The idea never entered my mind that they were rejoicing at our defeat.
Then I turned the corner of the street to go to Father Féral's, who was called the "Standard-Bearer," because, at the age of forty-five, he, a blacksmith, and for many years the father of a family, had carried the colors of the volunteers of Phalsbourg in '92, and only returned after the Zurich campaign. He had his three sons in the army of Russia, Jean, Louis, and George Féral. George was commandant of dragoons; the two others, officers of infantry.
I imagined the grief of Father Féral while I was going, but it was nothing to what I saw when I entered his room. The poor old man, blind and bald, was sitting in an arm-chair behind the stove, his head bowed upon his breast, and his sightless eyes open, and staring as if he saw his three sons stretched at his feet. He did not speak, but great drops of sweat rolled down his forehead on his long, thin cheeks, while his face was pale as that of a corpse. Four or five of his old comrades of the times of the republic—Father Demarets, Father Nivoi, old Paradis, and tall old Froissard—had come to console him. They sat around him in silence, smoking their pipes, and looking as if they themselves needed comfort.
From time to time one or the other would say:
"Come, come, Féral! are we no longer veterans of the army of the Sambre and Meuse?"
Or,
"Courage, Standard-Bearer! courage! Did we not carry the battery at Fleuries?"
But he did not reply; every minute he sighed, and the old friends made signs to each other, shaking their heads, as if to say:
"This looks bad."
I hastened to regulate the clock and depart, for to see the poor old man in such a plight made my heart bleed.
When I arrived at home, I found Monsieur Goulden at his work-bench.
"You are returned, Joseph," said he. "Well?"
"Well, Monsieur Goulden, you had reason to stay away; it is terrible."
And I told him all in detail.
He arose. I set the table, and, whilst we were dining in silence, the bells of the steeples began to ring.
"Some one is dead in the city," said Monsieur Goulden.
"Indeed? I did not hear of it."
Ten minutes after, the Rabbi Rose came in to have a glass put in his watch.
"Who is dead?" asked Monsieur Goulden.
"Poor old Standard-Bearer."
"What! Father Féral?"
"Yes, near an hour ago. Father Demarets and several others tried to comfort him; at last, he asked them to read to him the last letter of his son George, the commandant of dragoons, in which he says that next spring he hoped to embrace his father with a colonel's epaulettes. As the old man heard this, he tried to rise, but fell back with his head upon his knees. That letter had broken his heart."
Monsieur Goulden made no remark on the news.
"Here is your watch, Monsieur Rose," said he, handing it back to the rabbi; "it is twelve sous."
Monsieur Rose departed, and we finished our dinner in silence.
On the eighth of January, a huge placard was posted on the town-hall, stating that the emperor would levy, after asenatus-consultus, as they said in those days, in the first place, one hundred and fifty thousand conscripts of 1813; then one hundredcohortesof the first call of 1812, who thought they had already escaped; then one hundred thousand conscripts of from 1809 to 1812, and so on to the end; so that every loophole was closed, and we would have a larger army than before the Russian expedition.
When Father Fouze, the glazier, came to us with this news, one morning, I almost fell through faintness, for I thought:
"Now they will take all, even fathers of families. I am lost!"
Monsieur Goulden poured some water on my neck; my arms hung useless by my side; I was pale as a corpse.
But I was not the only one upon whom the placard had such an effect: that year many young men refused to go; some broke their teeth off, so as not to be able to tear the cartridge; others blew off their thumbs with pistols, so as not to be able to hold a musket; others, again, fled to the woods; they proclaimed them "refractories," but they had notgens d'armesenough to capture them.
The mothers of families took courage to revolt after a manner, and to encourage their sons not to obey thegens d'armes. They aided them in every way; they cried out against the emperor, and the clergy of all denominations sustained them in so doing. The cup was at last full!
The very day of the proclamation I went to Quatre-Vents; but it was not now in the joy of my heart; it was as the most miserable of unhappy wretches, about to be bereft of love and life. I could scarcely walk, and when I reached there I did not know how to announce the evil tidings; but I saw at a glance that they knew all, for Catharine was weeping bitterly, and Aunt Grédel was pale with indignation.
"You shall not go," she cried. "What have we to do with wars? The priest himself told us it was at last too much, and that we ought to have peace! You shall not go! Do not cry, Catharine; I say he shall not go!"
"This carnage," she continued, "has lasted long enough. Our two poor cousins, Kasper and Yokel, are already going to lose their lives in Spain for this emperor, and now he comes to ask us for the younger ones. He is not satisfied to have slain three hundred thousand in Russia. Instead of thinking of peace, like a man of sense, he thinks only of massacring the few who remain. We will see! We will see!"
"In the name of Heaven! Aunt Grédel, be quiet; speak lower," said I, looking at the window. "If they hear you, we are lost."
"I speak for them to hear me," she replied. "Your Napoleon does not frighten me. He commenced by closing our mouths, so that he might do as he pleased; but the end approaches. Four young women are losing their husbands in our village alone, and ten poor young men are forced to abandon everything, despite father, mother, religion, justice, God! Is not this horrible?"
Then Aunt Grédel became silent. Instead of giving us an ordinary dinner, she gave us a better one than on Catharine'sfêteday, and said, with the air of one who has taken a resolution:
"Eat, my children, and fear not; there will soon be a change!"