"Say to my father that I love him, and that if ever he requires a devoted heart and a courageous arm that he may summon me to his side; but now, if I am to choose between poverty in my own country and wealth in a foreign land, I remain here!"
"It was Simonne's soul that spoke through his lips!" murmured the Marquis, when Pierre repeated the message sent by the young man.
The father and son did not meet after 1790. We will now return to Fribourg, to that room where Pierre Labarre had just told the Marquis that Simon was living.
Twenty-five years had elapsed—twenty-five years of anguish and sorrow for the Marquis. He had seen France fighting with heroic energy against all Europe. He had heard the enthusiastic shouts of 1792, and then the dull groans of the people crushed under the heel of the conqueror. And while his country bled and fought, the Marquis blushed with shame in London, Berlin and Vienna when his French ears heard the maledictions of the conquered.
As soon as his son, the Vicomte Jean, reached the age of twenty, he had become one of the most active agents of the coalition, and, as if to indicate his hatred of France, married a German.
From that time the Marquis heard nothing but abuse of France, nothing but exultation when her sons fell in Spain or in Russia. The old man's heart was sore within him, but it was then too late for him to make a stand, and he was obliged to live on amid this hatred.
Once only did Jean go to France to lend his aid to Cadondal's conspiracy, but he was obliged to flee precipitately, and with difficulty succeeded in gaining the frontier. On his return he was in a state of sullen rage. Was it despair at his lack of success, or did the Vicomte feel any remorse? His father watched him with troubled eyes and many fears, but did not dare ask a question.
What had become of Simon? The Marquis had read in a newspaper that a Simon Fougère carried the orders of the day at the battle of Hohenlinden. He leaped at once at the truth. Simonne's son was fighting for his country, while his other son, the Vicomte de Talizac, was fighting against it.
Suddenly the Marquis beheld the fall of the Imperial idol. The allied armies were in France. Vengeance was near at hand!
Three times the Marquis sent Pierre to France, but the faithful servant could learn nothing of Simon, but this last time he discovered that Simon was living. Pierre had been in the service of the Marquis for forty years. He had known Simonne, and felt for his masterthe deepest affection. He was of the people, and only this affection had induced him to leave France. By degrees he had become the confidant of his master, and read his half-broken heart like an open book, and realized that it was full of regrets, almost of remorse. Then he swore to himself that he would aid the Marquis to repair the injustice done to Simon. It is needless to say that Pierre's honest nature felt no sympathy for the Marquise. She, on the contrary, was the object of his deepest aversion, for he well knew that she had done her best to have him dismissed from the service of the Marquis.
The Vicomte de Talizac, the Vicomtesse, and their son, detested Pierre and watched him closely, with what aim they alone knew.
"I went to the Vosges, master," said Pierre. "I learned that the soldier known by the name of Simon Fougère had gone to Lorraine. I could learn nothing more. I went about everywhere—to Epinal, Nancy, Saint Dié—and I had begun to despair, when one evening I reached the foot of a mountain and saw a little cluster of houses. I asked a peasant who was passing if I could procure accommodations there for the night.
"Of course," he answered. "Go straight ahead and you will come to friend Simon's inn."
The Marquis listened breathlessly. Pierre continued:
"The name was a common one in that part of the country, as I had good reason to know, but this time my heart began to beat. I thanked the peasant and I hurried on. And when I think that a Comte de Fongereues——"
"It was he, then!" cried the Marquis, snatching his servant's hands. "And you saw him? Tell me everything!"
"He is happy," answered Pierre. "But, master, let me tell my story in my own way, for then I shall forget nothing. I went into a little inn, which was as clean as possible and bore the sign, 'France!' A fire of vine branches was sparkling in the big chimney. A boy of about ten came to meet me. 'My friend,' I said, 'is this the inn of Monsieur Simon?'"
"'Yes, sir,' he replied, looking at me with soft, dark eyes. I felt as if I had seen him before."
"What! do you mean——" cried the Marquis.
"Wait, master, wait. I told him that I wanted supper and a bed. The boy ran toward a little door and called: 'Mamma! Mamma!' A woman appeared in peasant dress, with dark hair and eyes. She carried a little girl on one arm. The mother looked about thirty, and the girl was some six years of age.
"'Take a chair, sir,' said the mistress of the house. 'We will do the best we can for you.' Then she told the boy to take the horse to the stable and call his father. I took my seat by the fire and reflected that Simon would not be likely to know me, if it were he, as he had not seen me for thirty years. You had bidden me take care not to betray myself, but I knew that Time had done his work.
"'The country about here looks very dreary,' I said to Madame Simon. She turned in surprise from her work. She was laying the table for my supper.
"'Ah! you are a stranger here!' she answered witha smile. 'No, it is not dreary; it is much pleasanter here than in the cities.'
"'But in winter?' I persisted.
"'Oh! the mountains are magnificent then.'
"'Have you been living here long, Madame?'
"'Ten years,' she replied.
"'And these beautiful children are yours?'
"She hesitated a moment, or I thought so, but she said in a moment:
"'Yes, they are mine, and you will see their father presently, the best man in this place!' She brought in a bowl of steaming soup. 'Excuse the simplicity of the service, sir.' The door opened, and, master, if it had been in Africa, or thousands of miles from France, I should have known Simonne's son. He had his great deep eyes, but, master——"
Pierre stopped short.
"Go on; you frighten me!" cried the Marquis.
"Oh! master, Monsieur Simon has lost a leg. I saw it at once, and the tears came to my eyes. He lost it at Elchingen, in 1805—it was shot off by a cannon ball."
The Marquis started.
"And his brother was there, too!" he murmured. "Go on, Pierre."
"I knew him at once, as I was saying. He is tall, he is strong; his hair is turning gray, and he wears a heavy moustache, and was dressed in peasant costume. He came to me, and said in a voice that was so like his mother's: 'You are welcome!' I extended my hand, he did not seem to be astonished, and received it cordially. I went to the table, and while I ate mysoup I watched him closely. He took the little girl up in his arms, and began to talk to her in a low voice, and the child listened intently. I could not hear what was said, but presently the child came running to me.
"'Monsieur,' she cried, 'will you do me a favor?'
"'Certainly,' I replied.
"'Will you drink with papa to the French army?'
"'Most gladly!' I answered, wondering at the same time if Simon took me for a spy. The mere idea made me feel ill, and I wanted to tell him who I was, when he came to the table with a couple of glasses.
"'To the success of our arms shall be our toast, sir!' he said. I answered, as I raised my glass to my lips: 'To France!' His eyes flashed with joy. These words had evidently conquered his distrust.
"'Would it be indiscreet to ask, sir, by what strange chance you are in this wild place?'
"I told him, for I had to lie, that I had lost my way. He looked at me a moment.
"'You come from Germany, do you not?'
"'Are you a sorcerer?' I exclaimed.
"'No—it is plain to see that by the cut and the material of your clothing. But is it true,' he continued rapidly, 'that the allied armies are about to cross the frontier?'
"'Alas! I fear so. But you do not know our last disaster, then?'
"'Fortune has betrayed us, but patience—patience!'
"'Do you think that further resistance is possible?' I asked.
"'I am a soldier of France!' was his proud reply.'I believe in my banner and my country!' He then asked me many questions, and finally one that made my heart leap to my throat.
"'Is it true that the French emigrés have accepted positions in these foreign armies?' I protested my ignorance. He passed his hand over his brow, as if to chase away unfortunate doubts, and I changed the conversation.
"'These lovely children are yours?' I asked.
"'Yes—and this is my wife, Françoise Simon, the best of women, who has consoled me in many sorrows, and this is Jacques, my eldest, and you know Francinette. Perhaps you will give me your name now?'
"'One moment—you have not introduced yourself.'
"'I am called Simon,' he answered with a frown.
"'Simon—and nothing else?'
"'Nothing else. If I ever bore another name, I have forgotten it. I fought in 1791. I was wounded and compelled to leave the service.' He spoke with some nervousness.
"'Are your parents living?' I asked. He looked at me intently, and pouring out a glass of wine, he carried it to his lips with a steady hand.
"'I never knew them,' he replied.
"We talked for some time, and he told me that after he recovered from his wound he entered the service of a rich farmer, and soon saved enough to lease a small farm for himself, where he carried on his small business as an inn and kept a school, 'for,' he said, 'I had received a good education, and wished to do something for the children about me.'
"It was midnight before I went to my room, and I arose as soon as I heard a movement below, but, early as it was, Simon had already gone out. I felt that I must return to you without waiting to see him again. I had formed a plan which I trust you will approve of. I went to the Mayor and obtained a copy of Simon's papers. You know since the new code any one can get such papers, and I said something about a lawsuit."
"And you have these papers?"
"Yes—in a portfolio in my breast."
He touched his breast as he spoke and uttered an exclamation of pain. "I had forgotten," he said, and then told his master of the attack made on him in the Black Forest.
"That is very strange," said the Marquis, thoughtfully.
"At all events, I wounded him," Pierre replied.
At this moment there was a sound just outside the door. The Marquis threw it open quickly, but there was nothing to be seen.
"I was sure I heard—"
"This old, worm-eaten wood makes strange noises when the dampness gets into it," said Pierre.
The Marquis read the papers carefully which Pierre now gave him.
"But there were two children at the time?" he said to Pierre. "Where is the certificate of the birth of Jacques?"
Pierre hesitated. "When Simon and Françoise weremarried," he answered, reluctantly, "Jacques was already born."
"And now," said the Marquis, "I must make some change in my will. My poor boy, in these papers, does not give his real name, nor the place of his birth, but we will soon remedy that."
"But why do you talk of your will! You must see your son, master, and then you can make all things right."
"I have grown very old lately, and have little strength left, but I hope to embrace my son Simon before I die; but I am in the hands of God. I wish to incorporate these papers in my will and then there will be no difficulty in proving Simon's relationship."
"But what do you fear?" asked Pierre.
The Marquis looked at him.
"Why this question? You know as well as I."
"Do you think that the Vicomte would have the audacity—"
The Marquis laid his hand on his servant's breast.
"There is no peasant," he said, slowly and emphatically, "no peasant in these parts who is capable of such a crime."
Pierre bowed his head; he understood.
"And this is not all," continued his master, "a will may be lost, may be stolen. I wish to provide for everything, and wish that Simon and his children shall be rich."
The Marquis went on speaking in so low a voice that no one but the servant could possibly hear.
When the Marquise, her daughter-in-law, and grandson left the salon, a servant attached especially to the service of the Vicomte approached.
"Madame la Vicomtesse," said Cyprien, "my master wishes to see you; he is in his chamber."
"Go, my child," interposed the Marquise, "but leave the boy with me, for I hate to be alone in these rooms which are drearier than a cloister."
The Vicomtesse de Talizac was of Austrian origin, and concealed under an air of languid indifference the most boundless ambition. Her large eyes were light and generally without expression, but on occasion they grew dark and flashed fire.
She had married the Vicomte de Talizac with the idea that she would thus obtain a high position at the French Court, knowing well moreover that the immense fortune of the Fongereueses would ensure her princely luxury. The Vicomtesse was both proud and avaricious, and her nature rebelled at the smallest check to her secret aspirations. Her only son came into the world hopelessly deformed, but his mother adored him to whom Nature had given neither physical nor moral beauty. She labored to make him as selfishand indifferent as herself. She determined that as he grew to man's estate, he should be feared rather than pitied, and to do this it was necessary that he should be immensely rich. He was taught from his cradle to hate France. When his mother saw that the hour of triumph for the emigrés, the traitors, was near at hand, she was filled with bitter joy.
None of these people realized the work that had been going on for twenty years, and had little idea of the changes that had taken place. They ignored them all, and were only anxious to restore everything to the old condition.
The Vicomte de Talizac and his wife were especially eager for these results. There was but one shadow on their brilliant future. The fortune of the Vicomte had nearly gone—the fortune of the Fongereues family remained, but the Vicomte was well aware that his father had contracted an early marriage, and that of this union a son was born, with whom, to be sure, the old Marquis seemed to have broken entirely, but of late de Talizac began to realize that the father's love had outlived this separation; and, moreover, indulged in no possible delusion in regard to himself; he did not love his father, and knew that his father did not love him. Madame de Fongereues was also well aware of the tender reverence in which Simonne was held by the Marquis, and was convinced that the peasant's son was not forgotten.
Where was Simon? Were he to appear it would be ruin for the Vicomte. When Magdalena fullyrealized this, she snatched her son in her arms, and said to his father:
"If you are not weak and childish, this Simon will never despoil our son!"
De Talizac understood her.
We resume our recital at the moment when the Vicomtesse entered her husband's room, where he was lying on the couch. He signed to her to close the door. The Marquis was the living image of his mother, except that her beautiful regular features became in his face bony and repulsive.
"Well?" said the Vicomtesse, going up to the couch.
"I am wounded," he answered. "The man escaped me."
His wife frowned.
"Really!" she said, "one might think that the Vicomte de Talizac was strong enough to conquer a lacquey!"
"Hush!" cried the Vicomte, his eyes flashing fire, "do you think that I require you to remind me of the shame of my defeat? I have been for days, as you well know, on the track of the hound. I hid by the wayside to-night, like a murderer, and I saw him press his hand to his breast as if to assure himself of the safety of some package which undoubtedly contained the secret so necessary to the safety of our future. By what miracle the fellow escaped, I can't divine. I saw him fall forward, but he suddenly fired at me—but I did at all events as I promised you to do—"
"I can only say that our son is ruined!"
"No, not yet; listen to me. Pierre is with my father at this moment; hasten and listen to the conversation."
"But he is locked in his room!"
"I know that, Magdalena. Raise that curtain; you will find a door which opens on a staircase in the wall; go down twenty steps, then stop, pass your hand over the wall until you feel a spring; press it, and it will open. You will find a small window concealed within the room by the carving, and you can hear every word that is spoken—"
"Very good; but your wound—"
"Is not of much consequence; but hasten, for your son's sake."
The Vicomtesse disappeared.
This explains the noise that had attracted the attention of the Marquis.
An hour later Magdalena returned to her husband. "I know enough," she said. "Your brother Simon is married—he has two sons, and lives in the village of Leigoutte."
A cruel smile wandered over the lips of the Vicomte.
"Ah! the invasion will then take that direction!"
On the 1st of January, 1814, it was known that foreign forces had invaded France. It was a terrible surprise when fugitives passed through the villages crying, "Save yourselves, while there is yet time!"
Mothers wept for their sons, wives for their husbands, sisters for their brothers!
The winter was a severe one. The Vosges mountains and the villages in the valleys were alike wrapped in snow.
The inn which our readers already know at Leigoutte, presented a most picturesque appearance. The snow had been so heavy for several days that the woodcutters had not been up the mountains to bring down the wood, but this morning they had determined to make an attempt, and had gathered before the inn with their long light sledges on their shoulders. They seemed to be waiting for some one. "Can Simon be sick?" asked one of these men, finally.
"Not he!" answered another. "He is at the school-room with the children, and he never knows when to leave them."
"Oh! that is very well," grumbled a third, "but Ithink we had better go in and get a glass of wine, than wait here all this time."
"Have a little patience, friend; if Simon teaches our children, it is that they may be better off than their fathers, and not like them be compelled to die with cold and fatigue some day among the mountains!"
"Well said, friend, well said!" called out a full rich voice.
Every one turned. The door of the school-room was open, and he who had spoken was standing with arms outspread to prevent the children from rushing out too hastily on the slippery ice.
"Not so quick, children," he cried. "You can't fly over the snow like lapwings."
A boy of about ten repeated these words to the smaller children.
"That is right, Jacques," said Simon, "begin early, for you may have this school some day yourself!"
"Good morning, Master Simon," said one of the woodcutters, taking off his hat, "we were just saying that we should like something warm before we started."
"And you are right. I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I was just telling the children about a battle of the Republic at Valmy."
"Take my arm, sir," cried one of the woodcutters. "That wooden leg of yours is not very safe on the ice."
"Am I not here?" asked Jacques, in a vexed voice, "can I not look out for my father?"
Simon laughed.
"But why," he asked, "have you not asked for wine at the inn?"
"Because we heard that the little girl was ill, sir—"
"Oh! it is nothing of any consequence—there she is, as rosy and smiling as ever."
When Simon's voice was heard, the inn awoke from its silence. A woman appeared on the threshold holding in her arms a pretty little creature about six years old.
The mother was a simple peasant woman, wearing a peasant's dress. She began to fill glasses for these woodcutters, who addressed her with a cordial good morning.
At this moment the door was hastily opened, and a man appeared on the threshold. The woodcutters uttered a cry of surprise. The man was a soldier, who leaned against the wall and did not speak.
Simon hurried forward. "You are welcome, comrade," he exclaimed.
The man turned pale, and but for Simon's support, he would have fallen on the floor.
"Françoise, a chair!" cried the innkeeper.
The soldier had his head wrapped in a blue handkerchief, and drops of blood were upon his cheek. His uniform was in rags, and a linen bandage was wrapped around one leg.
The men looked on with terrified respect while Simon tried to make him drink a glass of wine, and signed to Jacques to take off the soldier's shoes, now covered with snow.
The soldier uttered a deep sigh of relief. He was apeasant of about forty, although his moustache was gray. His features bore the traces of suffering and privations.
"Some brandy!" he gasped.
Little Francinette carried the glass to him. He drank it, looking the while at the child with admiration and sad envy. Then taking her on his knee, he looked around him at the honest faces, and said:
"My name is Michel—Michel Charmoze. There are thirty of us down on the road, all wounded, in a big wagon. The horses have fallen, one is dead, and we have come for help."
The woodcutters looked from one to the other in amazement.
"What!" cried the soldier, "do you know nothing in this land of snow? I have been fighting three months on the Rhine. The Emperor has deserted us. All is over!"
The peasants listened in a stupefied sort of way. Only the vaguest rumors had as yet reached the peasants that Napoleon's star had begun to pale. Simon knew it, but he had held his peace.
"Where are the wounded?" he asked, quietly.
"A quarter of a league down the road."
"My friends," said Simon, "we have no horses, but your arms are strong. You must save these Frenchmen!"
"We are ready!" shouted twenty voices.
"Father, may I go, too?" asked Jacques, eagerly.
"Yes," said Simon, kindly. "You may go, and take some brandy with you."
The woodcutters took also shovels, sticks and ropes.
"When they come back," said Simon to his wife, "you must have a good meal ready. Carry straw into the school-room, tear up your old sheets into bandages, and send to Wisembach for the doctor."
"But the child—what am I to do with her?" asked Françoise, timidly.
"Oh! I will look out for her," cried the soldier. "I had a little girl of my own, but since I have been away, both mother and child have died!"
Simon and Michel were alone for a few moments. The little girl still sat on the soldier's knee, gravely enlarging one of the holes in his uniform with her busy little fingers.
"Then the invaders are in France?" said Simon.
"They are, indeed, but they won't stay long—be sure of that!"
"What army is it that is advancing in this direction?" asked Simon.
"Schwartzemberg's, with Russians, Prussians and Austrians."
"How far off are they?"
"Not more than ten leagues. We were nearly overtaken by them. They would not have got thus far had we not been betrayed by everybody. Those dogs of Royalists have felt no shame to be seen with these enemies of France!"
Simon started.
"Do you mean," he asked sternly, "that the emigrés have dared——"
"Yes, they have dared to do just that!" and Michelswore a frightful oath. "I believe that there are Frenchmen who would lead these savages on, to roast and kill their own mothers!"
Simon had become deadly pale.
"Yes," continued the soldier. "Let me tell you about this wound." And he tore off the handkerchief around his head. His eyes at that moment fell on Simon's wooden leg, which he had not before seen. "Ah! you are one of us, then?" exclaimed Michel.
Simon nodded. "Go on with your story, my friend," he said.
"Well, we had just crossed the Rhine, and were getting on famously when we saw the detachment that had attacked us. I knew by their caps that they were Russians. We sheltered ourselves behind a wall, and then we let fly. I tell you, that was a fight! In front of me was a tall fellow who fought like the very devil. I pricked him with a bayonet, and he opened his arms wide and yelled—good Lord! I hear that yell now—'I am killed! Here! help for Talizac!' He shot at me the same moment. Now, friend, was not that a French name? But what is the matter with you?"
Simon had dropped into a chair. He was as white as a sheet, and his eyes were fixed on vacancy.
The soldier looked at him for a moment. "Come!" he said, "give me another glass, and we will drink to our country!"
At this moment Françoise came in hurriedly.
"Simon!" she cried, "the peasants are coming here from every direction. They say that the foreigners are coming this way, and they bid us fly!"
Simon went to the door. Françoise had spoken the truth. On all the roads and on all the mountain paths crowds were seen of men, women and children.
If the rout of an army is terrible, that of a people is infinitely more so. This flight from home and fireside is sad beyond expression. These peasants were running, carrying on their shoulders all that they held most precious. Their houses had been searched, for these peasants had served in the rising of '92, and they probably had arms. An old man was shot for concealing a pistol. At another place brutes had insulted the women, and burned the cottages deserted by the fugitives. This was the day that Napoleon Bonaparte had replied to thecorps legislatif, who supplicated him to return to the people their lost liberty: "France is a man!—I am that man—with my will, my fame, and my power!"
The woodcutters now returned, dragging the huge wagon they had dug out of the snow-drifts. Simon rapidly explained to several peasants the preparations he had made, and under his instructions they hastened to remove the wounded from the wagon. It was a terrible sight—eleven out of the twenty-eight were dead. But in fifteen minutes the living were lying on the fresh straw spread in the school-room, and Simon and his wife were going from one to another of these poor sufferers, alleviating their sufferings as far as possible. Suddenly a great noise was heard without, followed by the most profound silence. Simon started.
"What was that!" he asked, quickly.
The door opened, and Michel appeared.
"The Cossacks!" he cried. "Come, Master Simon, come!"
Simon obeyed, signing to his wife to take his place. He went outside, and beheld some twenty men mounted on thin but vigorous-looking horses. The men were of medium height, bearded like goats and ugly as monkeys. They wore loose robes fastened into the waists with red scarfs. On their heads were high cylindrical caps. Some wore over their shoulders cloaks of bear skins. Their high saddles formed boxes in which they could pack away their booty. They looked down on the crowd with small, twinkling eyes set far in under bushy brows and low foreheads. At their head was an officer in the Austrian uniform.
The crowd fled to the further end of the open space, and the women clasped their crying children to their breasts. Simon walked directly toward the officer.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked, politely but firmly.
The officer did not seem to hear him—he was looking intently at the inn. Simon repeated his question, this time in German. The Austrian then concluded to look at him.
"Is this village Leigoutte?" he asked. "And is that your inn?" And the soldier pointed to the inn.
"What business is that of yours?" asked Simon, who by this time had become excessively angry.
"Give my men something to drink."
Simon clenched his hands as he replied:
"I never give anything to the enemies of my country!"
The Cossacks understood him and uttered a groan.
"We shall take it by force, then!" said the officer, spurring his horse toward Simon, but the latter pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the Austrian.
"One step further!" he shouted, "and I will blow out your brains!"
The Austrian pulled up his steed, and saying a few words to his men, they turned their horses and departed.
"We shall see you again!" shouted the Austrian, over his shoulder.
The peasants uttered a shout of joy, but Simon was very thoughtful.
"Why," said he, to himself, "should there be a reconnoissance expressly for this village?"
The men now crowded around Simon.
"You frightened them well!" they said. "How ugly they are!" They laughed, and seemed to think all danger was past.
Simon and Michel exchanged a look, then the former raised his hand to command silence.
"My friends," he said, "they will return, and bring many more with them. Those among you who are not afraid to fight, may remain with me. But we must see at once about a place of safety for the women and children. It will be easy for twenty or thirty of us to keep these invaders from coming to this point again, for we know each mountain path. We have arms, for I long since concealed one hundredguns in my house, and these mountains—the ramparts of France, shall become inaccessible citadels. The enemy will approach in a compact column; we must send out scouts who will keep us informed. It is too late to-day for the attack to take place. Two of you will go to the neighboring villages and give the alarm. We will meet to-morrow at the Iron Cross. And remember, children, that in '92, as to-day, the invaders threatened France, and your fathers drove them out. May the children of those men be worthy of them!"
"But about the women and children?" asked Michel.
"They must be hidden in the farm-houses up the mountains. The wounded are protected by the code of war. Courage, then, and shout with me Vive la France!"
These words aroused immense enthusiasm for a few minutes.
Simon felt a hand on his; it was Françoise, with her little girl in her arms, and Jacques at her side.
"We shall not leave you, Simon," said his wife. "But I wish to speak to you a moment."
Simon looked at her in surprise. Then turning to Michel, "You will complete the arrangements. Jacques will show you where the arms are stored."
"Rely on us, Simon!" shouted the peasants. "We will do our duty!"
Simon followed his wife into the house. She closed the door behind her. Simon was struck by the strange expression in her face. Was it anxiety for him that had clouded that placid brow?
"Friend," said Françoise, "you must know all. I saw that Austrian officer from the window, and recognized him—"
"Recognized him!"
"Yes, for the man who dishonored my sister that fatal night of the 16th of May, 1804, at Sachemont, was not alone. He was accompanied by the Count of Karlstein, the man whom you have just seen. I cannot dwell upon the terrors of that night. I escaped—but my poor sister! Nor did I ever speak of that man to you. I felt that Talizac was enough for us to hate."
"Yes, dear, I see; and I, too, have something to tell, for, when after long months in the hospital at Dresden, I was permitted to leave it, I wandered, I know not where; but I reached a hut—it was in February, 1805—I saw a light and knocked. There was no answer, and I opened the door and went in. To my horror, I beheld a woman dead, and heard an infant screaming its heart out."
"Poor little Jacques!" said Françoise, weeping.
"I saw a cup of milk on the table; I gave some to the infant. Presently you came in, and did not seem astonished to find the child in my arms. The physician you had gone to seek looked at the poor woman, said she was dead, and that he could do nothing. We were left alone together. It seemed as if you trusted me at once. Your hands trembled, and it was I who closed the eyes of the dead. The next day we followed the poor girl to the grave, and when one of the rough peasants who bore the bier on which she lay, asked you who I was, you answered simply, 'A friend!'
"After we returned to the hut, I asked you who the dead girl was, and then you pronounced the name of Talizac, and heard that a gentleman of France had conducted himself like a base coward—"
"But an honorable man said to me, 'Shall we repair the crime of another? Shall we not give this little one a home and a family?' I became your wife, your happy, honored companion, and poor Jacques will never know that he owes his life to a base profligate."
Simon laid his hand on his wife's head.
"Do you know why Simon Fougère wished to make reparation for the crime of the Vicomte de Talizac?"
"Because Simon Fougère had a loyal and generous heart!"
"Because," said Simon, in solemn tones, "because the Vicomte de Talizac is my brother!"
"Your brother! But who, then, are you?"
"The son of the Marquis de Fongereues," and in a few words Simon explained to his wife the situation already known to our readers.
"I reproach myself," concluded Simon, "for having so long concealed my name from you. I have not seen my father since I was a boy. I am indebted to him for a few years of happiness, but he was under the influence of others who awakened in him the pride of race. He has forgotten the Republican soldier, and has never cared to know whether I lived or died, since the day that he offered me a princely fortune, rank and title, to fight against France. But to return to this man, you are sure he is the friend and accomplice of Talizac?"
"I am sure."
"I have never seen my brother, but I know him to be one of the bitterest enemies France has. He has fought against us, and I have heard that he is nearly ruined. Painful as such suspicions are, I am tempted to believe that the appearance of this Karlstein in this out of the way place, is due to the fact that this renegade brother of mine has hunted me up, knowing that at my father's death I can claim my inheritance. I feel as if we were the cause of this attack on Leigoutte, which is really directed on the heir of the Fongereueses."
"Horrible!" murmured Françoise.
"Yes, this officer asked me if this inn belonged to me. Dear wife, it is now doubly our duty to take every measure for the protection of these people. You must take the children away. I must remain with these peasants. I wish you to go to the farm of old Father Lasvène—"
"Yes, I know, a league away, in the Outremont gorge."
"I will take you there. Lasvène is a man of sense, and will not be guilty of any imprudence."
Suddenly Francinette, who was looking out of a window, uttered a shrill cry, and ran to her mother.
"What is it?" exclaimed Simon, rushing to the window, which he threw open, but could see nothing.
Françoise soothed the little girl and questioned her.
The child, still wild with fear, pointed to the window. "A man! a bad man!"
The father lifted her in his arms.
"No, no," he said, "little Francinette was dreaming. There was no one there!"
"Yes, I saw him; he climbed over the wall!"
Simon took his gun and went out. Presently he returned, and with a look towards his wife that contradicted his words, he said, "No, it is nothing."
At the same time he wrote a few words on a bit of paper, and laid it on the table near his wife. This is what she read:
"The child is right; there are footprints on the wall—a spy undoubtedly." He said aloud: "And now, wife, make haste; there is no time to lose. Francinette, go to the other window and see if your brother is anywhere about. And Françoise," Simon continued rapidly, "I do not think that our separation will last long, yet it is well to be prepared for everything. All my secret and family papers are in this portfolio. Take every care of it. And now, kiss me—let no one see you weep!"
Michel and Jacques now entered.
"Well, Michel, what think you of our recruits?" asked Simon, cheerfully.
"Oh, they are born soldiers, and your boy Jacques is as bright as a button!"
Simon drew his child toward him.
"My boy, I meant to take your mother and sister to some place of safety, but I am needed here. You must go in my stead."
"Am I not to remain with you, father?" asked the boy, greatly disappointed.
"No—you are to take care of all that is most precious to me in the world. God bless you all!"
Never was there solitude more complete and more magnificent than at five o'clock that January morning among the Vosges mountains. The snow was piled up, softening the rugged outlines of the mountain peaks and through the pale darkness dim shadows were silently moving. These shadows are the brave mountaineers, who have come to defend France at the summons of Simon, who, in spite of his wooden leg, displayed immense activity. Among these there were no youths. The conscription had long since swallowed them up. They were elderly men and boys. Two of them were but fourteen, but they were vigorous and determined.
"We have arrived in time," said Simon, "but you are sure that there is no other road by which they can reach the village?"
"Only the one by which the wagon came with the wounded, but that, too, is well guarded."
"Yes," answered Simon, "a few brave fellows could keep an army back there, and you know we are continually receiving reinforcements. As soon as they understand that the gorge is impracticable, they will give up the point, and we shall feel that we have rendered effectual aid to France."
In the souls of these patriots there was a singular instinct of discipline. They listened in silence to Simon's words, and obeyed him whom they had taken for their leader without question or argument.
Simon called two men and bade them climb the high rocks on one side of the gorge. From thence they could look down the whole valley. The mists of the night had slowly drifted away, and the wind had died out. A gleam of sunshine, as pale as moonlight, rested on the mountain top.
The mountaineers waited long on the rocks, whither they had been sent, but returned to say that there was not a sound nor a movement.
"Let us go on," said Simon.
The gorge now became so narrow that only three men could move abreast. On each side rose high walls.
"Now, then," said Simon, "hide here. Keep your eyes open, and waste no ammunition. And you others will pass through that cleft which commands the lower road. Conceal yourselves well, and as soon as a Cossack appears, fire. Hans!"
A peasant ran at the sound of his name.
"If you hear firing from either of these posts, you are to advance at once with twenty men. Select them now, so that there will be no confusion."
Michel listened to these orders in silence.
"Well, comrade," said Simon, "what do you think of my arrangements?"
"They are excellent, and you ought to be a general."
"I could serve only the Republic," answered Simon, "I resigned in 1804."
Michel looked at him as if he did not more than half understand, then he muttered, reluctantly:
"Well, every man is entitled to his opinions."
"Now that our arrangements are made, we two will go on," said Simon.
They walked for some five minutes and reached the entrance of the gorge. There the road suddenly widened, and gently descended to the valley. On the left there was an enormous rock forty feet high. It was shaped like a pyramid standing on its apex. Simon went round it, feeling with his hands, tearing off bits of moss from time to time.
"Ah! we have it. Here, Michel, dig out this place with your bayonet!"
Michel obeyed, though without the smallest idea of what was to be done, and soon a hole of about a square foot was discovered.
"Now," said Simon, triumphantly, "I defy the Cossacks to pass this point!"
He laid on the ground a box that he had been carrying over his shoulder with great care.
"I have ten pounds of powder here!"
He proceeded to place this box in the hole, which it entirely filled. Then he produced a long wick, one end of which he inserted in the box. Then he nearly closed the box, leaving it only sufficiently open for the wick to burn easily.
"If our guns fail us," said Simon, grimly, "this will soon settle the matter!"
At this moment, from out of the woods on the side of the road sprang a man, shouting:
"Save me! Save me!"
Simon saw that the fellow was a gipsy, and that he had been wounded.
"Save me!" repeated the gipsy, "they will kill me!"
"Zounds! fellow," cried Michel, "who are you afraid of? I believe you are a spy!"
Simon motioned to Michel to be silent, and questioned the man who proceeded to say that he and his companions had been seized to act as guides through the forest.
"We refused," he said, "because you French had always been good to us. Then the soldiers killed one after the other of us as fast as we refused, and I ran away. They fired at me, and wounded me in the head. Oh! save me!"
Neither Simon nor Michel noticed the almost theatrical exaggeration of this fellow's gestures.
"The Cossacks are near?" asked Simon. "How many?"
"About five hundred."
"On this road?"
"Yes. Hark!"
The three men listened, and distinctly heard the smothered footfall of horses in the snow.
"They are coming!" said Simon.
The Bohemian crouched against the rock, and hiding his face, shivered with fear.
Simon entered the gorge, and carrying his fingers to his lips made a noise that sounded like the hoarse caw of a crow. Other signals answered this, showing that all were ready.
Simon stood listening. The sounds came nearer and nearer, and, presently, some fifty yards away, appeared the Cossacks. They came slowly, uneasy at the profound silence. Simon aimed at the leader, fired and the Cossack fell. Frightful yells filled the air, but they continued to advance.
Then from every rock and tree came a rain of balls, the echoes from the granite walls making the invaders suppose that the opposing force was a hundred times what it really was.
The Cossacks were ready enough to return the fire, but they saw no enemy; not a human being. Still they moved on, closing up their ranks, and their horses trampling on the dead bodies of their comrades. They reached the gorge. The peasants, sure of their prey, now forgot all prudence, and showed themselves. The Cossacks, with cries of rage, answered their fusillade. The scene was an absolute butchery.
Suddenly, a man in the uniform of the Helmans waved his sword, and the Cossacks pulled up their horses and turned them with inconceivable dexterity. This movement showed the length of their column. The gipsy was right, there were hundreds.
Simon, at this moment, uttered the exclamation:
"Back with you!" he cried. "To your places among the rocks!"
The mountaineers had seen the Cossacks fall, and all the old hatred that had sent their fathers to the Rhine in '92, again sprang to life in their veins. They rushed from out their shelter, regardless of danger. They heard Simon's voice, but did not understand his order,their rage deafened them. They had hitherto been amenable to discipline, but they were intoxicated by victory. It seemed to them that they could crush the invasion then and there. In vain did Simon shout "Halt!" They went on, and reached the rock.
"I don't like this," said Simon. "This retreat of the Cossacks looks like a ruse. Our men must go no further."
Then took place a horrible thing. The peasants were trying to crowd through the narrow passage by the rock. They were in such haste that they formed a struggling mass. Then from the dark corner rose the gipsy with the Judas face, and glided to the corner where hung the torch arranged by Simon. Presently, there was a little flash of light, and the gipsy threw himself far down the slope, just as a fearful explosion was heard. The rock split and fell upon the peasants. Of these valiant patriots only five remained—seven with Michel and Simon. They all stood nailed to the ground with horror.
And back came the Cossacks at full gallop. The rock had cut off all retreat. These seven men were between the barred-up gorge and the Cossacks.
Michel was the first to fall pierced by a lance. Simon realized that these men will reach his home, his wife and children, before he was nailed to the trunk of an oak by a Cossack's sword, and now Simon is dead!
Over this body of this hero, rolls the horrible flood that is to engulf France.
Talizac, Simon's brother, had said that the invasion should take this direction!
How did the Cossacks ever discover that poor little hut sheltered among the rocks?
Simon's wife and children reached this place, and said to old Lasvène:
"Simon is fighting for France. Will you give us shelter?"
Lasvène took them in with a simple "yes." They were all very weary. Jacques had done all in his power to protect his little sister, who was not in the least frightened, only curious.
The old man shook out some fresh straw, gave them each a great bowl of smoking soup, and said:
"Everything here is yours, eat and sleep."
And when all was quiet the old man brought out two guns, which he had kept in spite of Napoleon's edict. He sat down by the fire, and began to clean them.
Suddenly, he felt a hand—a small one—laid on his arm, and a voice said,
"What are you doing with your guns? Do you think there is any danger here?"
The old man hesitated for a reply, and the boy said,
"Show me how to manage them, it may be useful."
Lasvène hesitated a moment, but finally decided to teach little Jacques how to fire these long guns. The boy quickly grasped the movement. When he bit his first cartridge he made a wry face. When one is inexperienced the powder gets between the teeth.
"Once more," he said, "I am not quite sure yet."
When the clock struck three, Jacques could load the gun like any old grenadier, but he had not been permitted to fire it.
"Your mother is asleep and little sister too," the old man said.
Jacques did not persist.
"Now lie down, my boy, and get a little sleep."
At six o'clock in the morning—it was at that hour that Simon died—a pistol shot scattered the straw on the roof of the hut.
Lasvène rushed to the door and half opening it, cried:
"The Cossacks!"
He knew them well, for he had been in the campaign of 1805.
Jacques started to his feet, and Françoise, pale as death, clutched her little girl to her breast.
"They are only going by," said Lasvène. "They know there is nothing to pillage here."
Lasvène believed himself and his guests under his roof to be safe. He, therefore, threw open the door wide.
He saw about fifty Cossacks.
"I am not making any defence," he said, "what do you want?"
The old soldier said this reluctantly, for the blood leaped hot in his veins, but he had a woman and two children there.
The Cossacks sat still on their horses, and seemed to be waiting. For what were they waiting?
Suddenly and most incomprehensibly, from behind old Lasvène came two shots. Two Cossacks fell. Who had fired? He ran back into the hut. Jacques stood near the chimney, looking at the guns which he had not fired. Who had?
These shots were answered by a furious clamor. A volley was fired into the cottage. Lasvène ran to the other side of the hut, and saw two men running away. It was these men who fired. Both were dressed like gipsies, but one was Cyprien, the lacquey of Monsieur de Talizac.
"We are lost!" thought Lasvène.
Instantly he pulled across the door his old oaken chest, and piled chairs and tables upon it, the bed, everything that was movable in the hut. Then, snatching one gun, he said:
"We must fight. Take the other!"
The Cossacks were amazed, but they fired through the window.
"Now!" cried Lasvène, and an officer fell. Jacques handed him the other gun, and loaded the first.
Again a Cossack fell.
Françoise rushed to the old man's side.
"Save the children!" she cried.
"At the peril of your life?" he asked.
"Yes," was the reply of the devoted mother.
"Then take the other gun!"
Françoise obeyed.
"Come!" said the old man to Jacques.
"No," answered the boy, "they will kill mamma!"
"For Simon's sake!" cried Françoise.
Then Lasvène stooped to the ground, and with the aid of an iron ring lifted a trap door.
"Down with you!" said the old man. "It is a subterranean passage, and leads to the Fongereues estate. You have a league to go. God guard you!"
Another deafening discharge of musketry. The mother sank on her knees.
"Save Francinette!" she moaned.
"They have killed my mother!" sobbed the boy.
"Go!" cried Lasvène, "they are coming in!"
He seized the little girl and put her in her brother's arms, and thrusting a pistol into the hands of the little fellow, he pushed him toward the trap door.
"Mother! Mother!" cried the boy.
There was no time to lose. Lasvène lifted him by the collar and dropped him into the dark hole, and closed the cover. Françoise extended her arms to the old man. "Thanks!" she said.
"We are caught like rats in a hole!" he growled.
The Cossacks began to tear down the walls.
"Can you walk?" said the old soldier to Françoise.
"No!"
"Then you must die!"
"Will the children be saved?"
"Yes."
"Then do what you will!"
Lasvène snatched a burning log from the fire and threw it into the middle of a pile of brushwood.
"Fan it!" he whispered hoarsely.
And Françoise dragged herself forward and fanned the flames with her dying breath.
"Brave woman!" cried Lasvène. "And now, welcome death! Vive la France!"
He poured his flask of powder on the floor. There was a terrible explosion.
Françoise and old Lasvène have done their duty ere they died. The walls of the hut fall, and hide the trap door.