"But the danger!"
"Bah! What revenue officer would dare come here?"
"I believe you," muttered Hullin, as he thought that he must again brave the precipice.
"But I am used to it," continued the smuggler, "although, when I first made my way hither with a cask on my shoulder, my heart fluttered as it had not for many a day before."
He took up the lantern and held it so that the light might fall upon the heaps of kegs.
"It is fine English powder," said he; "it rolls like grains of silver in your hand, and is strong as fate. A little goes a long way; a thimbleful is enough for a charge. And there is lead that Europe cannot beat. This evening, Hexe-Baizel shall run some into balls. She knows how, as you shall see."
They turned to leave the cavern, when suddenly a confused noise of voices was borne upon the air. Marc instantly blew out the lantern, and the two men were in a moment plunged in darkness.
"There is some one above," whispered the smuggler. "Who in the fiend's name could have climbed Falkenstein in the snow?"
They listened breathlessly, their eyes fixed upon a ray of pale-blue light which descended through a narrow fissure in the top of the cave. Around this opening hung glittering spars of frost; above it could be seen the crest of a ruined wall. While they gazed thus in profound silence, a head shaggy with disordered hair, a glittering circlet binding the brow, the face long and ending in a pointed red beard—all sharply outlined against the white wintry sky—became visible.
"It is the King of Diamonds!" cried Marc, laughing.
"Poor wretch," murmured Hullin; "he is making a progress to his castles, his bare feet upon the frozen ground, and his tin crown protecting his head from the cold. Look, Dives, he is giving orders to the knights of his court; he stretches his sceptre north and south—all is his. Poor wretch, he makes me shiver to see him with nothing but his dog-skin robe around him."
"He makes me think," laughed the smuggler, "of some round-paunched burgomaster, or village mayor, rolling back in his chair as he dilates upon his wealth: 'H'm, I am Hans Aden; I have ten acres of fine meadow-land; I have two houses, a vine, my orchard, my garden—h'm, I have this, that, and the other.' The next day a colic seizes him, and then, good-night! We are fools, all of us. Come, Hullin, after all, the sight of that miserable creature talking to the winds and of his famine-stricken crow makes my teeth chatter too."
They passed on to the entrance of the vault, and the glare of day breaking suddenly upon them dazzled Hullin. The tall form of his companion guided him, however, and he pressed on after him.
"Step firmly," said Marc, "and do as you see me; your right hand in the hole, right foot on the step, half a turn, and here we are!"
They returned to the kitchen, where Hexe-Baizel told them that Yegof was among the ruins.
At the same moment the raven sailed past the door over the abyss, and uttered its hoarse cry; they heard the frozen heather bend beneath steps, and the fool appeared on the narrow terrace; he was wan and haggard, and cried, looking toward the fire:
"Marc-Dives, try to leave this soon; I warn you. The fortifications of my domains must be free from such vermin. Take your measures accordingly."
Then perceiving Jean-Claude, he knit his brows.
"Thou here, Hullin?" said he. "Art thou yet far-sighted enough to accept the proposals I deigned to make thee? Knowest thou that the alliance I offered is the only means of saving thyself from the destruction that broods upon thy race?"
Hullin could not avoid laughing.
"No, Yegof," he replied; "my sight is not yet clear enough; it is dazed by the honor you offer me. But Louise is not yet old enough to marry."
The fool seemed at once to grow more gloomy and thoughtful. He stood at the edge of the terrace, his back to the abyss, as if in his own hall, and the whirling of the raven around his head disturbed him not in the least.
At length he raised his sceptre, and said, frowning:
"I have twice demanded her, Hullin; twice thou hast dared to refuse me. Once more shall the demand be renewed—but once—dost hear?—and then the decrees of fate shall be accomplished."
And turning upon his heel, with a firm step and haughty carriage, notwithstanding the steepness of the descent, he passed down the rocky path.
Hullin, Marc-Dives, and even the acrid Hexe-Baizel, burst into peals of laughter.
"He is a fool!" said Hexe-Baizel.
"I think you are not altogether wrong," sneered the smuggler. "Poor Yegof is losing his head entirely. But listen, Baizel; you will begin at once to cast bullets of all calibres; I am off for Switzerland. In a week, at latest, the remainder of our munitions will be here. Give me my boots."
Drawing on the last, and wrapping a thick red woollen scarf about his neck, the smuggler took from a hook on the wall a herdsman's dark-green coat which he threw over his shoulders; then, covering his head with a broad felt hat and seizing a cudgel, he cried:
"Do not forget what I say, old woman, or if you do, beware! Forward, Jean-Claude!"
Hullin followed his host without even bidding Hexe-Baizel farewell, and she, for her part, deigned not to see her departing guest to the door. When they had reached the foot of the cliff, Dives stopped, saying:
"You are going to the mountain villages, are you not, Hullin?"
"Yes; I must give the alarm."
"Do not forget Materne of Hengst and his two sons, and Labarbe of Dagsbourg, and Jerome of Saint-Quirin. Tell them there will be powder and ball in plenty; that Catherine Lefevre and I, Marc-Dives, will see to it."
"Fear not, Marc; I know my men."
They shook hands warmly and parted, the smuggler wending his way to the right toward Donon, Hullin taking the path to the left toward the Sarre.
The distance was rapidly widening between them, when Hullin called out:
"Halloo, Marc! Tell Catherine, as you pass, that all goes well, and that I have gone among the villages."
The other replied by a nod, and the two pursued their different ways.
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.
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!"
"Weare going!Weare 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."
"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.
"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.
From midnight until six o'clock in the morning a flame shone through the darkness from the summit of Falkenstein.
All Hullin's friends, and those of Marc-Dives and Mother Lefevre, with high gaiters bound around their legs, and old muskets upon their shoulders, trooped in the silence of the woods to the gorges of the Valtin. The thought of the enemy pouring over the plains of Alsace to surprise their glens and defiles nerved every heart and arm. The tocsin at Dagsbourg, at Walsch, and at Saint-Quirin ceased not to call the country's defenders to arms.
Imagine the Jaegerthal, at the foot of the oldburg, in the early morning hour, when the giant arms of the trees begin to break through the shadows, and when the approach of day softens somewhat the intense cold of the night. The snow lies deep upon the ground.Imagine the old saw-pit with its flat roof, its heavy wheel glittering with icicles; a fire of sawdust shining from within, but paling before the morning twilight, and around the fire fur caps and slouched hats and dark faces crowded together; further on, in the woods, and along the winding valley, were other fires lighting up groups of men and women seated on the snow.
As the sky grew brighter friends began to recognize each other.
"Hold! There is Cousin Daniel of Soldatenthal. You here too?"
"As you see, Heinrich, and my wife too."
"What! Cousin Nanette! But where is she?"
"Yonder, by the large oak, at Uncle Hans's fire."
They clasp each other's hand. Some slept, some piled branches and broken planks upon the fires. Flasks passed around, and those who had warmed themselves made way for their shivering neighbors. But impatience was gaining upon the crowd.
"Ah!" cried one, "we have not come here only to stretch our legs. It is time to look around, to agree upon our movements."
"Yes! yes! let us organize and elect our leaders!" cried many.
"No; all are not yet here. They are yet coming from Dagsbourg and Saint-Quirin," replied others.
Indeed, as day advanced, the pathways of the mountain seemed full of people. There were already some hundreds in the valley—wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, and others—without counting the women and children.
Nothing could be more picturesque than that halt in the snow, at the bottom of a defile covered to the clouds with high firs; to the right, valley following valley as far as the eye could reach; to the left, the ruins of Falkenstein, reaching, as it seemed, to the sky; and before you groups of thickly bearded men with gloomy brows, broad square shoulders, and hands callous from labor. Some of them, taller than their fellows, were red-haired and white-skinned, and seemed strong as the oaks of the forest. Of this number were old Materne of Hengst and his two sons, Frantz and Kasper. These three, armed with short Innspruck rifles, their high gaiters of blue canvas with leather buttons reaching above the knee, their bodies covered with hare-skin jackets, and their slouched hats pushed far back upon their heads, did not deign to approach the fire. Since one o'clock they had sat upon the felled trunk of a fir by the border of the brook, their eyes constantly on the watch, and their feet buried in the snow. From time to time the old man would say to his sons:
"What are they shivering for yonder? I never saw a milder night at this season; it is a fine hunting night; the brooks are not yet frozen."
Every hunter as he passed pressed their hands, and then joined his fellows, who formed a separate band, among whom but few words passed, for silence is one of the great virtues of the chase.
Marc-Dives, standing in the middle of another group, over whom he towered by a head, talked and gesticulated, now pointing to one part of the mountain, now to another. Opposite him was the old herdsman Lagarmitte, in his gray smock-frock, his dog at his side. He was listening open-mouthed to the smuggler, and from time to time gravely nodded his head. The remainder of the group was composed of wood-cutters and workmen with whom Marc had daily dealings.
Between the saw-pit and the first fire sat the shoemaker Jerome of Saint-Quirin, a man between fifty and sixty years of age; his eyes were sunken, his face long and brown, and his yellow beard descended to his waist; his head was covered with an otter-skin cap; and as he leaned forward upon a heavy knotted staff, in his long woollen great-coat, he might easily have been mistaken for some hermit of the wilds. Whenever any one approached with news, Father Jerome slowly turned his head and listened with bent brows.
Jean Labarbe sat motionless, his elbow resting upon his axe-helve. He was a pale man, with an aquiline nose and thin lips, and exercised a great influence over the men of Dagsbourg by the resolution and force of his character. When those around him cried out for action, he simply said, "Wait; Hullin has not arrived yet, nor Catherine Lefevre. There is no hurry," and all around became quiet.
Piorette, a little, dry, thin, energetic man, with eyebrows meeting over his nose, and a short pipe between his teeth, sat at the threshold of the saw-mill, and gazed with a quick but thoughtful eye at the scene.
Nevertheless, the impatience increased every minute. A few village mayors in cocked hats called upon their people to deliberate. Happily the wagon of Catherine Lefevre at last appeared, and a thousand enthusiastic shouts arose on all sides.
"Here they are! They have come!"
Old Materne stood up upon the trunk of a tree and then descended, gravely saying:
"It is they."
Much excitement now prevailed; the scattered groups collected. Scarcely could the old woman be seen distinctly, seated upon a truss of straw with Louise by her side, when the echoes rang with the cry:
"Long live France! Long live Mother Catherine!"
Hullin, behind, his musket strapped upon his back, was crossing the field of Eichmath, grasping hands and saluting his friends:
"Is it you, Daniel? Good-morning, Colon!"
"Ha! Things look stormy, Hullin."
"Yes, yes; we shall soon have lively times. You here, old Jerome! What think you of the state of affairs?"
"All will yet go well, Jean-Claude, with God's help."
Catherine, when she arrived in front of the saw-mill, ordered Labarbe to open the little cask of brandy she had brought from the farm-house. Hullin, approaching the fire, met Materne and his two sons.
"You come late," said the old hunter.
"True, but there was much to be done, and too much yet remains to be done to lose more time. Lagarmitte, wind your horn."
Lagarmitte blew until his cheeks seemed bursting, and the groups scattered along the path, and at the skirts of the wood hastened to assemble, and soon all were collected before the saw-mill. Hullin mounted a pile of logs, and spoke amid the deepest silence:
"The enemy," said he, "crossed the Rhine the night before last. He is pressing on to our mountains to enter Lorraine. Strasbourg and Huningue are blockaded. In three or four days at most the Germans and the Russians will be upon us."
A shout of "Long live France!" arose.
"Ay, long live France!" cried Jean-Claude; "for, if the allies reach Paris, all our liberties are gone! Forced labor, tithes, privileges, and gibbets will flourish once more. If you wish that they should, let the allies pass."
A dark scowl seemed to settle on every man's face.
"I have said what I have to say!" cried Hullin, pale with emotion. "As you are here, you are here to fight!"
"Ay, to fight!"
"It is well; but one word more. I would not deceive you; I see among you fathers of families. We will be one against ten—against fifty. We must expect to perish! Therefore, let those whose hearts may grow faint ere the end comes, go. All are free!"
Each in the crowd looked round to see his neighbors' faces, but no one left his place. Jean-Claude spoke in a firmer tone:
"No one moves! All are ready for battle! A chief—a leader—must be named, for in times of danger everything depends on order and discipline. He whom you shall appoint must be obeyed in all things. Reflect well, for on him depends the fate of every one of us."
So saying, Jean-Claude descended from his tribune, and earnest voices began at once to whisper in the crowd. Every village deliberated separately; each mayor proposed his man; time passed; Catherine Lefevre burned with anxiety and impatience. At length she could contain herself no longer, and rising upon her seat she made a sign that she wished to speak.
"My friends," said she, "time flies; the enemy is advancing. What do we need? A man whom we can trust; a soldier acquainted with war, and knowing how to profit by the strength of mere positions. Well, why not choose Hullin? Can any among you name a better? I propose Hullin!"
"Hullin! Hullin!" cried Labarbe, Dives, Jerome, and many others. "Let us have a vote!"
Marc-Dives, climbing the pile of logs, shouted in a voice of thunder:
"Let those who are opposed to having Jean-Claude Hullin for our leader, raise their hands!"
Not a hand rose.
"Let those who wish Jean-Claude Hullin to be our chief, raise their hands!"
Every hand rose.
"Jean-Claude," said the smuggler, "you are the man. Come hither. Look!"
Jean-Claude mounted the logs, and seeing that he was elected, said calmly:
"You name me your chief. I accept. Let old Materne, Labarbe of Dagsbourg, Jerome of Saint-Quirin, Marc-Dives, Piorette the sawyer, and Catherine Lefevre enter the saw-mill. We will hold a council, and in twenty minutes I will give my orders. In the meantime let every village detail two men to go to Falkenstein with Marc-Dives for powder and ball."
Those whom Hullin named met in the hut attached to the saw-mill around the immense chimney. A sober sort of merriment seemed to play about the face of more than one.
"For twenty years I have heard people talking of these Russians and Austrians and Cossacks," said old Materne, smiling, "and I shall not be sorry to see one at the muzzle of my rifle."
"Yes," answered Labarbe; "we shall see enough of them at last, and the little children of to-day will have many a tale to tell of their fathers and their grandsires. And how the old women of fifty years hence will chatter of it at evening around the winter fire!"
"Comrades," cried Hullin, "you know the country—you know our mountains from Thann to Wissembourg. You know that two grand roads—the imperial roads—traverse Alsace and the Vosges. Both starting from Bâle, one runs along the Rhine to Strasbourg, and enters Lorraine by Saverne. Huningue, Neuf-Brisach, Strasbourg, and Phalsbourg defend it. The other turns to the left to Schlestadt. Leaving Schlestadt, it enters the mountains, and passes on to Saint-Dié, Raon-l'Etape, Baccarat, and Lunéville. The enemy would like to force the passage of these two roads, as they are the best for cavalry, artillery, and wagons; but, as they are well defended, we need not trouble our about them. If the allies lay siege to the cities upon them, the campaign will be dragged out to a great length, and we shall have nothing to fear; but this is not probable. After having summoned Huningue to surrender, and Belfort, Schlestadt, Strasbourg, and Phalsbourg, on this side of the Vosges, and Bitche, Lutzelstein, and Sarrebrück, on the other, they will fall upon us. Now, listen. Between Phalsbourg and Saint-Dié there are several defiles practicable for infantry, but only one for cannon, that is, the road from Strasbourg to Raon-les-Leaux, by Urmatt, Mutzig, Lutzelhouse, Phramond, and Grandfontaine. Once masters of this road, the allies can debouch in Lorraine. This road passes us at Donon, two leagues hence, to our right. The first thing to be done is, to establish ourselves upon it at the place most favorable for defence—that is, upon the plateau on the mountain; to break down the bridges, and throw heavy abatis across it. A few hundred large trees, with their branches, will do the work, and under their cover we can watch the approach of the foe. All this, comrades, must be done by to-morrow night, or by the day after, at the latest. But it is not enough to occupy a position and put it in a good state of defence. We must see that the enemy cannot turn it."
"That is just what I was thinking," said old Materne. "Once in the valley of the Bruche, and the Germans can bring their infantry to the hills of Haslach, and turn our left; and there is nothing to hinder their trying the same movement upon our right, if they gain Raon-l'Etape."
"Yes; but to prevent their doing either, we have only to occupy the defiles of the Zorn and of the Sarre on our left, and that of Blanru on our right. We must defend a defile by holding the heights, and, for that purpose, Piorette will place himself, with a hundred men, on the side of Raon-les-Leaux; Jerome, on Grosmann, with the same number, to close the valley of the Sarre; and Labarbe, at the head of the remain on the mountain, will overlook the hills of Haslach. You will choose your men from those belonging to the villages nearest your stations. The women must not have far to come to bring provisions, and the wounded will be nearer home. The chiefs of each position will send me a report each day, by a messenger, on foot, to Donon, where will be our headquarters. We will organize a reserve also; but it will be time enough to see to that when our positions are taken, and no surprise from the enemy is to be feared."
"And I," cried Marc-Dives, "am I to have nothing to do? Am I to sit with folded arms while all the rest are fighting?"
"You will superintend the transporting of our munitions. No one among us understands keeping powder as you do—preserving it from fire and damp—or casting bullets and making cartridges."
"That is a woman's work," cried the smuggler. "Hexe-Baizel can do it as well as I. Am I not to fire a shot?"
"Rest easy, Marc," replied Hullin, laughing; "you will find plenty of chances. In the first place, Falkenstein is the centre of our line—our arsenal and point of retreat, in case of misfortune. The enemy will know by his scouts that our wagons start from there, and will probably try to intercept them. Shots and bayonet-thrusts will not be wanting. Besides, we cannot confide the secret of your cave to the first comer. However, if you insist—"
"No," said the smuggler, whom Hullin's' reflections upon the cave touched at once. "No; all things well considered, I believe you are right, Jean-Claude. I will defend Falkenstein."
"Well, then, comrades," cried brave Jean-Claude, "we will warm our hearts with a few glasses of wine. It is now ten o'clock. Let each one return to his village, and see to the provisions. To-morrow morning, at the latest, the defiles must be occupied."
They left the hut together, and Hullin, in the presence of all assembled, named Labarbe, Jerome, and Piorette chiefs of the defiles; then he ordered those who came from the Sarre to meet, as soon as possible, near the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, with axes, picks, and muskets.
"We will start at two," said he, "and encamp on Donon, across the road. To-morrow, at daybreak, we will begin our abatis."
He kept old Materne, and his two sons, Frantz and Kasper, by him, telling them that the battle would surely begin on Donon, and sharp-shooters would be needed there. Mother Lefevre never seemed so happy. She mounted her wagon, and whispered, as she embraced Louise:
"All goes well. Jean-Claude is a man. He astonishes me, who have known him forty years. Jean-Claude," she cried, "breakfast is waiting, and a few old bottles which the Austrians will not drink."
"Good Catherine, I am coming."
But as he struck the horses with the whip, and as the mountaineers had just begun to scatter on their way to their villages, they saw, on the road to Trois-Fontaines, a tall, thin man, mounted upon a red mare; his hare-skin cap, with a wide peak, pulled well down upon his head. A great shepherd-dog, with long black hair, bounded beside him; and the skirts of his huge overcoat floated like wings behind him.
"It is Dr. Lorquin, from the plain," exclaimed Catherine; "he who at the poor for nothing; and that is his dog Pluto with him."
It was indeed he, who rushed among the crowd, shouting:
"Halt! stop! Halt, I say!"
His ruddy face, large, quick eyes, beard of a reddish-brown, broad, square shoulders, tall horse, and dog, in a moment appeared at the foot of the mountain. Gasping for breath, he shouted, in his excitement:
"Ah the villains! They wanted to begin the campaign without me! They shall pay for it!"
And, striking a little box he carried at his crupper, he continued:
"Wait awhile, my fine fellows, wait awhile! I have some things here you'll want by and by; little knives and great ones—round and pointed ones—to cut out the bullets and canister your friends yonder will treat you to."
So saying, he burst into a gruff peal of laughter, while the flesh of his hearers crept. After this agreeable pleasantry, Dr. Lorquin said gravely:
"Hullin, your ears should be cut off! When the country was to be defended, was I to be forgotten? It seems to me that a surgeon might be useful here, although may God send you no need of one!"
"Pardon me, doctor; it was my fault," replied Hullin, pressing his hand. "For the last week I have had so many things to think of that some escaped me, in spite of myself. But a man like you need not be called upon by me to do his duty."
The doctor softened.
"It is all well and good," he cried; "but by your fault I am here late. But where is your general? I will complain to him."
"I am general."
"Indeed!"
"And I appoint you surgeon-in-chief."
"Surgeon-in-chief of the partisans of the Vosges. Very good, Jean-Claude." And, approaching the wagon in which Catherine was seated, the doctor told her that he relied upon her to organize the hospital department.
"Very well," she answered; "forward. You dine with us, doctor."
The wagon started, and all the way the brave doctor laughingly told Catherine how the news of the rising reached him; how his old house-keeper Marie was wild with grief, and tried to keep him from going to be massacred by the Kaiserliks; the different episodes of his journey from Quibolo to the village of Charmes. Hullin and Materne and his sons marched a few paces in the rear, their rifles on their shoulders; and thus they reached the farm of Bois-de-Chênes.
Introductory.
Man is made for truth. The ray of intelligence beaming from his countenance and kindling his looks with life marks his superiority over all inferior creation, and loudly proclaims this fact. Intelligence must have an object; and what can this object be but truth? As a necessary consequence from this fact, it follows that error can be nothing else than fragments of truth; ill-assorted, improperly joined together. Error does not consist in what logicians call simple ideas, or self-evident propositions; but in complex ideas, the result of a long chain of syllogisms. Another consequence, closely allied to the first, is, that the greater the error, the more universal and more widely spread, the more particular truths it must contain. Or, if it does not contain a greater number of partial truths, it must have the power of apparently satisfying a real and prevalent tendency of our mind, otherwise it would never exert dominion over the intelligence; or else it must possess the secret of awakening and alluring a true and imperative aspiration of our nature.
It is through these views that we have been enabled to explain to ourselves the prevalence of Pantheism. The simple utterance of the word Pantheism, the Deity of everything, would seem to carry its refutation with it, so plain and evident is its falsehood, so glaring its absurdity.
Pantheism, however, has been the universal error in time and space. In India, Persia, China, Greece, Rome, Pantheism flourished; now under a religious, and then under a philosophical form. After the Christian era it was the religion or system of those who did not understand the Christian dogmas as taught by the church; and the fathers of the first centuries, in battling against Gnosticism, Eclecticism, and Neoplatonism, were struggling with this old error of the world—Pantheism. Depressed for awhile by the efforts of the doctors of the church, it arose with fiercer energy under the forms of all those heresies which attacked the dogma of the Incarnation of the Word.
In the middle ages there were many philosophers who held Pantheism; and in modern times, since the dawn of the Reformation, it has become the prevalent, the absorbing error of the world. Always the same as to substance, it assumes every variety of form: now you see it in a logical dress, as in the doctrine of the German school; again it takes a psychological garb, as in that of the French school with Cousin at its head; or it assumes a social and political form, as in the Pantheism of Fourier, Leroux, Saint Simon, and all the progressists of every color or shade; and finally, it puts on a ghostly shroud, as taught by the American spiritualists. Under whatever garb it may appear, it penetrates and fills all, and pretends to explain all. It penetrates philosophy, natural science, history, literature, the fine arts, the family, society and the body politic, and religion. It holds its sway over all, and exhibits itself as having the secret of good and evil. How is this to be explained? If the falsehood of Pantheism be so evident, whence is it that it is the universal error in time and space, and has made such ravages in man's intelligence? The greater its falsehood, the more inexplicable becomes its prevalence. Has the nature of man changed? Has his intelligence lost its object? It is true, man's intelligence is not perfect. Since the fall it is weakened and obscured, but doubtless it has not ceased and could not cease to be intelligence; truth has not ceased to be its natural essential object. How, then, are we to explain the prevalence of so mighty an error?
By the fact that it is a system which by its generality seems to satisfy a supreme tendency of our mind, and to appease one of the most imperative cravings of our souls. Man's intelligence has a natural tendency to synthesize, that is, to bring everything into unity. This tendency arises both from the essential oneness of the mind and from the nature of its object. The object of the mind is being or reality in some form or other. That which does exist cannot even be apprehended, and hence cannot be the object of the mind. To understand and to understand nothing is, at the same time, the affirmation and the negation of the understanding.Now, if the object of the intelligence, in order to be known and understood by the said faculty, must represent itself under the form of being or reality, it is under this respect necessarily one. Under whatever form it may exhibit itself, under whatever quality it may be concealed, it must always be reality or being, and, as such, one. But if being, reality, or unity, taken in the abstract, was the sole object of the intelligence, there would be an end to all its movement or life. All science would be at an end, because science is a process, a movement; and movement is not possible where an abstraction is the sole object of the mind. Being and unity, then, abstractly considered, would be the eternal stupor of the mind. This cannot be so, however. Intelligence is action, life, movement. Now, all this implies multiplicity; hence the object of the intelligence must also be multiple. But does not this second condition also destroy the former, which requires that the object of the intelligence should be one? Here reason finds a necessary, though, as we shall see, only an apparent contradiction, both in the logical as well as ontological order. In the logical order, because the intelligence seems to require unity and multiplicity as the conditions without which its action becomes impossible. In the ontological order, or the order of reality, because if the object is not at the same time one and multiple, how can those conditions of the mind be satisfied?
The intelligence, then, in order to live, must be able to travel from unity to multiplicity in an ascending or descending process, and to do so, not arbitrarily, but for reasons resting on reality.
In this lies the life of the intelligence; science is nothing but this synthetical and analytical movement. Let the mind stop at analysis or multiplicity, and you will give it an agglomeration of facts of which it can neither see the reason nor the link which connects them: and hence you place it in unnatural bonds, which, sooner or later, it will break, it matters not whether by a sophistical or a dialectic process. On the other hand, let it stop at unity, and you condemn it to stupor and death.
The foregoing ideas will explain the fact how a particular error will either have a very short existence or fall into the universal error of Pantheism. For in this, so far as we can see, lies the reason of the universal dominion of Pantheism. Because it proposes to explain the whole question of human knowledge, it takes it up in all its universality, and the solution which it sets forth has all the appearance of satisfying the most imperative tendency of our mind. To be enabled to explain the numberless multiplicity of realities, no matter how, and, at the same time, to bring them into a compact and perfect whole, strikes to the quick the very essence of man's intelligence and allures it with its charms. If this be not the main reason of the prevalence of Pantheism, we acknowledge we do not understand how such a mighty error could ever take possession of man's mind; we are tempted to say that human understanding was made for falsehood, which is to deny the very notion of intelligence.
What Pantheism proposes to do for the mind it also promises to accomplish for the soul.