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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 50186
   :PG.Title: Brigadier Frederick, The Dean's Watch
   :PG.Released: 2015-10-11
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Erckmann-Chatrian
   :DC.Title: Brigadier Frederick, The Dean's Watch
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1902
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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BRIGADIER FREDERICK, THE DEAN'S WATCH
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   .. _`Emile Erckmann`:

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      Emile Erckmann

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      Title page

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      ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

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      Brigadier Frederick

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      AND

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      The Dean's Watch

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      TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH

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      WITH A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION
      BY PROF. RICHARD BURTON, OF THE
      UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA

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      A FRONTISPIECE AND NUMEROUS
      OTHER PORTRAITS WITH
      DESCRIPTIVE NOTES BY
      OCTAVE UZANNE

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      P. F. COLLIER & SON
      NEW YORK

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      COPYRIGHT, 1902
      BY D. APPLETON & COMPANY

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.. _`ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN`:

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   ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

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Fashions change in literature, but certain
things abide.  There may be disputes from
generation to generation, even from decade to decade,
as to what is æsthetic, or what is beautiful; there
is less as to what is human.  The work of the
French writers, whose duality is quite lost in the
long-time association of their names for the
purposes of story making, seems at the least to make
this claim to outlast its authors: it is delightfully
saturated with humanity.

And this humanity is of the sort that, since it
can be understood of all men, is therefore very
widely acceptable.  It is well to emphasize the
point in an attempt to explain the popularity of
Erckmann-Chatrian, immediate or remote.  There
are other reasons, to be sure: but this one is at
the door, knocking to be heard.  But to speak of
the essential humanity of these books is not to
deny or ignore their art; that they have in
abundance--quite as truly indeed as the work of your
most insistent advocate of "art for art"; but it is
art for life's sake.  In the best sense, the
verisimilitude of the Erckmann-Chatrian stories is
admirable, impressive.  They are, as a rule, exquisitely in
key.  They produce a cumulative effect by steadily,
unobtrusively clinging to a single view-point, that
of the speaker who is an eye-witness, and the
result is a double charm--that of reality and that of
illusion.  One sees life, not through the eyes of
the authors, but through the eyes of the characters;
hence the frequent setting-forth of principles is
relieved from didacticism by the careful way in which
the writers refrain from expressing their own opinion.
So artistic are they that they even indulge in
the delicate ruse of opposing the views which are
really their own, thereby producing a still stronger
effect of fair-mindedness and detachment.

Yet, as the world knows, in the most justly
famed of their books, the so-called National
Novels, it is their purpose to preach against war;
they are early advocates of the principles of the
Peace Congress at The Hague, forerunners, in
their own fashion, of the ideas expressed in art
and literature by later men like Tolstoy and
Verestchagin.

The local colour--one still uses the phrase as
convenient--is remarkable for its sympathetic
fidelity; the style well-nigh a model of prose
whose purpose it is to depict in homely yet
picturesque terms the passage of great events, seen
by humble, it may be Philistine, folk, and hence
not seen *couleur de rose*.  When a heartfelt
sympathy for average human-kind rises to the surface
of the author's feeling, some candid, cordial phrase
is ever found to express it.

The work of Erckmann-Chatrian, voluminous
as it is, can be easily classified: it mainly
consists of the idyl and the picture of war; *L'lllustre
Docteur Mathéus*, their first success, happily
illustrates the former *genre*; any one of the half dozen
tales making up the National Novel series may be
taken to represent the latter.  Both veins turned
out to be gold mines, so rich were they in the
free-milling ore of popular favour.  Such stories as
*L'Ami Fritz* and *The Brigadier Frederick* are
types of the two kinds of fiction which panned out
most richly also for the world.  In the idyl dealing
with homely provincial life--the life of their home
province--these authors are, of a truth, masters.
The story is naught, the way of telling it, all that
breeds atmosphere and innuendo, is everything.  In
*L'Ami Fritz* the plot may be told in a sentence:
'tis the wooing and winning of a country lass,
daughter of a farmer, by a well-to-do jovial
bachelor of middle age in a small town; *voilà tout*;
yet the tale makes not only delicious reading, it
leaves a permanent impression of pleasure--one is
fain to re-read it.  It is rich in human nature, in a
comfortable sense of the good things of the earth;
food and drink, soft beds, one's seat at the tavern,
spring sunlight, and the sound of a fiddle playing
dance tunes at the fair: and, on a higher plane, of
the genial joys of comradeship and the stanch
belief in one's native land.  When the subtler
passion of love comes in upon this simple pastoral
scene, the gradual discovery of Friend Fritz that
the sentiment he has always ridiculed has him at
last in its clutch, is portrayed with a sly unction, a
kindly humour overlying an unmistakable tenderness
of heart, which give the tale great charm.
Sweetness and soundness are fundamentals of such
literature.

This tale is a type of them all, though
deservedly the best liked.  Love of nature and of
human nature, a knowledge of the little, significant
things that make up life, an exquisite realism
along with a sort of temperamental optimism
which assumes good of men and women—these
blend in the provincial stories in such a way that
one's sense of art is charmed while in no less
degree one's sense of life is quickened and
comforted.  Erckmann-Chatrian introduced to French
readers the genuine Alsatian, not the puppet of
the vaudeville stage.  Their books are, among
other things, historical documents.  From their
sketches and tales better than in any other way
one can gain an understanding of the present
German provinces of Alsace and Lorraine during a
period stretching from the Revolution to and after
the Franco-Prussian war.  The Alsatian in their
hands is seen distinctly as one of the most
interesting of Gallic provincial types.

The attitude of Dr. Mathéus, that charming
physician savant, who is in love with science, with
the great world of scholarship and literary fame,
and so is fain to leave his simple countryside in
quest of renown—in his final return to his home as,
after all, the best spot on earth, typifies the
teaching of these authors in all their works.  The tale is
a sort of allegory, veiling a sermon on the value of
the "fireside clime" of home hearths and hearts.
Nor must it be forgotten that these writers
cultivated the short story or tale with vigour and
success; *The Dean's Watch*, printed in the present
volume, is an excellent example of the *genre*.
Erckmann-Chatrian, especially in the earlier years
of their conjoined labour, wrote numerous pieces
of short fiction which abounded in gruesome
adventure and situations more or less startling—witness
the Heidelberg murder story.  They possessed
a considerable talent for the detective
fiction brought to a fine art by Poe and worthily
carried on in our day by Conan Doyle.  Yet
even here the work has a higher value—perhaps
the highest—for the thoughtful reader in that it
affords a faithful transcript of German life in
time gone by; the authors, although so
circumscribed in space, are in some sort historians of
piquant social conditions.  It is commonly said
that your true short-story writer is not a novelist,
nor the other way about.  But *The Dean's
Watch*, and a dozen other tales that could be
named, are little master-pieces not to be omitted
in any just, comprehensive survey of these fecund
authors.

The National Novels differ from these simpler
tales in more than theme and the fuller body and
greater variety they possess; the authors' aim in
the series sets the books apart from the other
stories.  This group is made up of tales that fairly
may be called "purpose fiction," in the present
cant.  Erckmann-Chatrian agree to hate war and
to justify their hate by writing a succession of
books portraying its horrors, always from the
disadvantage-point of actual humble participants and
onlookers, so that the plea shall appear to be at
once fairly made and yet be overwhelming in
effect.  Of the result, surely it may be said of the
National Novels that if they are not magnificent,
they are war—war stript of its glory, reduced to
the one grim denominator of human misery.

The successive national struggles of France
towards that peaceful Republicanism which has
now endured long enough to induce the outside
world into a belief that this volatile, fiery people
will never revert to any form of monarchy, are
sketched so graphically as to give a clear
comprehension of their history.  Nowhere is the artistry
of the authors better exhibited than in the skill
with which, by placing their own position in the
mouths of others and by means of their remarkable
power in characterization, they rob special
pleading of that didacticism which is so deadly
an enemy of good fiction.  To secure an effect
of verisimilitude no method of story-telling is
perhaps so useful as that in which one of the
characters speaks in proper person.  What the
author loses in omniscience, he more than gains
in the impression of reality.  This method is
admirable in the hands of Erckmann-Chatrian,
who consistently use it in their fiction.  Do the
writers of any other nation, one is tempted to
query, offer such frequent examples of good taste
in this avoidance of the too didactic as do the
French?  In some English hands so strenuous an
attempt would have seemed heavily intolerable.
Here one forgets all but the naturalness of word
and action in the characters; and the lesson sinks
the deeper into the mind.

In justice both to our authors and the present-day
temper, it may be declared that the Twentieth
Century is likely to be more sympathetic to their
particular thesis than was their own time.  There
is a popular treatment of war which bedecks it in
a sort of stage tinsel, to the hiding of its gaunt
figure and cadaverous face.  Some of Scott's
romances are of this order.  Zola, with his epic
sweep in *Le Débâcle*, does not disguise the horrors
of the Franco-Prussian struggle.  Yet epic it is,
and in a sense, romantic; handled by a poet
whose imagination is aroused by the magnitude
and movement of his theme.  Erckmann-Chatrian
set themselves squarely against this conception;
they reduce the splendid trappings and *elan* of
battle to its true hideousness.

In order to depict the inevitable, wretched
results of the killing of men for purposes of
political ambition, or national aggrandizement,
Erckmann-Chatrian, as in their provincial idyls,
cling steadily to the position of the average man,
who cannot for the life of him see the use of leaving
all that is pleasant and dear, of fighting, marching,
sickening, and dying for the sake of a cause
he does not understand or believe in, as the slave
of men whom he perhaps despises.  Joseph Berta,
the lame conscript, the shrewd, kindly Jew
Mathieu, the common-sense miller Christian Weber,
protagonists in three well-known stories, each
distinct from the other, are all alike in their
preference for peace over war, for the joy of home and
the quiet prosecution of their respective affairs,
instead of the dubious pleasures of siege and campaign.

There is a superbly *bourgeois* flavour to it all.
Yet one feels its force, its sound humanity.  The
republicanism of these writers is of the broadest
kind.  They hate Bonaparte or Bourbon, because
in their belief either house stands for tyranny and
corruption; while Napoleon is their special
detestation, the later Empire is vigorously assailed
because it, too, is opposed to the interests of the
people.  Napoleon III., whom in high satiric
scorn they pillory as "The Honest Man," comes
in for savage condemnation, since he again brings
woe upon the working folk, in pursuit of his own
selfish ends.  And underneath all, like a
ground-swell can be felt a deep and genuine, if homely,
patriotism.

Human nature, as it is witnessed in the pages
of Erckmann-Chatrian, is not hard to decipher.
It lacks the subtlety of the modern psychologue,
miscalled a novelist.  Humanity for them is made
up of two great contrasted elements—the people
and the enemies of the people; the latter made
up of kings, politicians, government leaders, and
the general world of bureaucracy, who fleece the
former, "that vast flock which they were always
accustomed to shear, and which they call the
people."  But the people themselves, how
veritable and charming they are!  Not a whit are
they idealized; the fictional folk of these writers
are always recognisable; they give us that pleasure
of recognition which Mr. James points out as one
of the principal virtues of modern novel-making.
The title of one of the well-known books, *The
History of a Man of the People*, might almost
stand as a description of their complete works.
There is no sentimentalizing of average humanity;
none of the Auerbach or George Sand prettification
of country life.  Erckmann-Chatrian are as
truthful as a later realist like Thomas Hardy.  The
family life in *The Brigadier Frederick* is almost
lyrically set forth, until it seems, mayhap, too
good for human nature's daily food; but similar
scenes in other stories have a Dutch-like fidelity
in their transcripts of the coarser, less lovely
human traits; recall the wife and daughter of
Weber, for example, or the well-nigh craven fear
of Joseph Berta in *The Plebiscite*, who seems half
a poltroon until he is seasoned in a Napoleonic
campaign; the psychologic treatment here
suggesting Stephen Crane's *The Red Badge of
Courage*.  The blend of grim realism and heroic
patriotism in the figure of the old sergeant in
*The Plebiscite* is a fine illustration of that truth
to both the shell and kernel of life which
Erckmann-Chatrian maintain throughout their work.

On the whole, then, it is a comfortable,
enheartening conception of Man they present.  Poor
theologians they would make; men are by nature
good and kind; only warped by cruel misuse and
bad masters, as in war.  "Ah, it is a great joy to
love and to be loved, the only one joy of life,"
exclaims the Jew Mathieu in *The Blockade*.  This
simple yet sufficient creed pervades their thought.
Again and again is it declared that whatever the
apparent evil, so that the faithful-hearted and
devout of the world, like Father Frederick, lose
courage for the moment, the fault is with men
upon earth, not in heaven.  High over all, God
reigns.  A spirit of kindliness, quiet, unheroic,
but deep and tender, enswathes the more serious
part of these novels like an atmosphere; and if the
mood shifts to indignation, it is the righteous
indignation of the good in the face of that which is
wrong and evil.  And these better human attributes
are most commonly found in the provinces;
the city, as a rule, spells sin.  The touch of mother
earth brings purity and strength.  "La mauvaise
race qui trompe," declares the Brigadier Frederick,
"n'existe pas au pays; elle est toujours venue
d'ailleurs."  One smiles at this, but it offends not
nor seems absurd.  Its very prejudice is lovable.

Perhaps none of the stories make so moving
an appeal against war as *The Brigadier Frederick*.
Its sadness is the most heartfelt, its realism the
most truthful, and hence effective.  Nor in any
other book of the War Series does the French
character shine more clearly in its typical virtues.
Family love and faith, *camaraderie*, humble
devoutness in religion, and earnest patriotism are
constantly made manifest in this fine tale.
Instead of conducting their hero through the
spectacular scenes of military campaigns, the authors
depict only the stay-at-home aspects of war, which
because of their lack of strut and epic colour are,
as a rule, overlooked, and which yet illustrate far
better than the most Zolaesque details the wretched
*milieu* and after effects of a great national
struggle.  Frederick, the old guard of the Alsatian
forest domains, loses in turn his post, his son-in-law,
wife, and daughter, and at last his native
land; and through all his misery remains proudly a
Frenchman, who refuses to declare allegiance to
the German invaders; and, in being true to his
convictions, furnishes a noble example of a man
who, by the moral test, rises superior to any
fate, his head being

   |  "bloody but unbowed."

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Again, sad as the story is, it differs from too
much of the tragedy of current literature; it is sad
for the sake of a purpose, not for sadness' sake.
Alleviation is offered the reader from the beginning,
in that he knows that Frederick himself has
survived all his woes, since he is telling his tale to
a friend in after years.  These qualities make the
work wholesome and beautiful, sound both for art
and life.

Erckmann-Chatrian draw strength from mother-soil.
Their stories are laid in Alsace-Lorraine,
or at least it is that debatable land whence the
characters go only to return for the peaceful
denouement, which these authors, in the good
old-fashioned style, like to offer their readers.  The
popularity of such writers brings us back, happily,
to that untechnical valuation of literature which
insists, first of all, in regarding it as an exposition
of human experience.  Their books bear translation
especially well because there is something
in them besides incommunicable flavours of style,
though style is not wanting; namely, vital folk,
vivid scenes, significant happenings.  Theirs is
the misleading simplicity of method and manner
which hides technique of a rare and admirable
kind.  Allowing for all exaggeration for altered
ideals in fiction, and for the waning of interest in
the historical circumstances which they portray,
there remain such elements of permanent appeal
as to give their books far more than a transient
worth.

For more than forty years, Erckmann-Chatrian
wrote as one man; their collaboration was,
in effect, a chemical union.  No example in literature
better illustrates the possibility of the merging
of individualities for the purposes of artistic
unity.  The double work of the English Besant
and Rice is by no means so important nor do they
stand and fall together in the same sense; much
of Besant's typical fiction being produced after
his partner's death.  In the case of the most famed
collaboration of older days, that of the dramatists
Beaumont and Fletcher, the union was more
intimate.  But the early death of Beaumont, the
consideration that he wrote less than half the plays
conventionally attributed to their joint authorship,
and the additional consideration that some of the
best and most enjoyable dramas associated with
these great names—*The Loyal Subject*, to mention
but one—are unquestionably of Fletcher's sole
composition, make the Beaumont-Fletcher alliance
not so perfect an example of literary collaboration
as is offered by Erckmann-Chatrian.  When
Chatrian died in 1890, it was as if, for literary
purposes, both died.  Their work had a unity
testifying to a remarkable if not unique congeniality
in temperament, view and aim, as well as to a
fraternal unity which—alas! the irony of all human
friendships—was dispelled when their quarrel, just
before the death of Chatrian, put an end to an
association so fruitful and famous.

From the very nature of fiction in contrast
with drama, it would seem as if collaboration in
stage literature were more likely to yield happy
results than in the case of the novel.  Here,
however, is an example setting aside *a priori*
reasoning; seemingly "helpless each without the other,"
the final breach in their personal relations would
seem to have written Finis to their literary
endeavour.  Yet Erckmann survived for nearly a
decade and wrote military stories, which in tone and
temper carried on the traditions of the two men.
But we may easily detect in this last effort the
penalty of their literary severance: the loss of the
craftsmanship of Chatrian was a loss indeed.  Nor
is this subjective guess-work of the critic;
Erckmann himself described nearly twenty years ago
the respective parts played by the two in their
literary work.  He declared that after a story had
been blocked out and thoroughly talked over
between them, he did all the actual composition.
Then was it Chatrian's business to point out faults,
to suggest, here a change in perspective, there
less emphasis upon a subsidiary character, or here
again, a better handling of proportion—in short,
to do all the retouching that looks to artistry.
And Erckmann goes on to testify in good set
terms how necessary his collaborator was to the
final perfected form of the story; how much it
must have suffered without his sense of technique.
It would appear from this that the senior member
of the firm did what is commonly called the
creative work of composition, the junior filling the
role of critic.  From France one hears that
Erckmann was very German in taste and sympathy
(*mirabile dictu!* in view of so much of what he
wrote); Chatrian, French to the core, a man who
insisted on residing on the French side of the national
line, who reared his sons to be French soldiers;
whereas Erckmann in later years hobnobbed with
the Germans, members of his family, in fact,
inter-marrying with his ancient enemies.

Indeed, this last act of their personal history
has its disillusionment.  But after all, men shall
be judged in their works.  Whatever their private
quarrellings, their respective parts in literary
labour, their attributes or national leanings, the world,
justly caring most in the long run for the fiction
they wrote, will continue to think of them as
provincial patriots, lovers of their country, and
Frenchmen of the French, not only in the tongue
they used, but in those deep-lying characteristics
and qualities which make their production
worthily Gallic in the nobler implication of the word.

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RICHARD BURTON.





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.. _`Lives of Erckmann and Chatrian`:

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   BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

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*The celebrated friends who collaborated for fifty
years under the title of* ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN
*were natives of the department of the Meurthe, in
Alsace-Lorraine*.  ÉMILE ERCKMANN *was born at
Phalsbourg (now Pfalzburg), on the 20th of May,
1822.  His father was a bookseller; his mother
he lost early.  He was educated at the grammar
school of Phalsbourg, and was a boarder there,
growing up an intractable and idle boy.  At the
age of twenty Erckmann went up to Paris to study
law, but he was inattentive to his work, and
positively took fifteen years to pass the necessary
examinations; having done so, he made no further rise
of his profession.  When he was twenty-five he
suffered from a serious illness, and during his
convalescence, in Alsace, he turned his attention to
literature.  At this moment there had arrived in
Phalsbourg; as an usher in the grammar school, a
young Alsatian*, ALEXANDRE CHATRIAN, *of Italian
descent, who was born at Soldatenthal, near
Abreschwiller, on the 18th of December, 1826, and
who was destined for the trade of glass-worker.
He had been sent in 1844, as an apprentice, to the
glass-works in Belgium, but had, in opposition to
the wish of his parents, determined to return and
to be a schoolmaster in France.*

*Erckmann and Chatrian now met, and instantly
felt irresistibly drawn to one another.  From
this time until near the end of their careers their
names were melted indissolubly into one.  In 1848
a local newspaper, "Le Démocrate du Rhin,"
opened its columns to their contributions, and they
began to publish novels.  Their first great success
was "L'Illustre Docteur Mathéus" in 1859, which
appeared originally in the "Revue Nouvelle," and
which exactly gauged the taste of the general
public.  This was followed by "Contes Fantastiques"
and "Contes de la Montague," in 1860; by "Maître
Daniel Rock," in 1861; by "Contes des Bords du
Rhin" and "Le Fou Yégof" in 1862; "Le Joueur
de Clarinette" in 1863; and in 1864, which was
perhaps the culminating year of the talent of
Erckmann-Chatrian, by "Madame Thérèse," "L'Ami
Fritz" and "L'Histoire d'un Conscrit de 1813."
These, and innumerable stories which followed
them, dealt almost entirely with scenes of country
life in Alsace and the neighbouring German
Palatinate.  The authors adopted a strong Chauvinist
bias, and at the time of the Franco-German War
their sympathies were violently enlisted on the side
of France.*

*In 1872 Erckmann-Chatrian published a
political novel which enjoyed an immense success,
"Histoire du Plébiscite"; in 1873, "Les Deux
Frères", and they concluded in many volumes their
long romance "Histoire d'un Paysan."  Two of
the latest of their really striking romances were
"Les Vieux de la Vielle," 1882, and "Les
Rantzau," 1884.  During this period, however, their
great vogue was the theatre, where in 1869 they
produced "Le Juif Polonais," and in 1877 "L'Ami
Fritz," two of the most successful romantic plays
of the nineteenth century, destined to be popular in
all parts of the world.  After the war of 1870-'71
Erckmann lived at Phalsbourg; which was
presently annexed to German Lothringen, and he
became a German citizen; Chatrian continued to
reside in Paris, and remained a Frenchman.  For
a long time the friends continued to collaborate on
the old terms of intimacy, though at a distance
from one another, but a quarrel finally separated
them, on a vulgar matter of interest.  Erckmann
claimed, and Chatrian refused, author's rights on
those plays which bore the name of both writers,
although Chatrian had composed them unaided.
The rupture became complete in 1889, when the old
friends parted as bitter enemies.  Chatrian died a
year later, on the 4th of September, 1890, from a
stroke of apoplexy, at Villemomble, near Paris.
Erckmann left Phalsbourg, and settled at
Lunéville, where he died on the 14th of March, 1899.
The temperament of Erckmann was phlegmatic
and melancholy; that of Chatrian impetuous and
fiery.  They were strongly opposed to the theories
of the realists, which assailed them in their
advancing age, and they stated their own principles
of literary composition in "Quelques mots
sur l'esprit humain," 1880, and its continuation
"L'Art et les Grands Idéalistes," 1885.  For a
long time their popularity was unequalled by that
of any other French novelist, largely because their
lively writings were pre-eminently suited to family
reading.  But they never achieved an equal
prominence in purely literary estimation.*

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\E.\G.





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.. _`CONTENTS`:

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   CONTENTS

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`Erckmann-Chatrian`_
   *Richard Burton*

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`Lives of Erckmann and Chatrian`_
    *Edmund Gosse*

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`Brigadier Frederick`_

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`The Dean's Watch`_

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`The Portraits of Erckmann and Chatrian`_
    *Octave Uzanne*

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.. _`Chatrian`:

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   :alt: Chatrian

   Chatrian





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.. _`BRIGADIER FREDERICK`:

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   BRIGADIER FREDERICK

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   \I

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When I was brigadier forester at Steinbach,
said Father Frederick to me, and when I was the
inspector of the most beautiful forest district in
all the department of Saverne, I had a pretty
cottage, shaded by trees, the garden and orchard
behind filled with apple trees, plum trees, and
pear trees, covered with fruit in the autumn; with
that four acres of meadow land along the bank of
the river; when the grandmother, Anne, in spite
of her eighty years, still spun behind the stove,
and was able to help about the house; when my
wife and daughter kept house and superintended
the stables and the cultivation of our land, and
when weeks, months, and years passed in their
tranquility like a single day.  If at that time any
one had said to me, "See here, Brigadier Frederick,
look at this great valley of Alsace, that
extends to the banks of the Rhine; its hundreds
of villages, surrounded by harvests of all kinds:
tobacco, hops, madder, hemp, flax, wheat, barley
and oats, over which rushes the wind as over the
sea; those high factory chimneys, vomiting clouds
of smoke into the air; those wind-mills and
sawmills; those hills, covered with vines; those great
forests of beech and fir trees, the best in France
for ship-building; those old castles, in ruins for
centuries past, on the summits of the mountains;
those fortresses of Neuf-Brisach, Schlestadt,
Phalsbourg, Bitche, that defend the passes of the
Vosges.  Look, brigadier, as far as a man's eye
can reach from the line of Wissembourg to Belfort.
Well, in a few years all that will belong to
the Prussians; they will be the masters of all;
they will have garrisons everywhere; they will
levy taxes; they will send preceptors, censors,
foresters, and schoolmasters into all the villages,
and the inhabitants will bend their backs; they
will go through the military drill in the German
ranks, commanded by the feldwebel[#] of the
Emperor William."  If any one had told me that, I
would have thought the man was mad, and, even
in my indignation, I should have been very likely
to have given him a backhander across the face.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Sergeant.

.. vspace:: 2

He would only have told the truth, however,
and he would not even have said enough, for we
have seen many other things; and the most
terrible thing of all for me, who had never quitted
the mountain, is to see myself, at my old age, in
this garret, from which I can see only the tiles
and chimney-pots; alone, abandoned by Heaven
and earth, and thinking day and night of that
frightful story.

Yes, George, the most terrible thing is to
think!  Foxes and wolves that are wounded lick
themselves and get well.  Kids and hares that are
hurt either die at once, or else hide in a thicket
and end by recovering.  When a dog's puppies
are taken away, the poor beast pines for a few
days; then she forgets, and all is forgotten.  But
we men cannot forget, and as time goes on we
realize our misery more and more, and we see
many sad things that we had not felt at first.
Injustice, bad faith, selfishness, all grow up before
our eyes like thorns and briers.

However, since you desire to know how I
happened to get into this hovel in the heart of La
Villette, and the way in which I have passed my
life up to the present time, I will not refuse to
answer you.  You can question many other people
beside myself; persons of different occupations—workmen,
peasants emigrated from down yonder;
all the tumble-down houses of La Villette and La
Chapelle are filled with them.  I have heard that
more than two hundred thousand have left.  It is
possible.  When I quitted the country the roads
were already overcrowded.

But you know all about these things as well as
I do; so I will tell about what concerns me alone,
beginning at the beginning.  That will be the
simplest way.

When your grandfather, M. Münsch, the President
of the Tribunal, obtained promotion, in 1865,
and left for Brittany, I was very glad of it, in one
way, for he deserved to be promoted; I have
never seen a better or more learned man.  Saverne
was not the place for him.  But, on the other
hand, I was very sorry for it.  My father, the
former forester of Dôsenheim, had never spoken
to me of President Münsch but with the greatest
respect, repeating to me, over and over again, that
he was our benefactor, that he had always liked
our family.  I myself owed to him my good post
at Steinbach, and it was also on his recommendation
that I got my wife, Catherine Burat, the only
daughter of the former brigadier, Martin Burat.

After that, you can readily believe that, in
going to make my report at Saverne, it was always
with emotion that I gazed upon that good house,
where, for twenty years, I had been so kindly
received, and I regretted that noble man; it made
my heart very sad.  And, naturally, we missed
very much, no longer having you to spend the
vacations with us.  We were so used to having
you, that, long in advance, we would say: "The
month of September is coming round; little
George will soon be here."

My wife arranged the bed upstairs; she put
lavender in the well-bleached sheets, and she
washed the floor and window-panes.  I prepared
snares for the thrushes and bait of all kinds for the
trout; I repaired the tomtits' hut under the rocks;
I tried the whistles for the bird-calls, and made
new ones with lead and geese bones; I arranged
everything in order in our boxes—the hooks, the
lines, the flies, made of cock feathers; laughing
beforehand at the pleasure of seeing you rummage
among them, and of hearing you say: "See here,
Father Frederick, you must wake me up to-morrow
morning at two o'clock, without fail; we will
start long before day!"

I knew very well that you would sleep like a
top till I should come to shake you and to scold
you for your laziness; but at night, before going
to bed, you always wanted to be up at two o'clock,
or even at midnight; that amused me greatly.

And then I saw you in the hut, keeping so
still while I whistled on the bird-call that you
scarcely dared to breathe; I heard you trembling
on the moss when the jackdaws and thrushes
arrived, wheeling under the trees to see; I heard
you whisper, softly: "There they are, there they
are!"

You were almost beside yourself when there
came a great cloud of tomtits, which usually
happened just at daybreak.

Yes, George, all these things rejoiced my
heart, and I looked forward to the vacations with
as much impatience perhaps as you did.  Our little
Marie-Rose also rejoiced in the thought of soon
seeing you again; she hastened to plait new snares
and to repair the meshes of the nets which had got
broken the year before.  But then all was over;
you were never to return, and we knew it well.

Two or three times that poor idiot Calas, who
looked after our cows in the field, seeing afar off
on the other slope of the valley some persons who
were on their way to Dôsenheim, came running in,
crying, with his mouth open as far as his ears,
"Here he is, here he is!  It is he; I recognise
him; he has his bundle under his arm!"

And Ragot barked at the heels of that idiot.
I should have liked to have knocked them both
over, for we had learned of your arrival at Rennes,
and the President himself had written that you
regretted Steinbach every day.  I was in a bad
enough humour, without listening to such cries.

Often, too, my wife and Marie-Rose, while
arranging the fruit on the garret floor, would say:
"What fine melting pears, what good gray rennets!
Ah! if George returned, he would roll them round
from morning till night.  He would do nothing
but run up and down stairs."  And then they
would smile, with tears in their eyes.

And how often I myself, returning from the
bird-catching, and throwing on the table my
bunches of tomtits, have I not cried: "Look!
there are ten or twelve dozen of them.  What is
the good of them now the boy is no longer here?
Might as well give them to the cat; for my part,
I despise them."

That was true, George; I never had a taste for
tomtits, or even for thrushes.  I always liked
better a good quarter of beef, with now and then only
a little bit of game, by way of change.

Well, it is thus that the time passed just after
your departure.  That lasted for some months, and
finally our ideas took another course, and that the
more because, in the month of January, 1867, a
great misfortune happened to us.





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.. _`II`:

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   \II

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In the depth of the winter, while all the roads
and the mountain paths were covered with snow,
and we heard every night the branches of the
beech trees breaking like glass under their load of
ice, to the right and left of the house, one evening
my wife, who, since the commencement of the
season, had gone to and fro looking very pale and
without speaking, said to me, towards six o'clock,
after having lighted the fire in the fireplace,
"Frederick, I am going to bed.  I do not feel well.  I
am cold."

She had never said anything like that before.
She was a woman who never complained and who,
during her youth, had looked after her house up
to the very day before her confinements.  I
suspected nothing, and I replied to her:

"Catherine, do not put yourself out.  You
work too hard.  Go and rest.  Marie-Rose will do
the cooking."

I thought "once in twenty years is not too
much; she may well rest herself a little."

Marie-Rose heated a jug of water to put under
her feet, and we took our supper of potatoes and
clotted milk as tranquilly as usual.  We were not
at all uneasy, and about nine o'clock, having
smoked my pipe near the stove, I was about to go
to bed, when, on coming near the bed, I saw my
wife, white as a sheet, and with her eyes wide
open.  I said to her,

"Helloa, Catherine!"

But she did not stir.  I repeated "Catherine,"
and shook her by the arm.  She was already cold.
The courageous woman had not lain down till
the last moment, so to speak; she had lost much
blood without complaining.  I was a widower.
My poor Marie-Rose no longer had a mother.

That crushed me terribly.  I thought I should
never recover from the blow.

The old grandmother, who for some time had
scarcely ever stirred from her arm-chair, and who
seemed always in a dream, awoke.  Marie-Rose
uttered cries and sobs which could be heard out of
doors, and even Calas, the poor idiot, stammered:

"Oh, if I had only died instead of her!"

And as we were far away in the woods, I was
forced to transport my poor wife to bury her, to
the church at Dôsenheim, through the great snows.
We went in a line, with the coffin before us in the
cart.  Marie-Rose wept so much that I was forced
to support her at every step.  Fortunately the
grandmother did not come; she sat at home in
her arm-chair, reciting the prayers for the dead.
We did not return that evening till it was dark
night.  And now the mother was yonder under
the snow, with the old Burat family, who are all in
the cemetery of Dôsenheim behind the church;
she was there, and I thought:

"What will become of the house?  Frederick,
you will never marry again; you have had a good
wife and who knows if the second would not be
the worst and the most extravagant in the country.
You will never take another.  You will live like
that, all alone.  But what will you do?  Who will
take care of everything?  Who will look after your
interest day and night?  The grandmother is too
old and the girl is still a mere child."

I was miserable, thinking that everything would
go to ruin and that my savings of so many years
would be wasted from day to day.

But my little Marie-Rose was a real treasure, a
girl full of courage and good sense, and no sooner
was my wife dead than she put herself at the head
of our affairs, looking after the fields, the cattle,
and the household, and ruling Calas like her
mother.  The poor fellow obeyed her; he understood
in his simplicity that she was now the mistress
and that she had the right to speak for everybody.

And so things go on earth.  When we have
had such trials we think that nothing worse can
happen to us, but all that was merely the beginning,
and when I think of it, it seems to me that
our greatest happiness would have been, all to
have died together upon the same day.





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.. _`III`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \III

.. vspace:: 2

Thus all our joys, all our satisfactions passed
away, one after the other.  The old house to which
I formerly returned, laughing from afar, only to
see its little windows glittering in the sun and its
little chimney smoking between the tops of the
fir trees, was then sad and desolate.  The winter
appeared very long to us.  The fire which sparkles
so joyously on the hearth when the white flowers
of the frost cover the panes, and when silence
reigns in the valley, that fire which I had so often
gazed at for half an hour at a time while smoking
my pipe, thinking of a thousand things that passed
through my head, now gave me none but
melancholy thoughts.  The fagots wept; poor Ragot
sought in every corner, he wandered up stairs and
down and smelt under all the doors; Calas wove
baskets in silence, the oziers piled in front of him;
grandmother Anne told her beads, and Marie-Rose,
very pale and dressed in black, came and went
through the house, watching over all and doing
everything without noise like her poor mother.
As for me, I said nothing; when death has entered
anywhere all lamentations that one makes are pure
loss.  Yes, that winter was long!

And then the spring came as in other years;
the firs and beech trees put forth their buds; the
windows were opened to renew the air: the great
pear tree before the door became covered with
white flowers; all the birds of the air began once
more to sing, to chase each other, and to build
nests as if nothing had happened.

I also returned to my work, accompanying the
chief guard, M. Rameau, in his circuits in order to
direct the wood felling, overlooking the works
from a distance, leaving early in the morning and
returning late, at the last song of the thrushes.

My grief pursued me everywhere, and yet I
had still the consolation of seeing Marie-Rose grow
in strength and beauty in a truly marvellous way.

It is not, George, because I was her father that
I tell you this, but you would have had to search
for a long time from Saverne to Lutzelstein before
finding as fresh-looking a young girl with as trim
a figure, as honest an air, with such beautiful blue
eyes and such magnificent fair hair.  And how
well she understood all kinds of work, whether in
the house or out of doors!  Ah, yes, I may well
say it, she was a beautiful creature, gentle and yet
strong.

Often coming in at night and seeing her at the
head of the stairs, signing to me that she had
waited supper a long time for me, then running
down the stairs and holding out to me her fresh
cheek, I have often thought:

"She is still handsomer than her mother was at
the same age; she has the same good sense.  Don't
lament over your misfortunes, Frederick, for many
people would envy your lot in having such a child,
who gives you so much satisfaction."

One thing only made the tears come, that is
when I thought of my wife, then I cried to myself:

"Ah! if Catherine could come back to see
her, she would be very happy!"

About the same time other ideas entered my
head; the epoch of my retirement was approaching,
and as Marie-Rose had entered her seventeenth
year, I thought of finding her a good and
nice young fellow from among the foresters, in
whose house I could tranquilly end my days, in
the midst of my children and grandchildren, and
who, taking my place, would respect me as I had
respected my father-in-law Burat, when succeeding
him twenty years before.

I thought of it; it was my principal idea, and
I had even some one in view, a tall and handsome
young man from Felsberg, who had left the horse
guards three or four years before, and who had
just been appointed forest guard at Tömenthal,
near our house.  His name was Jean Merlin, and
he was already experienced in the duties of a
forester, having passed his apprenticeship at
Eyisheim, in Alsace.

The young fellow pleased me first because he
had a good character, afterward because Marie-Rose
regarded him with a favourable eye.  I had
remarked that she always blushed a little when
she saw him enter the house to make his report,
and that he never failed to appear in full dress,
carefully shaved, his little cap with its hunting
horn badge, adorned with an oak leaf or a sprig of
heather, which sets off a man; and that his voice,
which was a little gruff, became very gentle in
saying, "Good day, Mlle. Marie-Rose; I hope
you are quite well?  What beautiful weather we
are having—the sun is shining finely," etc.  He
appeared embarrassed; and Marie-Rose also
answered him timidly.  It was very clear that they
loved and admired each other, a natural thing
when one is old enough to get married.  It always
has been and always will be so; it is a blessing of
Providence.

Therefore I found no evil in it, on the
contrary I thought: "When he asks her of me
according to custom, we will see about it.  I will
say neither yes nor no at once; one must not have
the air of throwing one's self at people's heads;
but I will, and by yielding, for neither must one
break young people's hearts."

Those were the ideas that I revolved in my head.

Besides which the young man was of good
family; he had his uncle, Daniel Merlin, who was
schoolmaster at Felsberg; his father had been
sergeant in a regiment of infantry, and his mother,
Margredel, though she lived with him in the
forester's house at Tömenthal, possessed at Felsberg
a cottage, a garden, and four or five acres of good
land; one could not desire a match in every way
more advantageous.

And seeing that everything seemed to go according
to my wishes, almost every evening when
I returned from my circuits through the woods, in
the path which skirts the valley of Dôsenheim, at
the moment when the sun is setting, when the
silence spreads itself with the shadow of the forest
over the great meadows of La Zinzelle—that
silence of the solitude, scarcely broken by the
murmur of the little river—almost every evening,
walking thoughtfully along, I pictured to myself
the peace that my children would have in this
corner of the world, their pleasant home, the birth
of little beings whom we would carry to Dôsenheim
to have them baptized in the old church,
and other similar things, which touched my heart
and made me say:

"Lord God, it is all sure; these things will
happen.  And when you grow old, Frederick,
very old, your back bent by age, like grandmother
Anne, and your head quite white, you will pass
away quietly, satisfied with years, and blessing the
young brood.  And long after you are gone, that
brave Jean Merlin, with Marie-Rose, will keep
you in remembrance."

In picturing all this to myself, I halted regularly
on the path above the forester house of Jean
Merlin, looking beneath at the little tiled roof,
the garden surrounded with palisades, and the
yard whence the mother of Jean drove her ducks
and fowls into the poultry-yard towards night, for
foxes were not wanting in that outskirt of the
forest.  I looked down from above, and I cried,
raising my cap, "Hilloa!  Margredel, good evening."

Then she would raise her eyes, and joyously
reply to me, "Good evening, Mr. Brigadier.  Are
all well at your house?"

"Why, yes, Margredel, very well, Heaven be
praised."  Then I would come down through the
brushwood, and we would shake hands.

She was a good woman, always gay and laughing
because of her great confidence in God, which
made her always look upon the bright side of
things.  Without ever having said anything to
each other, we knew very well of what we were
each thinking; we only needed to talk about the
weather to understand all the rest.

And when, after having had a good gossip, I
went away, Margredel would still call after me, in
her rather cracked voice, for she was nearly sixty
years old, "A pleasant walk to you, Brigadier.
Don't forget Mlle. Marie-Rose and the grandmother."

"Don't be afraid.  I'll forget nothing."

She would make a sign with her head to me
that it was all right, and I would go off with
lengthening steps.

It sometimes happened to me also, sometimes
when my circuit was finished before five o'clock,
to find Jean near the house, at the other side of
the valley, in the path that skirted our orchard,
and Marie-Rose in the garden picking vegetables.
They were each on their own side, and were
talking across the hedge without appearing to do so;
they were telling things to each other.

That reminded me of the happy time when I
was courting Catherine, and I came up very softly
over the heather till I was within twenty steps
behind them, and then I cried, "Ho! ho!  Jean
Merlin, is it like this that you perform your duties?  I
catch you saying fine words to the pretty girls."

Then he turned round, and I saw his embarrassed look.

"Excuse me, Brigadier," he said, "I came to
see you on business, and I was conversing with
Mlle. Marie-Rose while waiting for you."

"Oh, yes, that is all very well; we will see to
that.  I do not trust foxes myself."

And other jokes without end.  You can understand,
George, that happiness had returned to us.

I had as much confidence in Jean Merlin as in
Marie-Rose and in myself.  The evil race that
deceives does not exist in our country; it has always
come from elsewhere.





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.. _`IV`:

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   \IV

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Things went on like this throughout the
whole year 1868.  Jean Merlin took every possible
occasion to present himself at the house, either on
business connected with his office, or else to
consult me on his family affairs.  He had but one
fear, that was of being refused.  Sometimes, when
we were walking together in the woods, I saw
him musing, with drooping head; he seemed to
wish to speak; he raised his voice suddenly, and
then was silent.

For my part, I wished that he would be a little
more courageous, but I could not open the
subject; that would not have been proper for his
superior; I awaited his formal proposal, thinking
that he would end by writing to me, or by sending
me one of his relatives to make a ceremonious
declaration: his uncle Daniel, for instance, the
schoolmaster of Felsberg, a respectable man, who
was able to take charge of so delicate a commission.

It often happened to me also to reflect upon
what concerned me particularly.  I asked nothing
better than to see my daughter happy, but I had
to try to arrange all interests in accord as much as
possible.  When one thinks of nothing,
everything appears simple and easy, and yet the best
things have their evil side.

I had still nearly two years to serve before
retiring, but after that, if my son-in-law was not
named brigadier in my place, we would be forced
to quit the old house, where I had passed so many
years, with the beings who were dear to
me—father-in-law Burat, my poor wife, grandmother
Anne, everybody, in fact; and we would be
obliged to abandon all that to go live in a land
which I did not know, and among strange faces.

That idea made me wretched.  I knew well
that Marie-Rose and Jean Merlin would always
respect me as their father; of that I was sure.
But the habit of turning round in the same corner
and of seeing the same things becomes a second
nature, and that is why old hares and old foxes,
even when they have received gunshot wounds in
the neighbourhood of their lair or their hole,
always return there; they need the sight of the
brushwood and the tuft of grass, which recall to
them their youth, their love, and even the
annoyances and the sorrows which, in the long run,
make up three-quarters of our existence, and to
which we become as strongly attached as to
memories of happiness.

Ah! I never should have believed that anything
worse could happen to me than to retire
with my children into a country of fir trees like
ours, and into a little house like my own.

These things made me very uneasy, and, since
the departure of President Münsch, I no longer
knew of whom I could ask a bit of good advice,
when at length all was settled in a very happy
way, which touches my heart even now when I
think of it.





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   \V

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You must know that, during the years 1867,
1868, and 1869, roads were being made in all
directions, to facilitate the wood-cutting and to
transport the wood to the railway and the canal.
M. Laroche, Forest Inspector of the Canton of
Lutzelstein, directed these great works.  He was
a man of fifty-five years of age, robust and serious,
who thought of nothing but his business; hunting
and fishing were not among his tastes; to be well
noticed by him, there was no question of being a
good shot or a skilful trapper; it was necessary to
serve him well.

He often came himself to the place, explaining
clearly the declivity to be followed, the trees which
ought to be felled, etc.; unless one was idiotic, he
could not but understand.  Things went on this
way briskly and well.  Naturally, such a man
would know all his workmen thoroughly, and
when he was satisfied, he would address to you
some of those kind words that make your heart
light.

For my part, I think that he took an interest
in me, for often, after hearing my report in his
office at Lutzelstein, he would say to me, "That
is very good, very good, Father Frederick!" and
would even shake hands with me.

Towards the spring of 1869 the order arrived
to repair the road which descends from Petite
Pierre to the valley of Graufthal, in order to join
the new highway from Saverne to Metting; the
junction fell near the saw-mill, not far from the
forester's house; I had to go, therefore, every
working day with my brigade to survey the works.

The first part was almost finished, and they
had commenced to blow up the rocks below, near
the valley, to level the road, when, one morning,
going to make my usual report at Lutzelstein, the
inspector received me particularly well.

It was about ten o'clock, his breakfast hour,
and he had just reached his house as I rang.

"Ah! it is you, Father Frederick," said he,
gaily, as he opened his door; "fine weather this
morning.  All right down yonder?"

"Yes, sir, all is going well, according to your
orders."

"Very good," said he.  "Sit down, I have
something to say to you.  You will breakfast with
me.  My wife is with her parents in Champagne;
you will keep me company."

Often, when I arrived at breakfast time, he
would offer me a glass of wine, but the idea had
never occurred to him to give me a place at his
table.

"Sit down there," said he.  "Here, Virginie,
bring a plate for the brigadier.  You can bring in
breakfast."

Imagine my astonishment and my satisfaction.
I did not know how to thank him; he did not
seem to see my embarrassment.  He commenced
by taking off his tunic and putting on his coat,
asking me: "You have a good appetite, Father
Frederick?"

"Yes, sir, that never fails me."

"So much the better!  Taste this beefsteak;
Virginie is a good cook; you will tell me what
you think of it.  Here's to your health!"

"Here's to yours, sir."

I felt as if I were dreaming; I said to myself,
"Is this really you, Frederick, who are breakfasting
here in this handsome room, with your superior,
and who are drinking this good wine?"  And
I felt embarrassed.

M. Laroche, on the contrary, grew more and
more familiar, so that, finally, after three or four
glasses, I discovered that the thing was quite
natural.  Because his wife was not at home, I
thought that he was glad to have me to talk over
the felling of the timber, the new clearings, and
our road from Graufthal; so I grew bolder, and
answered him laughing, and almost without embarrassment.

Things went on thus for about twenty minutes;
Mlle. Virginie had brought in the biscuits,
almonds, and Gruyère cheese, when, throwing
himself back in his chair, and looking at me
good-humouredly, "It is very agreeable," said he, "to
be as well as we are, at our age.  Ha! ha! ha! we
have not yet lost our teeth, Father Frederick!"

"No, indeed; they are well-rooted, sir."  And
I laughed, too.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I shall soon be fifty, sir."

"And I am fifty-five.  Well, well, it is all the
same; the time for retiring is approaching; one of
these days they will slit our ears."

He was still laughing.  As for me, when I
thought of that, I was not so gay as before.

Then he passed me the cheese, saying: "What
do you think of doing two years from now?  For
my part, my wife wants to take me into her
country, Champagne.  That is a great bore; I
do not like the plains; but, you know, 'A wilful
woman will have her way.'  It is a proverb, and
all proverbs have an astounding air of good
sense."

"Yes, sir," I answered; "such proverbs as that
are really annoying, for I could never leave the
mountains; I am too used to them.  If I had to
go, I should not live two weeks.  There would be
nothing left to do but throw on me the last
handful of earth."

"Without doubt," he said; "but when the
young people come, the old people must give up
their place."

In spite of the good wine, I had become quite
silent, thinking of those unfortunate things, when
he said to me: "In your place, Father Frederick,
do you know what I would do?  Since you love
the mountains so, since it is, so to speak, your
existence to live in the forest—well, I would look
out for a son-in-law among the foresters; a good
fellow, who would take my place and with whom
I would live tranquilly till the end, in the midst of
the green caps and the smell of the firs."

"Ah! that is so, sir; I think of it every day;
but——"

"But what?" he said.  "What hinders you?
You have a pretty daughter, you are a sensible
man; what embarrasses you?  It is not for want
of choice, I hope; in the inspector's guard, big
Kern, Donadieu, Nicolas Trompette, would ask
nothing better than to become your son-in-law.
And that good Jean Merlin.  He is what one
might call a model forester—frank, active,
intelligent, and who would answer your purpose
admirably.  His record is excellent; he stands first
on the list for promotion, and, upon my word,
Father Frederick, I think that, on your retreat, he
has a good chance of succeeding you."

When I heard that, I got red up to my ears,
and I could not help saying, "That is true!  No
one has anything to say against Jean Merlin; I
have never seen a better or more honest fellow;
but I cannot offer my daughter to people who
please me; Merlin has never spoken to me of
marriage with Marie-Rose, neither has his mother
Margredel, nor his uncle Daniel; not any of the
family.  You can understand, sir, that I cannot
make the advances; it would not be proper!
Beside, everything ought to be done decently and in
order; the proposal ought to be made regularly!"

He was going to answer, when Mlle. Virginia
came in to pour out the coffee, so he took a box
from the mantelpiece, saying, "Let us light our
cigars, Father Frederick."

I saw that he was amused, and when the
servant went out he cried, laughing, "Come, now,
Father Frederick, do you really need some one to
tell you that Marie-Rose and Jean Merlin love
each other with all their hearts?  And must Uncle
Daniel come and declare it to you in a black hood
and with buckled shoes?"

He laughed loudly, and as I sat in surprise:

"Well," said he, "here is the affair in two
words: The other day Jean Merlin was so
melancholy that I asked him if he was sick, and the
poor fellow confessed to me, with tears in his
eyes, what he called his misfortune.  You are so
serious and respectable-looking that none of the
family dared to make the proposal, and the good
people thought that I would have some influence.
Must I put on my grand uniform, Father Frederick?"

He was so gay that, notwithstanding my
trouble, I answered: "Oh, sir, now all is well!"

"Then you consent?"

"Do I consent?  I have never wished for anything
else.  Yes, yes, I consent, and I thank you.
You can say, M. Laroche, that to-day you have
rendered Frederick the happiest of men."

I had already risen and had put my bag upon
my shoulder, when the chief guard, Rameau,
entered, on business connected with the service.

"You are going, Frederick?" asked the
inspector.  "Are you not going to empty your cup?"

"Ah!  M. Laroche," I said, "I am too happy
to keep quiet.  The children are waiting for me, I
am sure; I must go carry them the good news."

"Go, then, go," he said, rising and accompanying
me to the door; "you are right not to
delay the young people's happiness."

He shook hands with me, and I left, after
saluting M. Rameau.





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I went away so happy that I could not see
clearly.  It was only at the end of the street, in
going down at the left again, towards the valley,
that I awoke from this great confusion of joyous
ideas.

I had perhaps taken a little drop too much; I
must confess, George, that the good wine had
dazzled my eyes a little; but my legs were solid,
nevertheless, and I went as if I were just twenty
years old, laughing and saying to myself:

"Frederick, now everything is according to
rule, no one will have anything to say; it is the
inspector himself who has made the proposal and
that is a thousand times better than if it had been
Uncle Daniel.  Ha! ha! ha! what luck!  Won't
they be happy when they learn that I consent;
that all is arranged and that there is nothing left
to do but to sing the *Gloria in Excelsis*!
Ha! ha! ha!  And you can laugh, too, for all has
gone as you wished it.  You will stay in this
country to the end of your existence; you will
see the woods from your window, and you will
smell the sweet odours of the resin and the moss
till you are eighty years of age.  That is what you
needed, to say nothing of the rest; of the
children, the grand-children, etc."

I wanted to dance as I descended the Fromuhle road.

It was then about six o'clock, and night was
approaching; with the coolness of the evening the
frogs were beginning their music in the midst of
the reeds, and the high grasses of the pool, and
the old fir trees on the other side of the shore
showed blue against the darker sky.  I stopped
from time to time to look at them and I thought:

"You are fine trees, straight and full of good
sap, and so you will remain there for a long time
to come.  The sun will delight your evergreen
tops till you are marked for the axe of the
woodcutter.  Then that will be the end, but the little
firs will have grown up in your shadow and the
place will never be vacant."

And while thinking of that, I recommenced
my march, quite touched, and I cried:

"Yes, Frederick, such will be your lot.  You
loved father-in-law Burat, you supported him when
he could not do anything, in consideration of the
confidence he had reposed in you, and because he
was a good man, an old servant of the state and a
man to be respected.  Now it is your turn to be
loved and supported by those who are full of
youth; you will be in the midst of them like one
of these old fir trees, covered with white moss.
The poor old things, they deserved to live, for if
they had not grown up straight they would have
been cut down long ago to be made into logs and
fagots."

I blessed Providence which never lets the honest
perish, and it is thus that I arrived, towards
seven o'clock in the evening, on the Scienie road
at the bottom of the valley.  I saw the forester
house at the left, near the bridge.  Ragot was
barking, Calas was bringing the cattle back to the
stable, shouting and cracking his whip, the flock
of ducks on the bank of the river were scratching
and picking themselves around their necks and
under their wings and tails, while awaiting the
hour of going to roost; some chickens were still
pecking in the courtyard, and two or three
half-plucked old hens were napping in the shadow of
the little wall.

Then, seeing Ragot running to meet me, I
said to myself:

"Here we are.  Now attention.  First you
are going to speak.  Jean Merlin must be there
for certain.  All must be quite clear beforehand."





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I went up the stairs and I saw Marie-Rose in
the lower room, with bare arms; she was kneading
dough and rolling it out flat, with the rolling-pin,
on our large table, to make noodles.  She had
seen me in the distance and continued her work
without raising her eyes.

"You are working hard, Marie-Rose," I
remarked to her.

"Ah! it is you, father," said she; "I am
making noodles."

"Yes, it is I," I replied, hanging my bag
against the wall; "I have come from the
inspector's.  Has any one been here?"

"Yes, father, Jean Merlin came to make his
report, but he went away again."

"Ah! he went away again, did he?  Very
good! he has not gone far, I guess; we have some
very important business to talk over!"

I came and went, looking at the dough, the
basket of eggs, the little bowl of flour and
Marie-Rose, working away without opening her lips.

Finally I stopped and said to her:

"See here, Marie-Rose, it is right to be
industrious, but we have something else to do just
now.  What is this that I have just heard at the
inspector's?  Is it true that you love Jean Merlin?"

As I spoke she let fall the rolling pin and
flushed scarlet.

"Yes," I said; "that's the point!  I don't
mean to scold you about it; Jean Merlin is a nice
fellow, and a good forester, and I am not angry at
him.  In my time, I loved your mother dearly,
and father Burat, who was my superior, neither
chased me away nor swore at me because of it.  It
is a natural thing when one is young to think of
getting married.  But when one wishes to marry
an honest girl, one must first ask her of her father,
so that every one may be agreed.  Everything
ought to be conducted sensibly."

She was very much embarrassed, for on hearing
that she ran to get a pot of mignonette and
placed it on the sill of the open window, an action
which filled me with surprise, for my wife,
Catherine, had done the same thing on the day of my
proposal to call me in; and almost at once Merlin
came out of the clump of trees under the rocks
opposite, where I also had hidden, and ran across
the meadow as I myself had run, twenty-three
years before!

Then, seeing these things, I did also what old
Burat had done.  I placed myself in the hall before
the door of the room, my daughter behind me;
and as Merlin entered, all out of breath, I drew
myself up and said to him:

"Merlin, is it true what the inspector tells me;
that you love my daughter and ask her in marriage?"

"Yes brigadier," he answered me, placing his
hand on his heart, "I love her better than life!
At the same time he wished to speak to Marie-Rose,
but I cried:

"Stop a minute!  You love her and she has
found out that she loves you.  That is very
nice—it is agreeable to love each other!  But you
must think also of the others, of the old people.
When I married Catherine Burat I promised to
keep her father and mother till the end of their
days, and I have kept my word, like every man of
honour; I have loved them, cared for them, and
venerated them; they have always had the first
place at table, the first glass of wine, the best bed
in the house.  Grandmother Anne, who still lives,
is there to say it.  It was only my duty, and if I
had not done it I would have been a villain; but
they have never had any complaints to make, and
on his death-bed father Burat blessed me and said:
'Frederick has always been to us like the best of
sons!'  I deserve, therefore, to have the same, and
I wish to have it because it is just!  Well, now
that you have heard me, will you promise to be to
me what I was to father Burat?"

"Ah! brigadier," said he, "I would be the happiest
of men to have you for a father!  Yes, yes,
I promise to be a good son to you; I promise to
love you always and to respect you as you deserve."

Then I was touched, and I said:

"In that case, all right; I give you the hand
of Marie-Rose, and you may kiss her."

They kissed each other right before me, like
two good children that they were.  Marie-Rose
wept profusely.  I called the grandmother into
the little side-room; she came leaning on my arm
and blessed us all, saying:

"Now I can die in peace, I have seen my
grand-daughter happy, and loved by an honest man."

And all that day till evening she did not stop
praying, commending her grand-children to God.
Merlin and Marie-Rose did not weary of talking
together and looking at each other.  I walked to
and fro in the large room and told them:

"Now you are affianced.  Jean can come
whenever he likes, whether I am at home or gone
out.  The inspector told me that he was first on
the list for promotion, and that he would doubtless
replace me at my retreat; that cannot be far
off now; then we will celebrate the marriage."

This good news augmented their satisfaction.

Night came on, and Jean Merlin, so as not to
worry his mother, rose and kissed once more his
promised bride.  We accompanied him out as far
as the great pear tree.  The weather was
magnificent, the sky glittering with stars; not a bird nor
a leaf was stirring, all were sleeping in the valley.
And as Merlin pressed my hand I said to him again:

"You will tell your mother, Margredel, to
come without fail to-morrow before noon; Marie-Rose
will get you up a good dinner, and we will
celebrate the betrothal together; it is the greatest
festival in one's life; and if Uncle Daniel could
also come we should be very glad of it."

"Very well, Father Frederick," he said, and
then he walked swiftly away.

We went in again with tears in our eyes.
And thinking of my poor Catherine, I said to
myself:

"There are still some pleasant days in life;
why is my good, my excellent wife no longer
with us?"

It was the only bitter moment I had during
that day.





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You understand, George, that after this, all
went on well.  I had nothing more to think of but
my service.  Jean Merlin and his mother Margredel
came to pass every Sunday at our house.

It was autumn, the opening of the season for
hunting and fishing; the time for bird catching
and snare setting in the woods, and for fishing
baskets and nets at the river.

The old watchmaker, Baure, of Phalsbourg,
arrived, as usual, with his great fishing rod and his
bag for the trout; Lafleche, Vignerol, and others,
with their bird calls and limed twigs; the gentlemen
from Saverne with their dogs and their guns;
they whistled, they yelled; they shot hares and
sometimes a deer; then all these people came to
take lunch and refresh themselves at the forester's
house; the smell of frying and of good omelettes,
with ham, reached to the garden, and we turned a
penny or two at the house that way.

As you know all these things, I have no need
to tell you about them.

But this year we saw also arrive quantities of
wood-cutters from the Palatinate, from Bavaria,
and further; great strapping fellows, with knapsacks
on their backs and gaiters with bone buttons
on their legs, who were going to Neiderviller, to
Laneville, and to Toul to work at wood felling.
They passed in bands, their vests hanging from
the handles of their axes over their shoulders.

These people emptied their mugs of wine as
they passed; they were jolly fellows, who filled
the room with smoke from their big porcelain
pipes, asking questions about everything, laughing
and joking like people who have no trouble about
earning their living.

Naturally I was glad to have them stop at our
house; that made business brisk.

I remember at this time a thing which shows
the blindness of slow-witted people who are
ignorant of what is going on at twenty leagues from
home, and who trust to the government without
thinking of anything; a thing of which I am
ashamed, for we went so far as to laugh at
sensible men, who warned us to be on our guard!

One day our whole house was filled with people
from the city and the environs; some of these
strangers among the rest.  They were laughing
and drinking, and one of the tall Bavarians, with
red whiskers and big mustaches, who was before
the window, cried:

"What a lovely country!  What magnificent
fir trees!  What are those old ruins up there—and
this little wood yonder—and that path to the
right—and that pass to the left, between the
rocks?  Ah!  I have never seen such a country
for fruit trees or fine water courses.  It is rich; it
is green.  Is there not a steeple behind that little
wood?  What is the name of that pretty village?"

I, who was glad to hear this man so enthusiastic
over our valley, I told him about everything in
detail.

Baure, Dürr, Vignerol were talking together;
they were smoking and going occasionally to the
kitchen to see if the omelette was nearly ready,
without troubling their heads about anything else.

But near the clock sat Captain Rondeau, who
had returned home several months before having
retired on a pension, a tall, dry-looking man, with
hollow cheeks, wearing his black overcoat
buttoned up to the chin, suffering from wounds
received in Italy, Africa, and the Crimea, listening
without saying anything and drinking a cup of
milk because Doctor Semperlin had forbidden him
to take anything else.

This went on for a whole hour, when the Bavarians,
having emptied their mugs, continued their
journey.  I followed them to the door to show
them the road to Biegelberg; the tall, red-haired
man laughed, showing his teeth with a joyous
air; finally he shook hands with me and cried,
"Thanks," as he went to join his band.

While they were taking their leave, Captain
Rondeau, leaning on his cane, was standing in the
doorway, and he watched them go off with glittering
eyes and compressed lips.

"Who are those people, Father Frederick?"
he said to me.  "Do you know them?"

"Those are Germans, captain," I answered
him; "wood-cutters; I do not know any more
about them, except that they are going to Toul,
to work for some contractors there."

"Why do they not employ Frenchmen, these
contractors?"

"Ah! because these wood-cutters are cheaper
than ours; they work for half-price."

The captain frowned, and all at once he said:

"Those are spies; people that came to examine
the mountain."

"Spies?  How is that?" I answered, in
astonishment.  "What have they to spy out here?
Have they any reason to meddle in our affairs?"

"They are Prussian spies," he said, dryly;
"they came to take a look at our positions."

Then I believed almost that he was joking
with me, and I said to him:

"But, Captain Rondeau, all the strong points
are set down, and any one can buy maps of the
country at Strasburg, or Nancy, or anywhere."

But, looking at me askance, he exclaimed:

"Maps! maps!  And do your maps tell how
much hay, and straw, and wheat, and oats, and
wine, and oxen, and horses and wagons can be put
into requisition in each village for an army on the
march?  Do they tell you where the mayor lives,
or the *curé*, or the postmaster, or the receiver of
contributions, so that one can lay one's hand upon
them at any minute, or where stables can be found
to lodge the horses, and a thousand other things
that are useful to know beforehand?  Maps, indeed!
Do your maps tell the depth of the streams,
or the situation of the fords?  Do they point out
to you the guides that are best to take or the
people that must be seized because they might
rouse up the populace?"

And as I remained, my arms hanging at my
sides, surprised at these things, of which I had
never thought, Father Baure cried from the room:

"Well, captain, who is it that would want to
attack us?  The Germans?  Ha! ha! ha!  Let
them come! let them come!  We'll give them a
warm reception.  Poor devils!  I would not like
to be in their skins.  Ha! ha! ha!  We would
settle them!  Not one should go out alive from
these mountains."

All the others laughed and cried out: "Yes! yes! let
them come!  Let them try it!  We'll
give them a good reception!"

Then the captain re-entered the room, and,
looking at big Fischer, who was shouting the
loudest, he asked of him:

"You would receive them?  With what?  Do
you know what you are talking about?  Where
are our troops, our supplies, our arms; where,
where, where, I ask of you?  And do you know
how many of them there are, these Germans?  Do
you know that they are a million of men, exercised,
disciplined, organized, ready to start at two
weeks' notice—artillery, cavalry, infantry?  Do
you know that?  *You* will receive them!"

"Yes," cried Father Baure, "Phalsbourg, with
Bitche, Lichtenberg, and Schlestadt, would stop
them for twenty years."

Captain Rondeau did not even take the trouble
to reply, and, pointing from the window to the
wood-cutters that were going away, he said to me:
"Look, Father Frederick, look!  Are those
men wood-cutters?  Do our wood-cutters march in
ranks? do they keep step? do they keep their
shoulders thrown back and their heads straight,
and do they obey a chief who keeps them in order?
Do not our wood-cutters and those of the
mountains all have rounded shoulders and a heavy gait?
These men are not even mountaineers; they come
from the plains; they are spies.  Yes, they are
spies, and I mean to have them arrested."

And, without listening to what might be
answered, he threw *sous* on the table in
payment for his cup of milk, and went out abruptly.

He was scarcely outside the door when all who
were present burst out laughing.  I signed to them
to be quiet, for that the captain could still hear
them; then they held their sides and snuffled
through their noses, saying:

"What fun! what fun!  The Germans coming
to attack us!"

Father Baure, while wiping his eyes with his
handkerchief, said:

"He is a good fellow; but he got a rap at the
Malakoff, and since then his clock has been out of
order, and it always strikes noon at fourteen
o'clock."

The others recommenced laughing, like real
madmen, so that I thought, George, myself, that
the captain had not common sense.

All that comes back to me as if it had taken
place yesterday, and two or three days later,
having learned that the captain had caused the
wood-cutters to be arrested in a body at the Lutzelbourg
station, and that, their papers being all right, they
had obtained authorization to continue their
journey into Lorraine, notwithstanding all the
representations and the observations of M. Rondeau, I
believed decidedly that the worthy man was
cracked.

Every time that Baure came to the forester's
house he would begin upon the chapter of the
German spies, and made me very merry over it.
But to-day we have ceased laughing, and I am sure
that the jokers of Phalsbourg no longer rub their
hands when the *feldwebel* makes his rod whistle
while calling to the conscripts on the parade ground,
"*Gewehr auf!—Gewehr ab!*"  I am sure that this
sight has more than once recalled to them the
captain's warning.





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This took place at the end of the autumn of
1869; the valley was already filled with mist; then
came the winter: the snow began to whirl before
the panes, the fire to crackle in the furnace, and
the spinning-wheel of Marie-Rose to hum from
morning till night, to the accompaniment of the
monotonous ticking of the old clock.

I paced to and fro, smoking my pipe, and
thinking of my retreat.  Doubtless Marie-Rose
thought of it also, and Merlin spoke to me
sometimes about hurrying up the marriage, which
annoyed me considerably, for when I have said my
say, I am done, and, since we had agreed to
celebrate the marriage the day of his nomination, I
did not see the use of talking over an affair already
decided.

But the young people were in a hurry; the
dulness of the season and the impatience of youth
were the causes.

For two months past, Baure, Vignerol, Dürr,
and the others came no more; the trees bent
under their load of icicles; no one passed the house
any more, except some rare travellers afar off in
the valley.  The history of the captain's spies,
which had made me laugh so much, had entirely
gone out of my head, when an extraordinary thing
proved to me clearly that the old soldier had not
been wrong in distrusting the Prussians, and that
other people thought of dealing foul blows—people
high in rank, in whom we had placed all our confidence.

That year several herds of wild boars ravaged
the country.  These animals scratched up the
newly-sown grain; they dug up the ground in the woods
to find roots, and came down every night to tear
up the fields around the farms and the hamlets.

The peasants were never done lamenting and
complaining; when, finally, we heard that Baron
Pichard had arrived to organize a general battle.
I received at the same time the order to go and
join him, at his rendezvous of Rothfelz, with the
best marksmen of the brigade, as many of the
huntsmen of the neighbourhood as I could get.

It was in December I started with Merlin, big
Kern, Donadieu, Trompette, and fifteen or twenty
hunters, and in the evening we found up there all
the baron's guests, filling the rooms of the little
hunting lodge, lying on straw, eating, drinking,
and joking as usual.

But you know all about those things, George;
you remember also the hunting lodge at Rothfelz,
the cries of the hunters, the barking of the dogs,
and the danger of the guests, who fired in every
direction but the right one, in the lines and out of
the lines, always imagining at the end that they
had killed the great beast.  As for us guards, we
had always missed.  You remember that; it is
always the same thing.

What I want to tell you is, that after the hunt,
in which some wild boars and a few young pigs
had fallen, they had a grand feast in the hunting
lodge.  The carriages of the baron had contained
an abundance of everything: wine, cherry brandy,
wheaten bread, pies, sugar, coffee, cognac; and,
naturally, towards midnight, after having run
around in the snow, eaten, drunk, howled and
sung, the party of pleasure wore a dubious aspect.

We were quartered in the kitchen and well
supplied with everything, and, as the door of the
dining-room was open, to air the room, we could
hear everything that the guests said, particularly
as they shouted at the tops of their voices, like
blind men.

I had noticed among the number a tall, lean
fellow, with a hooked nose, black eyes, a small
mustache, a tightly-fitting vest, and muscular legs
in his high leather gaiters, who handled his small
gun with singular skill; I said to myself, "That
man, Frederick, is not in the habit of sitting before
a desk and toasting his calves by the fire; he is
certainly a soldier, a superior officer!"

He had been stationed near me in the morning,
and I had noticed that his two shots had not
missed their mark.  I looked upon him as a real
huntsman, and so he was.  He knew also how to
drink, for towards midnight three-fourths of the
guests were already fast asleep in all the corners,
and, except himself, Baron Pichard, M. Tubingue,
one of the largest, richest vine-growers in Alsace;
M. Jean Claude Ruppert, the notary, who could
drink two days running without changing colour
or saying one word quicker than another; and
M. Mouchica, the wood-merchant, whose custom it is
to intoxicate every one with whom he has any
dealings—except these, the other guests, extended
on their bundles of straw, had all left the party.

Then a loud conversation took place; the
baron said that the Germans were sending spies
into Alsace, that they had agents everywhere,
disguised as servants or commercial travellers or
peddlers; that they were drawing out maps of the
roads, the paths, the forests; that they even
penetrated into our arsenals and sent notes regularly to
Germany; that they had done the same thing in
Schleswig-Holstein before commencing the war,
and then in Bohemia, before Sadowa; that they
were not to be trusted, etc.

The notary and M. Mouchica agreed with him
that it was a very serious business, and that our
government ought to take measures to stop this
spy system.

Naturally, when we heard that, we listened
with all our ears, when the officer began to laugh,
saying that he was more ready to believe what the
baron said because we were doing the same thing
in Germany; that we had engineers in all the
fortresses and staff-officers in all their valleys.  And
M. Tubingue having said that that was impossible,
that no French officer would behave that way,
because of the honour of the army, he began to laugh
still louder, and said:

"But, my dear sir, what is war now?  It is an
art, a game, an open contest; they look over each
other's hands and each tries to make out the cards
of his adversary.  Look at me; I have gone all
through the Palatinate as a commercial traveller;
I sold Bordeaux to those good Germans!"

Then, laughing still more, the gentleman
related all that he had seen on his road, just like
what Captain Rondeau had said that the Prussians
were doing here, adding that we were only waiting
for an excuse to seize on the left bank of the
Rhine.

When they heard that, my guards began to
stamp their feet with delight, as if their fortune
was made; and at once the door was closed, and
we heard nothing more.

I went out into the air, for the stupidity of
big Kern, Trompette, and the others disgusted me.

It was very cold outside; the platform was
white with frost and the moon over the bristling
old firs was peeping between the clouds.

"What is the matter, brigadier?" asked Merlin,
who had followed me; "you look pale.  Do
you feel sick?"

"Yes, the stupidity of Trompette and the
others has upset me; I should like to know what
made them stamp," I answered.  "And you, too,
Merlin; you surprise me!  You think that it is a
fine thing to invade the country of our neighbours;
to carry off the wheat, the wine, the hay,
and the straw of poor people, who never did us
any harm.  You think it is fine to take their
country and to make them French, in spite of
themselves.  That is sport.  You think that is
sport!  Would you like to become a German?
Would you like to obey the Prussians and put
aside your country for another?  What would it
profit us to do such a thing as that?  Would it
make us richer to tear out the souls of our
neighbours?  Would that leave us with a good
conscience?  Well, for my part, I would not, for the
honour of our nation, have an ill-gotten *centime*
or inch of land.  I do not want to believe what
that gentleman says.  If it is true, so much the
worse!  Even if we were the strongest to-day, the
Germans, from father to son, would think only
of vengeance, of returning to their rights, of
reclaiming their blood.  Would the good God be
just to abandon them?  There are only beings
without hearts and without religion who are
capable of believing it; gamblers, who imagine
stupidly that they will always win.  Nevertheless, we
see that many gamblers end their days on a dunghill."

"Father Frederick," said Merlin, "don't be
angry with me.  I had never thought of all that;
it is true.  But you are too angry to return to the
kitchen."

"Yes," I answered, "let us go to sleep; that
is better than drinking; there is still room in the
barn."

We did so, and left the next morning at daybreak.

What I have just told you, George, is true; I
have always placed justice above everything, and
even now, when I have lost all that I loved best
in the world, I repeat the same thing.  I am
better pleased in my great misery to be deprived of
the fruit of my labour for thirty years than to
have lost my love of justice.





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After that the winter passed as usual; rain,
snow, great blasts of wind through the leafless
trees, uprooted firs, dislodged rocks, covering
with earth the roads and paths at the foot of
the slope.  That is what I had seen for twenty-five
years past.

Then gradually the spring arrived.  The cattle
again descended to drink at the river.  Calas
began to sing again as he cracked his whip, and the
cock began to flap his wings on the low wall of
the poultry-yard, in the midst of his hens, filling
with his clear voice all the echoes of the valley.

Ah! how all that comes back to me, George,
and how beautiful those things to which I then
paid no attention, appear to me now in this garret
into which scarcely a ray of light can penetrate.

It was our last spring at the forest house.

Marie-Rose, every morning, in her short petticoat,
with her clean *fichu* crossed over her bosom,
went into the garden with her basket and the old
earthy knife, to gather the first vegetables.  She
came and went, lifting up the bordering of box
that edged the little alleys, and tied up the
branches of the rose bushes that had fallen away
from their stakes.  I saw in the distance Jean
Merlin, advancing at a swift pace through the
meadow path, skirting the old willows; I heard
him call out:

"Marie-Rose!"

She instantly rose and hastened to meet him.
They kissed each other and returned laughing, arm
in arm.  I was pleased and said to myself:

"They love each other dearly.  They are good
children."

Old grandmother Anne, who was nearly always
shut up in her own room, was looking too,
leaning out of the little window surrounded with
ivy, with her eyelids puckered up, her old face
wrinkled with satisfaction; she called me:

"Frederick!"

"What is it, grandmother?"

"I am growing young as at the time of my
own marriage.  It was the year of the comet in
which they made such good wine before the great
Russian winter; you have heard them talk of that,
Frederick; all our soldiers were frozen."

"Yes, grandmother."

She liked to recall those old stories, and we
did not think that we should soon see the same
things.

The good people of Phalsbourg, the poorest,
such as father Maigret, old Paradis, grandfather
Lafougére, all of them old soldiers without any
means of subsistence but public charity and their
medal of St. Helena, began to come to look for
mushrooms in the woods; they knew all the different
kinds from the small to the large Polish
mushroom; they gathered also strawberries and
mulberries.  The wood strawberries, which are the
best, sell in the town for two sous a quart,
mushrooms for three sous the small basketful.

The lower meadow, by the river bank, gave
them also quantities of salad.  How many times
those poor old backs were forced to stoop in order
to earn a *sou*!

And every year we received orders to enforce
the forest laws more severely, to prevent the poor
from picking up the dead leaves and beech nuts,
which was as much as to say to "prevent them
from living."

Things went on this way till the hay-making
season, when came the great drought; it lasted
till the end of July, and we feared for the potatoes.

As to the *plebiscite*, I won't talk to you about
that; those things did not worry us foresters
much.  One fine morning we received the order
to go to the Petite Pierre, and all the brigade,
after assembling at my house, left together in
their holiday clothes to vote; yes, as we had been
ordered to do.  Then, stopping at the inn of the
Three Pigeons, we drank a bumper to the Emperor's
health, after which every one went home
and never thought of it any more.

The people complained of but one thing at
Graufthal, Dôsenheim, and Echbourg, and that
was the lack of rain.  But in the depths of the
valleys dry weather was always the most beautiful
and the richest; we never lacked moisture; the
grass grew in abundance, and all the birds in
Alsace, blackbirds, thrushes, bullfinches, and wood
pigeons, with their young nestlings, enjoyed
themselves with us as if in an aviary.

It was also the best time one could wish for
fishing, for when the waters were low all the trout
ascended to the springs beneath the rocks, where
one could take them out in one's hand.

You may well believe that there was no lack
of fishermen.  Marie-Rose had never before had
as many omelettes and fried dishes to prepare.
She superintended everything and answered the
compliments made to her upon her approaching
marriage without stopping her work.  She looked
as fresh as a rose; merely looking at her, Jean
Merlin's eyes grew moist with tenderness.

Who would have imagined at that time that
we were going to have a war with the Prussians?
What interest had we in that?  Beside, did not
every one say that the *plebiscite* had been voted to
keep peace?  Such an idea had never entered our
heads, when, one July evening, the little Jew,
David, who had been to Dôsenheim to buy a calf,
said to me as he passed:

"You have heard the great news, brigadier?"

"No; what is it?"

"Well, the Paris newspapers say that the Emperor
is about to declare war upon the King of
Prussia."

I could not believe it, because the wood-merchant
Schatner, who had returned a few days before
from Sarrebrück, had told me that the country
thereabouts was swarming with troops, cavalry,
infantry, artillery, and that even the citizens had
their knapsacks, their guns, and their complete
outfits, ticketed and numbered, all arranged in
good order on shelves in large barracks, and that
at the first sign of the *hauptmann* these people
would have nothing to do but to dress themselves,
receive cartridges, get into a railway car, and fall
upon our backs *en masse*.  As for us, we had
nothing at all, either in our towns or our villages,
so simple good sense made me think that they
would not declare war on these Germans before
having put us in a condition to defend ourselves.

So I shrugged my shoulders when the Jew
told me such an absurd thing, and I said:

"Do you take the Emperor for a fool?"

But he went off, dragging his calf by the rope,
and saying:

"Wait a bit, brigadier; you will see—this
won't last long."

All that he could say on that score came to the
same thing, and when Jean Merlin came that
evening, as usual, it never occurred to me to tell
him about it.

Unfortunately, eight or ten days later, the
thing was certain; they were calling in all soldiers
away on leave of absence.  It was even stated
that the Bavarians had cut the telegraph wires
in Alsace—that innumerable troops were passing
Saverne, and that others were encamped at Niederbronn.





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All at once it was rumoured that there had
been fighting near Wissembourg, and that same
evening the inhabitants of Neu Willer, fleeing
with their furniture piled on carts to Lutzelstein,
told us at the very door of the house, without
daring to come in, that several of our battalions
had been slaughtered; that the general of the
vanguard had been left on the field; that
Wissembourg was in flames, and that our troops were
retiring towards Bitche.

These people seemed bewildered with terror;
instead of continuing on their way to Petite
Pierre, the idea struck them all at once that it
was not strongly enough fortified, and in spite
of the circuit of three leagues that they had
just made, the whole band, men and women,
began to climb the Falberg hill to fly to Strasbourg.

Then desolation reigned among us.  Merlin
and his mother came to our house to talk over the
bad news.  The grandmother lamented.  As for
me, I said there was no need to be cast down
about it, that the Germans would never dare to
risk themselves in our forests; that they did not
know the roads, and other reasons like that, which
did not prevent me from being very uneasy myself,
for all that Captain Rondeau had said to us
one year before came back to me; the wood-cutters
that he had caused to be arrested at Lutzelstein
rose before my eyes; and then I was humiliated
to think that the soldiers of Baden and Bavaria
had beaten the French at their first encounter.
I knew that they were ten to one, but that did
not lessen my grief.

It was our first bad night.  I could not sleep,
and I heard Marie-Rose, in her little side room,
get up, open the window, and look out.

All outside was as silent as if nothing had
happened; not a leaf was stirring, so calm was the
air; some crickets were chirping on the ground,
which was still warm six hours after sunset, and
along the river the frogs were uttering their long,
drawn-out cry.

My inward emotion prevented me from sleeping.
About four o'clock Ragot began to bark
down-stairs; some one was knocking at the door,
I dressed myself, and two minutes after, went
down to open the door.

A man, the younger Klein-Nickel, of Petite
Pierre, brought me an order from Inspector
Laroche to come without delay.

Marie-Rose had come down-stairs.  I only
waited long enough to snatch a morsel, and then
I left with my gun slung over my shoulder.  By
seven o'clock I was at M. Laroche's door, and I
went in.  The inspector was seated at his desk
writing.

"Ah! it is you, Frederick," he said, laying
down his pen, "take a seat.  We have had some
pretty bad news; you know that our little body
of men detached for observation has had a misfortune?"
"Yes, sir."

"They allowed themselves to be surprised,"
said he; "but that is nothing; it will not occur
again."

He appeared as tranquil as usual, and said that
in every war there were ups and downs; that a
first unfortunate engagement did not signify
anything, but that it was always good to take
precautions in view of more serious events impossible to
foresee; consequently, that it was necessary to
tell all the men of my brigade, and those that we
were employing on the forest roads, to be ready
to march with their pickaxes, hatchets, and shovels,
at the first order, because it would perhaps be
necessary to blow up the rocks and to cut the
roads by means of ditches and the felling of trees.

"You understand," said he, seeing me rather
uneasy, "that these things are simply measures of
forethought, nothing is threatening; Marshal
MacMahon is concentrating his troops near Hagenau;
everything is in movement; there is nothing
immediate to fear; but the chief thing is to be ready
in case of need; when everything is ready, we
will act rapidly and surely.  I may receive an
order from General de Failly to block the roads,
and in such a case the order must be executed
within a few hours."

"It will not take long, sir," I answered;
"everywhere the rocks are leaning over the roads;
in falling they would take everything with them
to the bottom of the valley."

"Exactly," said he.  "But, first, every one
must be warned.  We have no lack of blasting
powder; if the order arrives, all my colleagues
having taken the same measures, it will be a day's
journey from Bitche to Dabo; not a cannon, not
an ammunition wagon can pass from Alsace to
Lorraine."

He said this as he accompanied me to the
door, and shook hands with me.

As I was going thoughtfully home, I saw on
the height of Altenberg some soldiers who were
planting stockades along the hillside.  The
greatest confusion was reigning in the suburbs, people
were running from house to house to get news,
two or three companies of infantry were encamped
in a potato-field.

All that day and the next I did nothing but
carry the orders of the inspector from Frohmühle
to Echbourg, from Echbourg to Hangsviller, to
Graufthal, to Metting, etc., telling each of what
he would have to do, the places where we were to
meet, the rocks which we were to attack.

On the third day I came home, so worn out
that I could not eat nor even sleep for several
hours.  However, towards morning I fell into a
heavy sleep, from which I was roused by
Marie-Rose coming into my room and opening the
window towards Dôsenheim.

"Listen, father," said she, in a trembling voice;
"listen to that noise.  What is it?  We hear
nothing but that in the whole valley."

I listened.  It was an endless booming that
filled the mountain, and at times covered the noise
of the wind in the trees.  It did not take me long
to understand what it meant, and I answered:

"It is cannon.  They are fighting seven or
eight leagues from here, near Woerth.  It is a
great battle."

Marie-Rose instantly ran down-stairs, and after
having dressed myself I followed her into the
lower room, where the grandmother was also; her
chin trembled as she looked at me with wide-open
eyes.

"It is nothing," I told them; "do not be
afraid; whatever happens, the Germans will never
come this far; we have too many good places to
defend our passes."

But I was very far from feeling very confident
myself.

The cannonading grew louder, sometimes like
the distant rolling of a storm; then it died away,
and we heard nothing more but the rustling of the
leaves, the barking of Ragot before the door, and
the quacking of a duck among the willows by the
river.  These voices of the solitude, when one
thought of what was going on behind the curtain
of the forest, had something strange about them.

I should have liked to climb the rocks to see
at least what was going on on the other side, in
the plain; but as the order to commence operations
might arrive at any minute, I was forced to
stay where I was.

This went on till three o'clock in the afternoon.

I walked about, trying to put a brave face on
the matter, so as not to frighten the women.  This
day, the sixth of August, was very long; even
today, when so many other griefs have overwhelmed
us, I cannot think of it without a heavy heart.

The most terrible moment was, when all at
once the dull sound that we had heard since
morning ceased.  We listened at the garden window,
but not a breath, not a sound but those from the
valley reached us.  It was only after a few
minutes that I said:

"It is over.  The battle is ended.  Now some
are running away and the others are pursuing
them.  God grant that we have conquered."

And till night not a soul appeared in the
neighbourhood.  After supper we went to bed
with heavy hearts.





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The next day was very gloomy; the sky was
cloudy, and at length it began to rain, after the
two months' drought; the rain fell heavily and
continuously; the hours passed slowly away, the
order to commence operations did not come, and
I said to myself:

"That is a good sign!  So much the better!
If we had been defeated the order would have
arrived early this morning."

But we had no news, and about three o'clock,
losing patience, I said to Marie-Rose and the
grandmother:

"See here, I cannot stand this any longer; I
must go to Petite Pierre to find out what is
going on."

I put on my water-proof cape and went out
into the pouring rain.  On our sandy soil the
water flows off without soaking into the ground.
I arrived at Petite Pierre, where every one was
then shut up in the cottages, about six o'clock.
At the point of the fort, high up in air a sentinel
was on guard outside of his watch-box.

A few minutes later I entered the office of the
chief inspector.  He was there alone, walking up
and down with a bowed back and a gloomy air,
and when I raised my hood he stopped short and
said to me:

"It is you, Father Frederick, is it?  Have you
come to hear the news and to get your orders?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Well, the news is bad; the battle is lost; we
are repulsed from Alsace, and one hundred and
fifty thousand Germans are advancing to enter
Lorraine."

A cold shiver ran down my back, and as he
said no more I murmured:

"Everything is ready, sir; there is nothing to
do but to distribute the powder for the mines and
to commence felling the trees; we are all ready
and waiting."

Then, smiling bitterly and running his hands
through his thick brown hair, he cried:

"Yes, yes, we are all like that.  Time presses;
the retreat is continuing by Bitche and Saverne,
the enemy is sending out scouts in all directions,
and the orders do not come."

I answered nothing, and then, seating himself,
he cried:

"After all, why should I hide the truth from
you?  General de Failly has sent me word that
the abattis are useless, and that there is nothing
for us to do."

I was as though rooted to the ground and a
cold trembling shook my limbs.  The inspector
recommenced his walk with his hands crossed
behind his back under the skirts of his coat, and as
he paced to and fro, without saying another word,
I added:

"And now, what are we to do, sir?"

"Remain at your posts like brave fellows,"
he said.  "I have no other orders to give you."

Something choked me; he saw that, and, looking
at me with moistened eyes, he held out his
hand to me, saying:

"Come, Father Frederick, take courage.  After
all, it is pleasant to be able to say, a hand upon the
heart, 'I am a brave man!'  That is *our* recompense."

And I said, deeply moved:

"Yes, sir, yes, that is all which remains to us,
and that will never be lacking."

He did me the honour to accompany me down
the walk to the gate, and again pressing my hand,
he cried:

"Courage! courage!"

Then I set off again, descending the great
valley.  The rain covered the pool of the Fromühle,
which was quivering all gray among the willows
and the parched herbage.

As to telling you about the ideas which
chased each other through my head, and how
often I passed my hand over my face to wipe
away the tears and the rain which were flowing
from it—as to relating to you that, George,
it is not in my power; that would take a wiser
man than I; I felt myself no longer, I did not
know myself, and I repeated to myself in my
trouble:

"No orders—it is useless.  The general says
that it is useless to cut down the trees and to
block up the roads.  Then he wants the enemy to
advance and to come through the passes."

And I marched on.

It was dark night when I reached the house.
Marie-Rose was waiting for me, seated by the
table; she observed me with an anxious eye, and
she seemed to ask, "What has happened—what
orders have we."

But I said nothing, and, throwing my cape, all
streaming with rain, on the back of a chair, and
shaking my cap, I cried:

"Go to bed, Marie-Rose, we will not be
disturbed to-night; go and sleep tranquilly; the
general at Bitche does not want us to stir.  The
battle is lost, but we will have another in Alsace, at
Saverne, or farther off, and the roads are to remain
open.  We have no need to do anything, the roads
will be well guarded."

I do not know what she thought about it, but
at the end of a minute, seeing that I did not sit
down, she said:

"I have kept your soup near the fire, and it
is still hot if you would like something to eat,
father."

"Bah!  I am not hungry," I answered; "let
us go to bed: it is late, and that is the best thing
to do."

I could no longer restrain myself; anger was
gaining upon me.  I went out and bolted the
door, and then taking the lamp I went up-stairs.
Marie-Rose followed me, and we each went to
our own room.

I heard my daughter go to bed, but I remained
thinking for a long time, leaning my elbows on the
table and watching the little yellow light before
the black panes where the ivy leaves were shivering
in the rain, winking my eyes and saying to myself:

"Frederick, there are, nevertheless, many asses
in the world, and they do not walk in the rear;
they march in front and lead the others."

At last, as the night advanced towards two
o'clock, thinking that it was useless to burn oil for
nothing, I undressed and went to bed, blowing
out my lamp.

On that very night of the seventh to the eighth
of August, the Germans, having reconnoitred to a
great distance and finding that all the roads were
free, advanced in a body and took possession of
the passes, not only of La Zingel but also of La
Zorn, thus investing Phalsbourg, the bombardment
of which was begun two days later.

They passed also into Lorraine by the great tunnel
of Homartin, while our army fell back, by forced
marches, upon Nancy, and finally upon Chalons.

Thus the two great German armies of Woerth
and Forbach found themselves united, and all
others were as if swallowed up, cut off from all
help and even from all hope.

You can easily picture to yourself that immense
army of Prince Frederick; Bavarians, Würtemburgers,
Badeners, cavalry, artillery, infantry, which
defied by squadrons and by regiments through our
lovely valley; that torrent of human beings which
goes on and on, ever forward, without interruption
during a whole week, and the cannon which thunders
around the place, and the old rocks of the
Graufthal which resound with echoes upon echoes,
and then the smoke of the conflagration which
arises to Heaven forming a sombre dome above
our valleys.





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After the grand passage of the German army
and the bombardment of the city, thousands of
*landwehr* came to occupy the country.  These
people filled up all the villages and hamlets; here
one company, there two; further on three or four,
commanded by Prussian officers.  They guarded
all the roads and paths, they made requisitions of
all kinds: bread, wheat, flour, hay, straw, cattle,
nothing came amiss to them; they amused themselves
at the corner of the fire, talked of their wives
and children with an air of tender emotion, pitied
the fate of their poor brothers of Alsace and
Lorraine, and sighed over our misery.  But all that
did not prevent them from eating and drinking
heartily at our expense, and from stretching
themselves out in the old arm-chair of the grandmother
or grandfather, smoking with satisfaction the cigars
that we were obliged to furnish for them!  Yes,
fine words did not cost them much.  This is what
I have often seen at Graufthal, at Echbourg,
Berlinger, Flangeviller, where the desire to learn the
news made me go from time to time, wearing a
*blouse* and carrying a stick.

From the first days of September their governor-general,
Bismark Bohlen, came to establish himself
at Hagenau, declaring that Alsace had always been
a German province, and that his Majesty the King
of Prussia was taking possession of his own; that
Strasbourg, Bitche, Phalsbourg, Nevy Brisach were
to be considered as cities rebelling against the
legitimate authority of King William, but that
they would soon be brought to their senses by the
new bombshells weighing a hundred and fifty
pounds.

This, George, was what they said openly with
us, and that shows that these Germans took us for
fools, to whom they could tell the most silly jokes
without fear of being laughed at.

Our only consolation was that we lived in the
midst of the forest, in which these brave people
did not like to risk themselves; I thanked Heaven
for it every evening.  But scarcely was Bismark
Bohlen installed than we saw passing every
morning and evening regularly mounted *gens-d'armes*
in the valley, with their helmets and their great
cloaks, with packets of proclamations, which the
mayors were obliged to post up on the doors of
their offices and the churches.

These proclamations promised the kindest of
treatment to the faithful subjects of King William,
and threatened with death all those who assisted
the French, whom they called "our enemies!"  It
was forbidden to give them bread or even a glass
of water in their misfortune, to serve them as
guides, or to hide them in one's house; one must
give them up to be an honest man; you were to
be judged by a council of war in case of disobedience,
and the smallest penalty for such an offence
was twenty years of the galleys and thirty-seven
thousand francs fine.

By such means Bismark Bohlen could dispense
with all other explanations touching the races, the
German fatherland, and the rights of his Majesty.

Picture to yourself now our solitude, the fear
of marauders, whom we could not have dared to
repulse, because they would have presented
themselves in the name of the king.  Fortunately that
kind of people are not very courageous; it was
rumoured that sharp-shooters, and even soldiers
escaped from Woerth, were prowling round in the
neighbourhood, and that preserved us from visits
from that good race which wished us so much good.

It was also said that the members of the forest
guard would be kept, that the salary of the old
guards would even be augmented, and that several
would obtain promotion.

You can understand my indignation when I
heard such things said; I had not forgotten the
advice of our good Chief Inspector; I reminded
our men of it at every opportunity:

"We must stay at our posts!  Perhaps the luck
will not always be against us.  Let every one do
his duty till the end.  I have no other orders to
give you."

He observed this order himself, staying at Petite
Pierre and continuing to fulfil the duties of his
office.

Strasbourg was defending itself; there was
fighting going on round Metz.  From time to
time I sent Merlin to get the orders from our
superiors, and the answer was always: "Nothing
is hopeless.  We may be called upon at any
minute.  Let every one stay where he is!"

We waited then, and the autumn, always so
beautiful in our mountains, with its russet leaves,
its silent forests, where the song of birds was no
longer heard; its meadows newly mown and
smooth as a carpet as far as the eye could reach;
the river covered with gladiols and dead leaves,
this great spectacle so calm at all times, was still
grander and sadder than ever in the midst of the
terrible events through which we were passing.

How often then, listening to the endless murmur
of the forest, over which was passing the first
cold shiver of the winter, how often have I said to
myself:

"While you are looking, Frederick, at those
old woods wherein everything is sleeping, what is
happening down yonder in Champagne?  What
has become of that immense army, the cavalry, the
infantry, the cannons, all those thousands of beings
going eagerly to destruction for the glory and
interest of a few?  Shall we see them driven back in
disorder?  Will they remain lying amid the mists
of the Meuse, or will they return to place their
heel upon our necks?"

I imagined great battles.  The grandmother
also was very uneasy; she sat by the window and
said:

"Listen, Frederick, do you hear nothing?"

And I listened; it was only the wind among
the dry leaves.

Sometimes, but rarely, the city seemed to
awake; so a few cannon shots thundered amid the
echoes from Quatre Vents to Mittelbroun and
then all was silent again.  The idea of Metz
sustained us; it was from there, above all, that we
hoped to obtain succour.

I have nothing more to tell you about this
autumn of 1870; no news, no visits, and towards
the last but little hope.

But I must tell you now about a thing that
surprised us a good deal, that we could not
understand, and which unhappily has now become too
clear for us, like many other things.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XIV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   \XIV

.. vspace:: 2

About two weeks after the establishment of
Bismark Bohlen at Hagenau, we saw arrive one
morning in the valley a vehicle similar to those
used by the Germans who were starting for America
before the invention of railroads—a long wagon,
loaded with hundreds of old traps, straw beds,
bedsteads, frying-pans, lanterns, etc., with a muddy
dog and an unkempt wife and a horde of scabby
children, and the master himself leading his sorry
jade by the bridle.

We looked at them in amazement, thinking,
"What does all this mean?  What are these
people coming to do among us?"

Under the cover near the pole the woman,
already old, yellow, and wrinkled, her cap put on
awry, was picking the heads of the children, who
were swarming in the straw, boys and girls, all
light-haired and chubby and pussy, as potato-eaters
always are.

"Wilhelm, will you be quiet?" she said.
"Wait till I take a look—wait, I see something.
Good, I have it; you can tumble about now.
Wilhelmina, come put your head upon my knees;
each must take their turn; you can look at the
pine trees later."

And the father, a big man, in a bottle-green
coat, that had a thousand wrinkles in the back;
his cheeks hanging, his little nose adorned with
a pair of spectacles, his pantaloons tucked into
his boots, and a big porcelain pipe in his mouth,
pulled on his miserable horse by the bridle and
said to his wife:

"Herminia, look at those forests, those meadows,
this rich Alsace.  We are in the terrestrial
paradise."

It was a group resembling the gipsies, and, as
Merlin came to see us that day, we talked of
nothing but that the whole evening.

But we were destined to see many more of
them, for these strangers, in old *cabriolets*, basket
wagons, *chars-a-banc*, and two or four wheeled
carriages, put into requisition along the road,
continued to pass for a long time.  From the first of
them, the remembrance of whom has remained in
my mind, the train was never ending; there passed
daily three, four, or five vehicles, loaded with
children, old men, young women, and young girls—the
last gotten up in an odd style, with dresses
which, it seemed to me, I remembered having seen
some fifteen or twenty years before upon the ladies
of Saverne, and with wide hats, trimmed with
paper roses, set upon their plaits, just three hairs
thick, like the *queues* of our grandfathers.

These people talked all kinds of German and
were hard to understand.  They had also all kinds
of faces: some broad and fat, with venerable
beards; others sharp as a knife-blade, and with
their old overcoats buttoned to the throat, to hide
their shirts; some with light gray eyes and stiff,
shaggy, red whiskers; others little, round, lively,
going, running, and wriggling about; but all, at
the sight of our beautiful valley, uttering cries of
admiration and lifting up their hands, men, women,
and children, as we are told the Jews did on
entering into the Promised Land.

Thus came these people from all parts of Germany;
they had taken the railroads to our frontiers,
but all our lines being then occupied by their
troops and their provision and ammunition trains
starting from Wissembourg or from Soreltz, they
were forced to travel in wagons, after the Alsatian
fashion.

Sometimes one and sometimes another would
ask us the way to Saverne, Metting, or Lutzelstein;
they got down at the spring below the
bridge and drank from one of their pans or from
the hollow of their hands.

Every day these passages were repeated, and I
cudgelled my brain to find out what these foreigners
were coming to do among us at so troubled a
time, when provisions were so scarce and when we
did not know to-day what we should have to eat
the morrow.  They never said a word, but went
upon their way, under the protection of the
*landwehr* which filled the country.  We have since
learned that they shared in the requisitions—a fact
which permitted them to save money and even to
get themselves into good condition on the road.

George, all these Bohemians of a new species,
whose miserable air filled our hearts with pity, even
in the midst of our troubles, were the functionaries
which Germany sent to be our administrators and
our rulers, preceptors, controllers, notaries,
schoolmasters, foresters, etc.  They were persons who,
from the months of September and October, long
before the treaty of peace was signed, arrived
tranquilly to take the place of our own people, saying
to them, without ceremony, "Get out of there, so
that I may get in."

One would have said that it was all agreed
upon beforehand, for it happened so even before
the capitulation of Strasburg.

How many poor devils, beer barrels or schnaps
drinkers, who had been whipping the devil around
the stump for years and years in all the little cities
of Pomerania, of Brandenburg, and further still,
who never would have become anything at home,
and who did not know from whom to ask for
credit at home for rye bread and potatoes—how
many such men fell then upon rich Alsace, that
terrestrial paradise, promised to the Germans by
their kings, their professors, and their schoolmasters!

At the time of which I speak they were still
modest, notwithstanding the wonderful victories
of their armies; they were not yet sure of
preserving that extraordinary good-fortune to the end,
and, comparing their old tattered coats and their
miserable appearance with the easy fortune of the
least of the functionaries of Alsace and of
Lorraine, they doubtless said to themselves:

"It cannot be possible that the Lord should
have chosen scamps like us to fill such good places.
What extraordinary merit have we, then, to play
first fiddle in a country such as this, which the
French have occupied for two hundred years,
which they have cultivated, planted, and enriched
with workshops and factories and improvements
of all kinds?  Provided that they do not return
to retake it, and to force us to return to our
schnaps and our potatoes."

Yes, George, with a little common sense and
justice, these intruders must have reasoned thus
to themselves; a sort of uneasiness could be
recognised in their eyes and in their smile.  But once
Strasburg was taken and Metz given up, and they
comfortably installed in large and fine houses,
which they had not built, sleeping in the good
beds of prefects, under-prefects, judges, and other
personages, of whom they had never even had
an idea; after having imposed taxes upon the
good lands which they had not sowed, and laid
hands upon the registers of all the administrations,
which they had not established, seeing the money,
the good money of rich Alsace, flowing into their
coffers—then, George, they believed themselves
to be really presidents of something, inspectors,
controllers, receivers, and the German pride, which
they know so well how to hide with cringing when
they are not the stronger—that brutal pride puffed
out their cheeks.

There always remained to them during the time
that I was still down yonder an old remembrance
of the Lorempé Strasse and of the Speingler Volk,
where they had formerly lived.  That remembrance
made them very economical; two of them would
order a mug of beer and pay for it between them;
they disputed about farthings with the shoemaker
and the tailor; they found something to find fault
with in every bill, crying out that we wanted to
cheat them; and the poorest cobbler among us
would have been ashamed to display the meanness
of these new functionaries, who promised us so
many benefits in the name of the German
fatherland, and who showed us so much avarice and
even abominable meanness.  But that only showed
us with what race we had now to do.





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.. _`XV`:

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   \XV

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One day, towards the end of October, one of
the *gens-d'armes* of Bismark Bohlen, who passed
every morning through the valley, halted at the
door of the forest house, calling:

"Hillo, somebody!"  I went out.

"You are the Brigadier Frederick?" asked the man.

"Yes," I answered, "my name is Frederick,
and I am a brigadier forester."

"All right," said he, holding out a letter; "here
is something for you."

Then he trotted off to join his comrade, who
was waiting for him a little farther on.  I entered
the house.  Marie-Rose and the grandmother were
uneasy; they looked on in silence as I opened the
letter, saying:

"What can those Prussians want with me?"

It was an order from the Oberförster,[#] established
at Zornstadt, to be at his house the next
day, with all the foresters of my brigade.  I read
the letter aloud and the women were frightened.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Chief Inspector of the forest.

.. vspace:: 2

"What are you going to do, father?" asked
Marie-Rose, after a pause.

"That is what I am thinking about," I
answered; "these Germans have no right to give me
orders, but they are now the strongest; they may
turn us out of doors any day.  I must think it
over."

I was walking up and down the room, feeling
very much worried, when all at once Jean Merlin
passed rapidly before the windows, ascended the
steps and entered.

"Good morning, Marie-Rose," said he, "good
morning, grandmother.  You have received the
order from the Oberförster, brigadier?"

"Yes."

"Ah!" said he, "those people have no confidence
in us; all the foresters have received the
same thing.  Shall we go?"

"We must see about it," I said; "you must
go to Petite Pierre and ask the advice of our inspector."

The clock was striking eight.  Jean started at
once; at twelve o'clock he had already returned
to tell us that M. Laroche wished us to see what
the Germans wanted with us, and to send him an
account of it as soon as possible.  So it was
resolved that we should go.

You must know, George, that since the arrival
of the Germans the forests were robbed by wholesale;
all the wood still in cords and piled in the
clearings, vanished, fagot by fagot: the *landwehr*
carried off all that was within their reach; they liked
to sit by a good fire in their earthworks before the
city.  The peasants, too, helped themselves liberally,
one might almost say that the property of the
State belonged to the first-comer.

I told my guards without ceasing to watch the
culprits closely, that the wood still belonged to
France, and that after the war they would have to
account for it.  My district suffered less than the
others, because I continued to make my rounds as
heretofore; people always respect those who do
their duty.

So I sent Jean to tell his comrades to meet
without fail the next day at the forest house, wearing
their uniform, but without badges, and that we
would go together to Zornstadt.

The next day, when all had assembled, we took
up the line of march, and about one o'clock we
arrived in the vestibule of the great house, wherein
the Oberförster had installed himself and all his
family.  It was a great holiday at Zornstadt for
the Prussians.  They had just heard of the capitulation
of Bazaine, and they were singing in all the
public houses.  The Oberförster was giving a
banquet.  Naturally this ill news made our hearts
very heavy.  The other brigades had already met
at the door, headed by the brigadiers, Charles
Werner, Jacob Hepp, and Balthazar Redig.

After having shaken hands, it was decided
that we should listen to the remarks of the Oberförster
in silence, and that I, as the oldest brigadier,
should speak for all if there was anything to
reply.  We still waited for over half an hour, as
the banquet was not yet over; they were laughing
and joking, playing the piano and singing "Die
Wacht am Rhein."  In spite of their immense
vanity, these people had not expected such great
victories, and I think that if we had had other
generals, that, in spite of their preparations and
their superiority in numbers, they would not have
had the opportunity to be so merry at our expense.

At last, about two o'clock, a German in a green
felt hat, adorned with two or three cock feathers,
with a joyous air, and cheeks scarlet to the ears,
for he had just left the kitchen, came and opened
the door, saying:

"You may come in."

After traversing a long room, we found the
Oberförster alone, seated in an arm-chair at the
end of a long table, still covered with dessert and
bottles of all kinds, with a red face, and his hands
crossed upon his stomach with an air of
satisfaction.  He was a handsome man in his jacket of
green cloth edged with marten fur—yes, George,
I will confess it, a very handsome man, tall,
well-made, a square head, short hair, solid jaws, long
red mustaches and side whiskers, that, so to
speak, covered his shoulders.  Only his large red
nose, covered with flowery splotches, astonished
you at first sight, and forced you to turn away
your eyes out of respect for his rank.  He looked
at us as we entered, his little gray eyes screwed
up; and when we had all gathered round the table,
cap in hand, after having scrutinized us carefully,
he settled his waistcoat, coughed a little, and said
to us, with an air of deep emotion:

"You are good people.  You have all honest
German faces; that pleases me!  Your get-up is
very good also; I am satisfied with you!"

In the side room the guests were laughing;
this forced the Oberförster to interrupt himself:

"Wilhelm, shut the door!" said he to the
servant who had let us in.  The waiter obeyed,
and the Oberförster continued:

"Yes, you have good German faces!  When
I think that you have been kept for so many years
in the service of that race of boasters, it makes me
angry.  But, thanks to the Almighty, and thanks
also to the armies of our glorious King William,
the hour of deliverance has arrived, the reign of
Sodom and Gomorrah is over.  We will no longer
see honest fathers of families doing their duty with
loyalty and exactness, and preserving the property
of his Majesty; we will no longer see such people
living on a salary of five or six hundred francs, while
adventurers, law-breakers, gamblers, people swallowed
up in vice, award themselves forty millions
a year to support dancing girls, cooks, and toadies,
and to declare war at random upon pacific neighbours,
without reason, without foresight, without
armies, without ammunition, and without cannon,
like real idiots!  No, that will never be seen
again; old Germany is opposed to it!"

Then the Oberförster, satisfied with what he
had just said, filled his glass in order to refresh his
ideas; he drank solemnly, with half-closed eyes,
and continued:

"I have sent for you to confirm you in all your
situations; for I visited the forests, I saw that all
was in order; I saw that you were faithful servants;
it is but just that you should remain.  And
I announce to you that your salaries are to be
doubled; that old servants, instead of being put
on the retired list, shall receive promotion; that
they shall enjoy an honest competency proportionate
to their rank; finally, that the munificence of
his Majesty will extend itself to you all, and in
your old age you will bless the happy annexation
of this noble land, Alsace, to the mother country.
You will relate some day to your children and
grandchildren the story of this long captivity in
Babylon, during which you suffered so much, and
you will also become the most faithful subjects of
his Most Gracious Majesty, the King of Prussia.
This is what I wish!  Old functionaries like you,
honoured and respected in the country because of
the faithfulness of their services, exercise always a
great influence over the peasantry.  You will
express loudly your attachment to our glorious King
William, that hearty attachment which every German
feels.  Yes, you will take the oath of allegiance
to his Majesty; and as to the rest, as to the
augmentation of your salary, I give you my word
as an Oberförster that all will be done according
to the promises I have just made you."

While he was talking he did not cease to watch
us; behind us were two or three tall Germans in
uniform, who appeared dazzled and touched by his
discourse.  But as for us we remained cold, cap in
hand; and as I was to be the spokesman they all
looked at me to see what I thought.

You can imagine, George, my silent indignation
to see that they called us good servants, honest
people in order to make traitors of us.  I felt
my cheeks getting red; I would have liked to be
able to answer that only rascals would have
accepted the title of honest men, by forfeiting their
honour; but I held my tongue, not wishing to
answer for my comrades, several of whom had
large families; the responsibility seemed too great.

The Oberförster having ended, he looked at
us fixedly; at me in particular, and he said:

"Well! you may speak; I authorize you to speak."

Then I answered:

"Sir, as the oldest forester of the three
brigades, my comrades have requested me to speak
for them all; but the proposition that you have
just made is serious; I think that every one will
ask for time to think it over."

They all nodded assent; and he, who was
really astonished, for he had doubtless thought
that the augmentation of the salaries would decide
everything, remained for over a minute with his
eyes wide open, staring at me as if I were
something extraordinary; then he did as much for the
others, and, frowning, he said gruffly:

"I give you twenty-four hours!  To-morrow
at this time I want to have your written reply,
signed by each of you; yes or no!  Do not think
that there is any lack of men, there are plenty in
Germany, good people, old foresters, who know
the service as well as the smartest of you, who
would ask nothing better than to come into this
rich Alsace, where everything grows so abundantly,
to live in comfortable houses in the midst
of magnificent forests, having nothing to do but
to take a little turn in the neighbourhood
morning and evening, to draw up a report, and to
receive for that twelve or fifteen hundred francs a
year, with the garden, the strip of meadow, the
pasture for the cow, and all the rest of it.  No,
do not think that!  Hundreds are waiting
impatiently till we tell them to come.  And weigh
well your answer; think of your wives and your
children; beware of having to repent bitterly if
you say no!  France is completely ruined, she is
penniless; the wretched forests that are left her
in Brittany and the Landes are nothing but
broom-sticks; the guards of these thickets will
retain their places, and you will never get other
situations.  You are Germans.  The French used
you and despised you; they called you blockheads!
Think over all this; it is the advice of
an honest man that I give you, of a German
brother and the father of a family!"

He looked at me, thinking that I was going
to say something; but I compressed my lips, and
I felt as if little puffs of cold wind were passing
over my forehead.  All my companions were also
silent.  At one side behind the door some one
was playing on the piano, and a woman was singing
a sweet and melancholy little song.

"Twenty-four hours," he repeated, rising;
"not another minute."  And, throwing his
napkin on the table angrily, he added:

"Remember, too, that those who wish to answer
no can pack up at once; the highway is open
to them.  We will never keep enemies among
us—dangerous persons—that would be too stupid.
We are not Frenchmen."

So he entered the next room, while we went
out by the vestibule.

What the Oberförster had said to us, "that
we would have a hard time getting situations in
France, and that the Germans would force us to
be off without mercy," was terrible; the most
courageous hung their heads.

Some of them, very pale, were thinking of
going to the Fir Tree Inn to deliberate; they
wanted, above all, to know my opinion; but I
said, stopping before the door of the inn:

"From this time, comrades, let us economize
all the little money that we have; five sous for a
glass of wine is always five sous.  We shall
probably have to break up housekeeping, and at these
unhappy times everything is dear; travelling costs
money when we take women, children, and old
men with us."

Big Kern insisted upon knowing what I
thought; several of them gathered around me,
so I finally said:

"See here, for what concerns myself I know
what I ought to do; but at such a moment as
this every one should be free to follow his own
conscience; I shall give no advice to any one."

And seeing poor Jacob Hepp, the father of
six small children, standing with drooping head,
hanging arms, and cast-down eyes, I said:

"Come!  Let us shake hands all round once
more—for the last time, perhaps!  May the old
recollections of friendship follow us wherever
Heaven may conduct us."

Several of us kissed each other, and at that
place we parted.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XVI`:

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   \XVI

.. vspace:: 2

Jean Merlin and I took the road to Felsberg
alone; I do not know what the others did, whether
they entered the inn or returned to their homes.
As for us, so many ideas were passing through
our heads that we walked on for a long while
without saying a word.

On leaving Zornstadt, we ascended the hill of
Bruyères till we reached the plateau of Graufthal,
and suddenly the sun pierced the clouds and
shone upon the woods.  The sun was very brilliant,
and showed us through the leafless trees in
the depths of the valley the pretty cottage in
which I had passed so many happy days since
Father Burat had given me his daughter in marriage.

I stopped short.  Jean, who was following me
along the path, also halted; and, leaning on our
sticks, we looked for a long time as if in a dream.
All the by-gone days seemed to pass before my eyes.

The little cottage, on this clear, cold day,
looked as if it were painted on the hillside, in the
midst of the tall fir trees; its roof of gray
shingles, its chimney, from which curled a little
smoke, its windows, where in summer Marie-Rose
placed her pots of pinks and mignonette, the
trellis, over which climbed the ivy, the shed and
its worm-eaten pillars—all were there before me,
one might have thought it possible to touch them.

When I saw that I said to myself:

"Look, Frederick, look at this quiet corner of
the world, wherein thy youth has passed, and
from which thou must go away gray-headed,
without knowing where to turn; that humble dwelling
wherein thy dear wife Catherine gave thee
several children, some of whom lie beside her in
the earth at Dôsenheim.  Look! and remember
how calmly thy life has glided away in the midst
of worthy people who called thee good son, kind
father, and honest man, and prayed God to load
thee with blessings.  What good does it do thee
now to have been a good father and a dutiful son,
to have always done thy duly honestly, since they
drive thee away, and not a soul can intercede for
thee?  The Germans are the strongest, and
strength is worth more than the right established
by God himself."

I trembled at having dared to raise my
reproaches to the Almighty, but my grief was too
deep, and the iniquity appeared to me to be too
great.  May Heaven forgive me for having
doubted of His goodness.

As to the rest my resolution was taken; I
would rather a thousand times have died than
have committed so base an action.  And, looking
at Merlin, who was leaning gloomily against a
birch tree near me, I said:

"I am looking at my old abode for the last
time; to-morrow the Oberförster will receive my
answer, and day after to-morrow the furniture will
be piled upon the cart.  Tell me now what do
you mean to do?"

Then he flushed scarlet and said: "Oh!  Father
Frederick, can you ask me that?  You pain
me by doing so.  Do you not know what I will
do?  I will do like you; there are not two ways
of being an honest man."

"That is right—I knew it," I said; "but I
am very glad to have heard you say so.  Everything
must be clear between us.  We are not like
Germans, who chase the devil round the stump,
and think that everything is right, provided it
succeeds.  Come, let us walk on, Jean, and keep
up your courage."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XVII`:

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   \XVII

.. vspace:: 2

We began to descend the hill, and I confess
to you, George, that when I approached the house
and thought of how I should have to announce
the terrible news to my daughter and the
grandmother, my legs trembled under me.

At last we reached the threshold.  Jean
entered first; I followed him and closed the door.
It was about four o'clock.  Marie-Rose was
peeling potatoes for supper, and the grandmother,
seated in her arm-chair by the stove, was listening
to the crackling of the fire, as she had done for
years past.

Imagine our position.  How could we manage
to tell them that the Germans were going to
turn us out of doors?  But the poor women had
only to look at us to understand that something
very serious had happened.

After having put my stick in the corner by the
clock, and hung my cap on the nail, I walked up
and down the room several times; then, as I had
to commence somehow, I began to relate in detail
the propositions that the Oberförster had made
to us to enter the service of the King of
Prussia.  I did not hurry myself; I told everything
clearly, without adding or suppressing anything,
wishing that the poor creatures might also have
the liberty of choosing between poverty and shame.

I was sure that they would choose poverty.
Marie-Rose, deadly pale, lifted her hands to Heaven,
murmuring:

"My God! is it possible?  Do such rascals
exist in the world?  Ah!  I would rather die than
join such a company of wretches!"

It pleased me to see that my daughter had a
brave heart, and Jean Merlin was so touched that
I saw his lip quiver.

The grandmother seemed to wake up like a
snail in its shell; her chin trembled, her dull eyes
sparkled with anger; I was surprised at it myself.
And when I went on to say that the Oberförster,
if we refused to serve Prussia, gave us twenty-four
hours to leave our home, her indignation burst
forth all at once.

"To quit the house?" said she, lifting her bent
form, "but this house is mine!  I was born in
this house more than eighty years ago, and I have
never left it.  It was my grandfather, Laurent
Duchêne, who first lived here, more than a hundred
and thirty years ago, and who planted the fruit
trees on the hill; it was my father, Jacquemin,
who first marked out the road to Dôsenheim and
the paths of Tömenthal; it was my husband,
George Burat, and my son-in-law Frederick here,
who sowed the first seeds of the beech trees and
firs, whose forests now extend over the two valleys;
and all of us, from father to son, we have lived
quietly in this house; we have earned it; we have
surrounded the garden with hedges and palisades;
every tree in the orchard belongs to us; we saved
up money to buy the meadows, to build the barn
and the stables.  Drive us away from this house?
Ah! the wretches!  Those are German ideas!
Well, let them come!  I, Anne Burat, will have
something to say to them!"

I could not calm the poor old grandmother;
all that she said was just; but with people who
believe that strength is everything, and that shame
and injustice are nothing, what is the use of talking
so much?

When she sat down again, all out of breath, I
asked her, in a very sad but firm voice:

"Grandmother, do you wish me to accept service
with the Germans?"

"No!" said she.

"Then within forty-eight hours we must all
leave together this old house."

"Never!" she cried.  "I will not!"

"And I tell you it must be," said I, with an
aching heart.  "I *will* have it so."

"Ah!" she cried, with painful surprise.

And I continued, with anguish:

"You know, grandmother, that I have always
had the greatest respect for you.  May those
Germans be a thousand times accursed for having
forced me to be disrespectful to you; I hate them
still more for it, if possible!  But do you not
understand, grandmother, that those brutes are without
shame, without honour, without pity even for
old age, and if they encountered the slightest
resistance they would drag you out by your gray hair?
You are weak and they are strong, and that is
enough for them!  Do you not understand that if
I saw such a spectacle I would throw myself upon
them, even if they were a regiment, and that they
would kill me?  Then what would become of you
and my daughter?  That is what we must think
of, grandmother.  Forgive me for having spoken
so harshly to you, but I do not wish for a minute's
grace, nor, I am sure, do you; beside, they would
not let us have it, for they are pitiless people!"

She burst into tears and sobbed out:

"Oh! my God! my God! to have to leave
this house, where I hoped to see my grand-daughter
happy and to nurse my great-grandchildren!
My God! why did you not call me away sooner?"

She wept so bitterly that it touched our hearts,
and all of us, with bowed heads, felt the tears
trickle down our checks.  How many recollections
came to us all!  But the poor grandmother
had more than any of us, having never quitted the
valley for so many years, except to go two or three
times a year to market at Saverne or Phalsbourg;
those were her longest journeys.





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   \XVIII

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At last the blow was struck.  Cruel necessity,
George, had spoken by my lips; the women had
understood that we must go away, perhaps never
to return; that nothing could prevent this fearful
misfortune.

That was done; but another duty, still more
painful, remained to fulfil.  When the lamentations
had ceased, and we were meditating, mute
and overwhelmed, raising up my voice anew, I said:

"Jean Merlin, you asked me last summer for
my daughter in marriage, and I accepted you to
be my son, because I knew you, I liked you, and
I esteemed you as much as the greatest man in
the country.  So it was settled; our promises had
been given, we wanted nothing more!  But then
I was a brigadier forester, I was about to receive
my pension, and my post was promised to you.
Without being rich, I had a little property; my
daughter might be considered a good match.  Now
I am nobody any more; to tell the truth, I am
even a poor man.  The old furniture I possess
suits this house; if it were taken with us it would
be in the way; the meadow, for which I paid
fifteen hundred francs from my savings, also because
it was convenient to the forest house, will be worth
little more than half when it has to be sold over
again.  Beside, perhaps the Germans will declare
that all real estate belongs to them.  It depends
only upon themselves, since the strongest are
always in the right!  You, too, will find yourself
without a situation; you will be obliged to
support your old mother.  The maintenance of a wife
in the midst of all this poverty may appear very
troublesome.  Therefore, Jean, my honour and
that of my daughter oblige me to release you from
your promise.  Things are no longer as they were;
Marie-Rose has nothing, and I can understand that
an honest man, on such a grave situation, might
change his mind."

Merlin turned pale as he listened to me, and
he answered, in a gruff voice:

"I asked for Marie-Rose for her own sake,
Father Frederick, because I loved her, and she
also loved me.  I did not ask for her for the sake
of your place, nor yet for the sake of the money
she might have; if I had thought of such a thing,
I would have been a scoundrel.  And now I love
her more than ever, for I have seen that she has a
noble heart, which is above everything."

And, rising and opening his arms, he cried:
"Marie-Rose!"

Scarcely had he called her, when she turned,
her face bathed in tears, and threw herself into his
arms.  They remained clasped in a close embrace
for some time, and I thought to myself:

"All is well; my daughter is in the hands of
an honest man; that is my greatest consolation in
the midst of all my misfortunes."

After that, George, in spite of our grief, we
grew calm again.  Merlin and I agreed that he
would go the next day to carry our answer to
Zornstadt: "No, Oberförster, we will not enter
the service of the King of Prussia!"  I wrote my
letter at once and he put it in his pocket.

It was also agreed that I should go early to
Graufthal, and try to find lodgings for ourselves,
wherein we could place our furniture.  The three
first-floor rooms belonging to Father Ykel, the
host of the Cup Inn, had been empty ever since
the invasion, as not a traveller came to the
country.  There must certainly be room in his stable,
too; so I hoped to hire them cheap.

As to Merlin, he had still to tell his mother,
and he said to us that she would go to Felsberg,
where Uncle Daniel would be very glad to receive
her.  The old schoolmaster and his sister had kept
house together for a long time, and it was only
after Jean Merlin's installation in the forester's
house at Tömenthal that he had taken his mother
to live with him.  Good old Margredel had nothing
to do but to return to the village, where her
little house was waiting for her.  So our final
resolutions were taken.

Jean also took upon himself to go and tell
M. Laroche of what had occurred, and to say also that
I would come and see him after our flitting.  Then
he kissed Marie-Rose, said a few encouraging
words to the grandmother, and went out.  I went
with him as far as the threshold and shook hands.
The night had come; it was freezing cold; every
blade of grass in the valley was sparkling with
frost, and the sky was glittering with stars.  What
weather in which to leave our home and to seek
another shelter!

As I returned to the room, I saw poor Calas
empty the saucepan of potatoes on the table and
place the two pots of clotted milk beside the
salad-bowl, looking at us with an amazed air; no one
stirred.

"Sit down, Calas," I said; "eat alone; none
of us are hungry this evening."

So he sat down and began to peel his potatoes;
having cleaned out the stable and given forage to
the cattle, he had done his duty and his conscience
was easy.

Happy are those who cannot see the morrow,
and whom the Almighty only governs, without
kings, without emperors, and without ministers.
They have not one-quarter of our sorrows.  The
squirrel, the hare, the fox, all the animals of the
woods and the plains, receive their new fur at the
beginning of winter; the birds of the air receive
finer down; those who cannot live in the snow,
for lack of insects to feed them, have strong wings,
that enable them to seek a warmer climate.

It is only man who receives nothing!  Neither
his labour, nor his foresight, nor his courage can
preserve him from misfortune; his fellow beings
are often his worst enemies and his old age is often
the extreme of misery.  Such is our share of existence.

Some people would like to change these things,
but no one has the courage and the good sense
which are necessary.

Finally, at nightfall we separated, to think
over, each alone in his corner, the terrible blow
that had overwhelmed us.





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   \XIX

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On the following day, which was the first of
November, at dawn, I set out for Graufthal.  I
had put on my blouse, my thick shoes, and my felt
hat.  The trees along the roadside were bending
under their covering of frost; occasionally a
blackbird or a thrush would rise from under the white
brushwood, uttering its cry, as if to bid me
farewell.  I have often thought of it since; I was on
the path of exile, George; it was only beginning,
and extended very far.

Towards seven o'clock I arrived under the large
rocks, where the most wretched huts in the village
were situated—the others were built along the
banks of the river—and I stopped before that of
Father Ykel.  I went through the kitchen into
the smoky little parlour of the inn.  Nothing was
stirring; I thought I was alone and I was about
to call, when I saw Ykel, sitting behind the stove,
his short black pipe, with a copper cover, between
his teeth, and his cotton cap pushed over one ear;
he did not move, as he had had, a few weeks
before, an attack of rheumatism, brought on by his
long fishing excursions among the mountain
streams, and also at night by torchlight, amid the
mists.

The valley had never known such a fisher; he
sold crawfish and trout to the great hotels of
Strasbourg.  Unhappily, as we all have to pay
for our imprudences, sooner or later, he had been
attacked by the rheumatism, and now all he could
do was to sit and think about the best places in
the river and the great hauls he used to make.

When I discovered him, his little green eyes
were already fixed upon me.

"Is it you, Father Frederick?" he said.
"What is your business here among these rascals
who are robbing us?  If I were you, I would
stay quietly in the forest; the wolves are much
better neighbours."

"We cannot always do as we like," I
answered.  "Are your three upper rooms still
empty, and have you room enough in your
stable for two cows?"

"Haven't I, though!" he cried.  "The Prussians
have made room!  They have taken everything—straw,
hay, oats, flour, and the cattle.  Ah! room;
I guess so; from the garret to the cellar,
we have plenty; it will not run out for a long time!"

And he uttered a harsh laugh, gnashing his
old teeth and muttering:

"Oh! the wretches!  God grant that we may
one day have the upper hand; I would go there
on crutches, in spite of my rheumatism, to get
back what they took from me!"

"Then," said I, "the rooms are empty?"

"Yes, and the stable, too, with the hayloft.
But why do you ask me that?"

"Because I have come to hire them."

"You!" cried he, in amazement.  "Then you
are not going to stay at the forest house?"

"No, the Prussians have turned me out."

"Turned you out!  And why?"

"Because I did not choose to serve under the
Germans."

Then Ykel appeared touched; his long hooked
nose curved itself over his mouth, and, in a grave
voice, he said:

"I always thought you were an honest man.
You were a little severe in the service, but you
were always just; no one has ever been able to
say anything to the contrary."

Then he called:

"Katel!  Katel!"

And his daughter, who had just lighted the fire
on the hearth, entered.

"Look here, Katel," said he, pointing to me;
"here is Father Frederick, whom the Prussians
have turned out of his house, with his daughter
and grandmother, because he will not join their
band.  That is a thousand times worse than the
requisitions; it is enough to make one's hair stand
on end."

His daughter also sided with us, crying that
the heavens ought to fall to crush such rascals.
She took me up-stairs, climbing the ladder-like
stairs to show me the rooms that I wished to
hire.

You cannot imagine anything more wretched;
you could touch the beams of the ceiling with
your hand; the narrow windows, with lead-framed
casements, in the shadow of the rocks, gave
scarcely a ray of light.

How different from our pretty cottage, so well
lighted, on the slope of the hill!  Yes, it was
very gloomy, but we had no choice; we had to
lodge somewhere.

I told Katel to make a small fire in the large
room, so as to drive away the damp; then, going
down-stairs again.  Father Ykel and I agreed that
I should have the first floor of his house, two
places in the stable for my cows, the little hayloft
above, with a pig-sty, one corner of the cellar for
my potatoes, and half the shed, where I intended
to put the furniture that would not go into the
rooms, at a rent of eight francs a month—a pretty
large sum at a time when no one was making a
*centime*.

Two or three neighbours, the big coal man,
Starck, and his wife; Sophie, the basket-maker;
Koffel, and Hulot, the old smuggler, were then
arriving at the inn, to take their glass of brandy,
as usual.  Ykel told them of the new abominations
of the Germans; and they were disgusted
at them.  Starck offered to come with his cart
and horses to help me to move, and I accepted,
thankfully.

Things were settled that way; Starck promised
me again to come without fail before noon;
after which I took the road towards home.  It had
begun to snow; not a soul before or behind me
was on the path, and, about nine o'clock, I was
stamping my feet in the entry to get off the snow.
Marie-Rose was there.  I told her briefly that
I had engaged our lodgings, that she must
prepare the grandmother to leave very soon, to empty
the contents of the cupboards into baskets, and
to take the furniture to pieces.  I called Calas
to help me and went to work at once, scarcely
taking time enough to breakfast.  The hammer
resounded through the house; we heard the
grand-mother sobbing in the smaller room and
Marie-Rose trying to console her.

It all seems to come back to me.  It was
terrible to hear the lamentations of the poor old
woman, to hear her complain of the fate that
overwhelmed her in her old age, and then to call
on her husband for aid, good Father Burat, who
had died ten years before, and all the old people,
whose bones lay in the cemetery at Dôsenheim.
It makes me shudder when I think of it, and the
kind words of my daughter come back to me and
touch my heart anew.

The hammer did its work; the furniture, the
little looking-glass by Catherine's bed—my poor
dead wife—the portraits of the grandfather and
grandmother, painted by Ricard, the same who
painted the beautiful signs in the time of Charles
X; the two holy-water vessels and the old crucifix,
from the back of the alcove; the chest of drawers
belonging to Marie-Rose, and the large walnut-wood
wardrobe that had come down to us from
great-grandfather Duchêne; all those old things
that reminded us of people long dead, and of our
quiet, peaceful life, and which, for many years,
had had their places, so that we could find them
by groping in the darkest night; everything was
taken away; it was, so to speak, our existence
that we had to undo with our own hands!

And Ragot, who came and went, all astonished
at the confusion; Calas, who kept asking,
"What have we done, to be obliged to run away
like thieves?"  And the rest!—for I do not
remember it at all, George!  I would even like to
forget it all, and never to have begun this story of
the shame of humanity and the humiliation of
that sort of Christians who reduce their fellow
creatures to utter misery, because they will not
kneel before their pride.  However, since we have
begun it, let us go on to the end.

All that was nothing as yet.  It was when big
Starck came, and the furniture was loaded on his
wagon, we had at last to tell the grandmother to
leave her little room, and when, seeing all that
desolation in the road, she fell on her face, crying:

"Frederick, Frederick, kill me! let me die,
but do not take me away!  Let me, at least,
sleep quietly under the snow in our little garden!"

Then, George, I wished that I were dead
myself.  The blood seemed curdling in my veins.
And now, after four years, I would be puzzled to
tell you how the grandmother found herself placed
in the cart, in the midst of the mattresses and
straw beds, under the thousands of snow-flakes
that were falling from the sky.





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   \XX

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The snow, which had continued to fall since
morning, was by this time quite deep.  The great
wagon went slowly on its way, Starck, in front,
pulling his nags by the bridle, swearing, and
forcing them to advance by blows; Calas, farther on,
was driving along the pigs and cows; Ragot was
helping him; Marie-Rose and I followed, with
drooping heads; and behind us the cottage, all
white with snow, among the firs, was gradually
vanishing in the distance.

We had still our potatoes, wood, and fodder
to take away the next day, so I closed the door
and put the key in my pocket before leaving.

At nightfall we arrived before Ykel's house.
I took the grandmother in my arms, like a child,
and carried her up-stairs to her room, where Katel
had kindled a bright fire.  Marie-Rose and Katel
kissed each other; they had been schoolmates and
had been confirmed together at Felsberg.  Katel
burst into tears.  Marie-Rose, who was deadly
pale, said nothing.  They went up-stairs together,
and, while Starck and Calas and two or three of
the neighbours were unloading the furniture and
putting it under the shed, I went into the parlour,
to sit down for a few minutes behind the stove
and to take a glass of wine, for I could not stand
it any longer; I was exhausted.

Our first night at Graufthal, in that loft,
through which poured the draught from the garret,
is the saddest that I can remember; the stove
smoked, the grandmother coughed in her bed;
Marie-Rose, in spite of the cold, got up to give
her a drink; the little window-panes rattled at
every blast of the wind, and the snow drifted in
upon the floor.

Ah! yes, we suffered terribly that first night!
And, not being able to close my eyes, I said to
myself:

"It will be impossible to live here!  We
should all be dead in less than two weeks.  We
must positively go somewhere else.  But where
shall we go?  What road can we take?"

All the villages of Alsace and Lorraine were
filled with Germans, the roads were crowded with
cannon and convoys; not a hut, not even a stable
was free.

These ideas almost made my hair turn gray;
I wished that I had broken my neck in coming
down the steps of the forest house, and I wished
the same thing for the grandmother and my
daughter.

Happily, Jean Merlin arrived early the next
morning.  He had taken our answer to the
Oberförster, he had moved his furniture to Felsberg,
and old Margredel, his mother, was already sitting
quietly beside the fire at Uncle Daniel's house.

He told us that with a good-humoured air,
after having kissed Marie-Rose and said
good-morning to the grandmother.

Only to see how his confidence had already
lightened my heart; and when I complained of
the cold, the smoke, and of our bad night, he
cried:

"Yes!  I understand all that, brigadier; I
thought as much; so I hurried to come here.
It is very hard to leave your old ways and come
to live among strangers at your age; that
paralyzes one's arm.  Such occasions change one's
ideas.  Here is the key of my cottage and the
book of estimations; you have also your
register and the stamping hammer.  Well, do you
know what I would do in your place?  I would
take everything to our chief inspector, because
the Oberförster of Zornstadt might ask you for
them and force you to give them up.  When they
are deposited with M. Laroche no one will have
anything more to say to you.  While you are
away Marie-Rose will wash the windows and the
floor; Calas will go with Starck to get the wood,
the fodder, and the potatoes, and I will undertake
to arrange the furniture and to put everything in
order."

He spoke with so much good sense that I
followed his advice.  We went down into the large
room, and though it is not my habit, we took a
good glass of brandy together; after which I set
out, the register under my blouse, the hammer in
my pocket, and a stout stick in my hand.  It was
my last journey through the country on affairs
connected with the service.  The pool of Frohmithle
was frozen over; the flour-mill and the saw-mill
lower down had ceased to go.  No one, since the
day before, had followed my path; all seemed
desolate; for three hours I did not see a soul.

Then, remembering the smoke from the charcoal
kilns, the sound of the wood-cutters' hatchets
working in the clearings, lopping the trees, piling
up the fagots beside the forest paths, even in
mid-winter, all that formerly gay life, that profit that
gave food and happiness to the smallest hamlets,
I said to myself that the robbers, who were
capable of troubling such order to appropriate
wrongfully the fruit of the labour of others, ought to be
hanged.

And from time to time, in the midst of the
silence, seeing a sparrow-hawk pass on his large
wings, his claws drawn up under his stomach and
uttering his war cry, I thought:

"That is like the Prussians!  They have got
the Germans in their claws; they have given them
officers who will cudgel them; instead of working,
those people are forced to spend their last penny
in the war, and the others have always their beaks
and claws in their flesh; they pluck them leisurely,
without their being able to defend themselves.
Woe to us all!  The noble Prussians will devour
us; and the Badeners, the Bavarians, the
Würtembergers, and the Hessians with us!"

Those melancholy ideas, and many others of
the same kind, passed through my mind.  About
ten o'clock I ascended the stairs of the old fort,
abandoned since the beginning of the war; then
descending the Rue du Faubourg, I entered the
house of the chief inspector.  But the office door
in the vestibule at the left was closed; I rang and
tried to open the door, but no one came.  I was
going out to ask one of the neighbours what had
become of M. Laroche, and whether he had been
obliged to go away, when an upper door opened,
and the chief inspector himself appeared on the
stairs in his dressing-gown.





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   \XXI

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"Who is there?" said M. Laroche, not recognising
me at first under my broad-brimmed felt hat.

"It is I, sir," I answered.

"Ah! it is you, Father Frederick!" said he,
quite rejoiced.  "Well, come up stairs.  All my
household has departed, I am here alone; they
bring me my meals from the Grapes Inn.  Come
in, come in!"

We went into a very neat little room on the
first floor; a large fire was burning in the stove.
And, pushing forward an arm-chair for me:

"Take this chair, Father Frederick," said he,
seating himself beside a small table covered with
books.  So I sat down, and we began to talk over
our affairs.  I told him about our visit to the
Oberförster; he knew all about that and a good many
other things beside.

"I am glad to find," said he, "that all our
guards, except poor Hepp, the father of six
children, have done their duty.  With regard to you,
Father Frederick, I never had the least doubt
about either your son-in-law or yourself."

Then he inquired about our position; and, taking
the register and the hammer, he put them in a
closet, saying that his papers were already gone,
that he would send these after them.  He asked
me if we were not in pressing need.  I answered
that I had still three hundred francs, that I had
saved to buy a strip of meadow, beside the
orchard, that that would doubtless be sufficient.

"So much the better!" said he.  "You know,
Father Frederick, that my purse is at your service;
it is not very full just now; every one has to
economize their resources, for Heaven only knows
how long this campaign may last; but if you want
some money——"

I thanked him again.  We talked together like
real friends.  He even asked me to take a cigar
from his box; but I thanked him and refused.
Then he asked me if I had a pipe, and told
me to light it.  I tell you this to make you
understand what a fine man our chief inspector was.

I remember that he told me after that that all
was not yet over; that doubtless our regular army
had surrendered *en masse*; that all our officers,
marshals, generals, even the simple corporals had
fallen into the power of the enemy, a thing that
had never been seen before since the beginning of
the history of France, or in that of any other
nation; that pained him, and even if I may say so
made him indignant.  He had tears in his eyes
like myself.

But after that, he said that Paris held good,
that the great people of Paris had never shown so
much courage and patriotism; he added that a
large and solid army, though composed of young
men, had been formed near Orleans, and that great
things were expected from it; that the republic
had been proclaimed after Sedan as the peasants
go for a doctor when the patient is dying, and
that, however, this republic had had the courage
to take upon itself the burden of all the disasters,
dangers that it had not caused, while those who
had drawn us into the war withdrew to a foreign
country.  That a very energetic man, Gambetta, a
member of the provisory government, was at the
head of this great movement; that he was calling
around him all the Frenchmen in a condition to
bear arms, without distinction of opinions, and
that if the campaign lasted a few months longer
the Germans could not hold out; that all the
heads of the families being enlisted, their estates,
their workshops, their improvements were neglected.
No ploughing or sowing were done, and that
the women and children, the entire population,
were dying of terrible starvation.

We have since seen, George, that those things
were true; all the letters that we found on the
*landwehr* told of the terrible poverty in Germany.

So what M. Laroche told me filled me with
hope.  He promised also to have my pension paid
to me as soon as it would be possible, and about
one o'clock I left him, full of confidence.  He
shook hands with me and called out from the door:

"Keep up a good heart, Father Frederick; we
will have happy days yet."

After I left him I felt like another man, and I
walked leisurely back to Graufthal, where a most
agreeable surprise awaited me.





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   \XXII

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Jean Merlin had put everything in order.
The cracks in the roof and in the doors and
windows were stopped up; the floor was washed, the
furniture placed and the pictures hung, as much
as possible as they were at the forest house.  It
was bitterly cold outside; our stove, which Jean
had put up and blackleaded, drew like a forge
bellows, and the grandmother, sitting beside it in her
old arm-chair, was listening to the crackling of the
fire, and looking at the flame which was lighting
up the room.  Marie-Rose, with her sleeves rolled
up, seemed delighted at my satisfaction; Jean
Merlin, his pipe in his mouth and screwing up his
eyes, looked at me as if to say:

"Well, Papa Frederick, what do you think of
this?  Is it cold now in this room?  Is not everything
clean, shining and in good order?  Marie-Rose
and I did all that?"

And when I saw all that I said to them:

"All right.  The grandmother is warm.  Now
I see that we can stay here.  You are good
children!"

That pleased them very much.  They set the
table.  Marie-Rose had made a good soup of
cabbages and bacon, for as the Germans took all the
fresh meat for their own use we were very glad to
get even smoked meat; fortunately potatoes,
cabbages, and turnips did not run out and they formed
our principal resource.

That evening we all took supper together; and
during the repast I related in all its details what
the chief inspector had told me about the affairs
of the republic.  It was the first positive news we
had had from France for a long time; so you may
guess how eagerly they all listened to me.  Jean's
eyes sparkled when I spoke of approaching battles
near the Loire.

"Ah!" said he, "they call the French the old
soldiers.  Indeed! they defend their country, then!"

And I cried, full of enthusiasm:

"Of course, they will defend their country!
You had better believe it!  The chief inspector
says that if it lasts for a few months the others
will have enough of it."

Then he twirled his mustache, seemed almost
to speak; but then looking at Marie-Rose, who
was listening to us with her usual quiet aspect, he
went on eating, saying:

"Anyhow, you give me great pleasure by telling
me that, Father Frederick; yes, it is famous news."

At last, about eight o'clock, he went away,
announcing that he would be back on the morrow
or the day after, and we went quietly to bed.

This night was as comfortable as the night
before had been cold and disagreeable; we slept
soundly in spite of the frost outside.

I had recovered from my sorrow; I thought
that we could live at Graufthal till the end of
the war.





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   \XXIII

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Once withdrawn under the rocks of Graufthal,
I hoped that the Germans would let us alone.
What else could they ask from us?  We had given
up everything; we lived in the most wretched
village in the country, in the midst of the forest;
their squads came very seldom into this corner,
whose inhabitants were so poor that they could
scarcely find a few bundles of hay or straw to take
away with them.  All seemed for the best, and we
thought that we would not have anything more to
do with the accursed race.

Unfortunately we are often mistaken; things
do not always turn out as we thought they would.
Soon it was rumoured that Donadien, big Kern,
and the other guards had crossed the Vosges; that
they were fighting the Germans near Belfort, and
all at once the idea struck me that Jean would also
want to go.  I hoped that Marie-Rose would keep
him back, but I was not sure of it.  The fear
haunted me.

Every morning, while my daughter arranged
the rooms, and the grandmother told her beads, I
went down stairs to smoke my pipe in the large
room with Father Ykel.  Koffel, Starck, and
others would come dropping in, to take a glass of
brandy; they told of domiciliary visits, of orders
not to ring the bells, of the arrival of German
schoolmasters to replace our own, of the requisitions
of all kinds that increased every day, of the
unhappy peasants who were compelled to work to
feed the Prussians, and of a thousand other atrocities
that infuriated one against those stupid
Badeners, Bavarians, and Würtembergers, who were
allowing themselves to be killed for the sake of
King William, and warring against their own
interests.  Big Starck, who was very pious, and
always went to mass every Sunday, said that they
would all be damned, without hope of redemption,
and that their souls would be burned to all eternity.

That helped to make the time pass agreeably.
One day Hulot brought us his grandson, Jean
Baptiste, a big boy of sixteen, in his vest and
pantaloons of coarse linen, his feet bare, winter as
well as summer, in his large shoes, his hair
hanging in long, yellow locks over his face, and a
satchel hanging over his thin back.  This boy,
sitting in front of the fire, told us that at
Sarrebruck and Landau the *landwehr* were furious;
that they were declaiming in all the taverns
against the crazy republicans, the cause of all the
battles since Sedan, and of the continuation of
the war; that it had been reported that a battle
had been fought at Coulmiers, near Orleans; that
the Germans were retreating in disorder, and that
the army of Frederick Charles was going to their
rescue; but that our young men were also learning
to join the army of the republic; and that the
*hauptmänner* had laid a fine of fifty francs a day
upon the parents of those who had left the
country, which had not prevented him, Jean Baptiste,
from going to the rescue of his country like his
comrades.

Scarcely had he ceased to speak when I ran
up the stairs, four steps at a time, to tell
Marie-Rose the good news.  I found her on the
landing.  She went down to the laundry, and did not
appear in the least astonished.

"Yes, yes, father," she said, "I thought it
would end that way; every one must lend a
hand—all the men must go.  Those Germans
are thieves; they will return routed and defeated."

Her tranquility astonished me, for the idea
must have occurred to her, too, that Jean, an
able-bodied man, would not stay at home at such
a time, and that he might all at once go off
yonder in spite of his promises of marriage.  So
I went to my room to think it over, while she
went down, and two minutes afterward I heard
Jean Merlin's step upon the stairs.

He came in quietly, his large felt hat on the
back of his head, and he said good-humouredly:

"Good morning, Father Frederick; you are alone?"

"Yes, Jean; Marie-Rose has just gone to the
laundry, and the grandmother is still in bed."

"Ah! very good," said he, putting his stick
behind the door.

I suspected something was coming, from his
look.  He walked up and down, with bent head,
and, stopping suddenly, he said to me:

"You know what is going on near Orleans?
You know that the breaking up of the German
army has begun, and that all willing men are called
upon.  What do you think of it?"

I flushed scarlet and answered, feeling rather
embarrassed:

"Yes, for those on the other side of the Loire
it is all very well; but we others would have a
long journey to take, and then the Prussians
would arrest us on the road; they guard all the
paths and highways."

"Pshaw!" said he; "they think the Prussians
more cunning than they really are.  I would
wager that I could pass the Vosges under their
noses.  Big Kern and Donadien have passed,
with a good many others."

Then I knew that he wanted to go, that his
mind was made up to a certain extent, and that
gave me a shock; for if he once set off, Heaven
only knew when his marriage would take place;
the thought of Marie-Rose troubled me.

"Very likely," I said; "but you must think
of the old people, Jean.  What would your
mother, good old Margredel, say, if you
abandoned her at such a time?"

"My mother is a good Frenchwoman," he
answered.  "We have talked it over, brigadier;
she consents."

My arms dropped at my sides; I did not
know what to reply; and only at the end of a
minute I managed to say:

"And Marie-Rose!  You do not think of
Marie-Rose!  Yet you are betrothed.  She is
your wife in the eyes of God!"

"Marie-Rose consents also," he said.  "We
only want your consent now; say yes; all will be
settled.  The last time I was here, while you were
down stairs smoking your pipe, I told Marie-Rose
all about it.  I said to her that a forest guard
without a situation, an old soldier like me, ought
to be at the front; she understood and consented."

When he told me that, George, it was too
much; I cried: "I do.  It is not possible!"  And,
opening the window, I called out:

"Marie-Rose!  Marie-Rose!  Come here.  Jean
has arrived."

She was hanging out clothes in the shed, and
leaving at once her work, she came up stairs.

"Marie-Rose," I said, "is it true that you
have consented to let Jean Merlin go to fight the
Germans at Orleans, behind Paris?  Is it true?
Speak freely."

Then, pale as death, with flashing eyes, she said:

"Yes.  It is his duty.  He must go.  We do
not wish to be Prussians, and the others ought
not to fight alone to save us.  He must be a man.
He must defend his country."

She said other things of the same kind that
warmed my blood and made me think:

"What a brave girl that is!  No, I did not
know her before.  She is the true descendant of
the old Burats.  How the old people wake up
and speak through the mouths of their children!
They want us to defend the earth of the old
cemetery where their bones lie buried."

I rose, white as a sheet, with open arms.
"Come to my arms!" I said to them; "come to
my arms!  You are right.  Yes, it is the duty of
every Frenchman to go and fight.  Ah! if I were
only ten years younger, I would go with you,
Jean; we would be two brothers in arms."  And
we embraced each other all round.





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   \XXIV

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I wept; I was proud of having so brave and
honest a daughter, whom I had not appreciated
till then; that made me lift up my head again.
The resolution of Jean and Marie-Rose appeared
natural to me.

But, as we heard the grandmother groping her
way from the other room, by leaning against the
wall, I made a sign to them to be silent, and,
when the poor old woman came in, I said:

"Grandmother, here is Jean, whom the chief
inspector is about to send to Nancy; he will be
there for some time."

"Ah!" said she.  "There is no danger?"

"No, grandmother, it is a commission for the
forest registers; it has nothing to do with the war."

"So much the better!" said she.  "How
many others are in danger!  We ought to be
very happy to keep out of it!"

Then, sitting down, she began, as usual, to say
her prayers.

What more can I tell you, George, about
those things that rend my heart when I think
about them?

Jean Merlin spent the whole day with us.
Marie-Rose cooked as good a dinner as she could
in our position; she put on her handsome cap
and her blue silk *fichu*, so as to be agreeable to
the eyes of the man she loved.

I seem to see her still, sitting at the table
near the grandmother, opposite her betrothed, and
smiling, as if it were a holiday.  I seem to hear
Jean talking about the good news from Orleans,
about the happy chances of the war, which are
not always the same.

Then, after dinner, while the grandmother
dozes in her arm-chair, I see the two children
sitting beside each other, near the little window,
looking at each other, holding each other's hand,
and talking in a low voice, sometimes gaily,
sometimes sadly, as is the custom with lovers.

As for me, I walked up and down, smoking
and thinking of the future.  I listened to the
hum of talk from the tavern, and, remembering
the danger of leaving the country, the penalties
established by the Germans against those who
wished to join our armies, I seemed to hear the
stamping of heavy boots and the rattle of sabres.
I went down the stairs, and, half opening the
door of the smoky room, I looked in, and then I
went up stairs again, a little reassured, saying to
myself that I ought not to be afraid, that more
difficult lines of the enemy had been crossed, and
that energetic men always got well through their
business.  So passed all that afternoon.

Then, at supper, as the time for his departure
drew near, a more terrible sadness and strange,
unknown fears seized upon me.

"Go to bed," I said to the grandmother; "the
night has come."

But she did not hear me, being a little deaf,
and she went on muttering her prayers, and we
looked at each other, exchanging our thoughts by
signs.  At last, however, the poor old woman
rose, leaning her two hands on the arms of her
chair, and murmuring:

"Good night, my children.  Come, Jean, till
I kiss you.  Distrust the Prussians; they are
traitors!  Do not run any risks; and may the
Lord be with you!"

They kissed each other; Jean seemed touched;
and when the door was closed, as the church clock
was striking eight, and when the little panes were
growing dark, he said:

"Marie-Rose, the time has come.  The moon
is rising; it is lighting already the path by which
I must reach the Donon."

She flung herself into his arms and they held
each other clasped in a close embrace for a long
time, in silence, for down stairs they were talking
and laughing still; strangers might be watching
us, so we had to be prudent.

You do not know, George, and I hope that
you never will know, what a father feels at such a
moment.

At last they separated.  Jean took his stick;
Marie-Rose, pale, but composed, said: "*Adieu*,
Jean!"  And he, without answering, hurried out,
breathing as if something was choking him.

I followed him.  We descended the dark little
staircase, and on the threshold, where the moon,
covered with clouds, cast a feeble ray, we also
kissed each other.

"You do not want anything?" I said, for I
had put about fifty francs in my pocket.

"No," said he, "I have all that I need."

We held each other's hands as if we could
never let go, and we looked at each other as if
we could read each other's hearts.

And, as I felt my lips quiver:

"Come, father," said he, in a trembling voice,
"have courage; we are men!"

Then he strode away.  I looked at him vanishing
in the darkness, blessing him in my heart.  I
thought I saw him turn and wave his hat at the
corner of the path, by the rock, but I am not sure.

When I went in, Marie-Rose was seated on a
chair by the open window, her head buried in her
hands, weeping bitterly.  The poor child had been
courageous up to the last minute, but then her
heart had melted into tears.

I said nothing to her, and, leaving the small
lamp on the table, I went into my room.

These things happened in November, 1870.
But much greater sorrows were to come.





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   \XXV

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After that for a few days all was quiet.  We
heard nothing more from Orleans.  From time to
time the cannon of the city thundered, and was
answered by that of the enemy from Quatre Vents
and Werhem; then all was silent again.

The weather had turned to rain; it poured in
torrents; the melting snow floated in blocks down
the course of the swollen river.  People stayed
in-doors, cowering close to the fire; we thought
of the absent, of the war, of the marches and
counter-marches.  The *gens-d'armes* of Bismark
Bohlen continued to make their rounds; we saw
them pass, their cloaks dripping with rain.  The
silence and the uncertainty overwhelmed one.
Marie-Rose came and went without saying
anything; she even put on a smiling aspect when my
melancholy grew very great; but I could see from
her pallor what she was suffering.

Sometimes, too, the grandmother, when we
least expected it, would begin to talk about Jean,
asking for news of him.  We would answer her
by some insignificant thing, and the short ideas of
old age, her weakened memory, prevented her
from asking more; she would be contented with
what we could tell her, and murmured, thoughtfully:

"Very good! very good!"

And then the cares of life, the daily labour,
the care of the cattle and of the household, helped
us to keep up.

Poor Calas, having no more work to do with
us, had turned smuggler between Phalsbourg and
the suburbs, risking his life every day to carry
a few pounds of tobacco or other such thing
to the glacis; it was rumoured at this time
that he had been killed by a German sentinel;
Ragot had followed him; we heard nothing more
of either of them.  They have doubtless been
sleeping for a long time in the corner of a wood
or in some hole or other; they are very fortunate.

One morning, in the large down-stairs room,
when we were alone, Father Ykel said to me:

"Frederick, it is known that your son-in-law,
Jean Merlin, has gone to join our army.  Take
care, the Prussians may give you trouble!"

I was all taken aback, and I answered, after a
moment:

"No, Father Ykel!  Jean is gone to Dôsenheim
on business; he is trying to collect old
debts; at this time we need money."

"Pshaw!" said he, "you need not hide the
truth from me; I am an old friend of the Burats
and you.  Merlin has not been here for several
days; he has crossed the mountain, and he did
right; he is a brave fellow; but there are plenty
of traitors about here; you have been denounced,
so be on your guard."

This warning startled me, and, thinking that it
would be well to tell his mother, Margredel, and
his Uncle Daniel, after breakfast, without saying
anything to Marie-Rose, I took my stick and set
out for Felsberg.

It had stopped raining.  The winter sun was
shining over the woods, and this spectacle, after
leaving our dark nook, seemed to revive me.  As
the path at the hill passed near the forest house,
showing the old roof in the distance, I was touched
by it.  All my recollections came back to me, and
it occurred to me to go and take a look at the
cottage, and to look at the inside by standing on
the bench by-the wall.  It seemed as if it would
do me good to see once more the old room,
wherein the old people had died and where my
children had been born!  My heart warmed at
the idea and I went swiftly on, till, reaching the
little bridge between the two willows, covered
with frost, I stood still in horror.

A German forest-guard, his green felt hat, with
its cock-feathers, set on one side, his long-stemmed
porcelain pipe in his great fair mustaches, and
with his arms crossed on the window-sill, was
smoking quietly, with a calm expression, happy
as in his own house.  He was looking smilingly
at two chubby, fair-haired children, who were
playing before the door, and behind him, in the
shadow of the room, was leaning a woman, very
fat, with red cheeks, calling, gaily:

"Wilhelm, Karl, come in; here is your bread
and butter!"

All my blood seemed to go through my veins
at the sight.  How hard it is to see strangers in
the old people's house, where one has lived till
one's old age, from which one has been chased,
from no crime of one's own, only because others
are masters and turn one out of doors!  It is terrible!

The guard raising his head suddenly, I was
afraid he would see me, so I hid myself.  Yes, I
hid myself behind the willows, hastening to reach
the path farther on, and stooping like a malefactor.
I would have been ashamed if that man had
seen that the former master had found him in his
house, in his room, beside his hearth; I blushed
at the idea!  I hid myself, for he might have
laughed at the Alsatian, who had been turned out
of doors; he might have enjoyed himself over it.
But from that day hatred, which I had never
known before, entered my heart; I hate those
Germans, who peacefully enjoy the fruit of our
toil, and consider themselves honest people.  I
abhor them!

From there I went up through the heath to
Felsberg, feeling very sad and with hanging head.

The poor village seemed as sad as I, among its
heaps of mud and dunghills; not a soul was to be
seen in the street, where requisitions of all kinds
had passed more than once.  And at the old
schoolhouse, when I tried to lift the latch, I found
the door fastened.  I listened; no noise nor murmur
of children was to be heard.  I looked through
the window; the copies were hanging there still
by their strings, but the benches were empty.

I called, "Father Daniel!" looking up at the
first-floor windows, for the garden gate was also
closed.  Some moments later another door, that
of Margredel's house, built against the gable end,
opened; Uncle Daniel, an active little man, with
coarse woollen stockings, and a black cotton skull
cap on his head, appeared, saying:

"Who is there?"  I turned round.

"Ah! it is Brigadier Frederick," said he.
"Come in!"

"Then you do not live yonder any more?"
said I.

"No, since day before yesterday the school
has been closed," he answered, sadly.

And in the lower room of the old cottage,
near the little cast-iron stove, where the potatoes
were cooking in the pot, sending their steam up
to the ceiling, I saw Margredel, sitting on a low
stool.





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   \XXVI

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Margredel wore her usual open, kindly
expression, and even her usual smile.

"Ah!" said she, "we have no longer our pretty
up-stairs room for our friends.  The Germans are
hunting us out of every place; we will not know
where to go soon!  However, sit down there on
the bench, Father Frederick, and, if you like, we
will eat some potatoes together."

Her good-humour and her courage in such a
wretched place made me still more indignant
against those who had plunged us all into
misfortune; my consternation kept me from speaking.

"Are Marie-Rose and the grandmother well?"
asked Margredel.

"Yes, thank God!" I answered; "but we are
very uneasy about Jean.  The Prussians know
that he has gone; Father Ykel has warned me to
be on my guard, and I came to warn you."

"Who cares for the Prussians?" said she,
shrugging her shoulders contemptuously.  "Ah! they
are a bad race!  Jean has crossed the
mountains long before this; if they had been able to
stop him we would have heard of it by this time;
they would have come to tell us, rubbing their
hands with delight; but he has got over; he is a
fine fellow!"

She laughed with all her toothless mouth.

"Those who have to fight him will not laugh.
He is safe with our volunteers!  The guns and
cannon are thundering yonder!"

The poor woman saw the bright side of everything,
as usual, and I thought:

"What a blessing it is to have a character like
that; how fortunate!"

Uncle Daniel was walking about the room, saying:

"It is because of Jean's departure that the
bandits shut up my school.  They had nothing to
reproach me with; they gave me no explanations;
they simply shut it up, that is all, and just gave
us time enough to carry away our furniture;
they looked at us crossly, crying,
'*Schwindt! schwindt!*'"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Quick! quick!

.. vspace:: 2

"Yes," cried Margredel, "they are sly hypocrites;
they strike you heavy blows without warning.
In the morning they smile at you, they sit
by the fire like good apostles, they kiss your
children with tears in their eyes; and then all at
once they change their tone, they collar you, and
turn you out of doors without mercy.  Ah! those
good Germans; we know those honest people
now!  But they will not always be so proud.
Wait a bit; Heaven is just!  Our own people
will come back; Jean will be with them.  You
will see, Father Frederick!  We will go back to
the forest house; we will celebrate the wedding
there!  That is all I can say.  Don't you see, you
must trust in God.  Now we are suffering for our
sins.  But God will put everything to rights,
when we will have finished expiating our faults.
It cannot be otherwise.  He uses the Prussians to
punish us.  But their turn will come; we will go
to their country.  They will see how agreeable it
is to be invaded, robbed, pillaged.  Let them have
a care!  Every dog has his day!"

She spoke with so much confidence that it
infected me; I said to myself:

"What she says is very possible.  Yes, justice
will be done, sooner or later!  After all, we may
take Alsace again.  Those Germans do not like
each other.  We would only have to win one
great battle; the break-up would begin at once.
The Bavarians, the Hessians, the Würtembergers,
the Saxons, the Hanoverians, they would all go
home again.  We would have it all our own way!"

But, in the meantime, we were in a very sad
position.  Margredel said that they had enough
rye and potatoes to last till the end of the war,
and that, with a few *sous'* worth of salt, would be
sufficient for them.

Master Daniel compressed his lips and looked
thoughtful.

So, having seen how things were getting along
at Felsberg, I took leave of my old friends about
eleven o'clock, wishing them all the good things
in the world.

I avoided passing by the forest house, and I
descended the hill of Graufthal by the forest of fir
trees among the rocks, leaning on my stick in the
steepest places.

I remember meeting, about two-thirds of my
way down, old Roupp, an incorrigible thief, with
his faded little blouse, his cotton cravat rolled like
a rope round his lean neck, and his hatchet in his
hand.

He was chopping away right and left, at everything
that suited him; huge branches, small fir
trees, everything went into his magnificent fagot,
which was lying across the path, and as I called to
him:

"Then you are not afraid of the Prussian
guards, Father Roupp!"

He began to laugh, with his chin turned up
and his scrap of felt hat on the back of his neck,
and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Ah! brigadier," said he, merrily, "those
people don't risk themselves alone in the forest!
Unless they come in regiments, with cannon in
front of them and uhlans on every side, and ten
against one, they always follow the high roads.
They are fellows that have a great respect for their
skins.  Ha! ha! ha!"

I laughed, too, for he only told the truth.  But
a terrible surprise awaited me a little farther on,
at the descent of the rocks.

When I left the wood and saw the little
thatched roofs at the foot of the hill, among the
heath, I first saw helmets glittering in the narrow
lane in front of Father Ykel's hut, and, looking
closer, I perceived a ragged crowd of men and
women gathered around them; Ykel, at the door
of the inn, was talking; Marie-Rose behind, in
front of the dark stable, and the grandmother at
her little window, with uplifted hands, as if cursing
them.





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   \XXVII

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Naturally, I began to run through the brushwood,
knowing that something serious was happening,
and descending the passage of the old
cloister, to make a short cut, I came out behind
the stable, at the moment that some one was
leaving it, dragging our two cows, tied by the horns.

It was the station-master of Bockberg, named
Toubac, a short, thick-set man, with a black beard,
whose two tall, handsome daughters were said to
be the servants of the Prussian hauptmann[#] who
had lodged at his house since the beginning of the
siege.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Captain.

.. vspace:: 2

When I saw this rascal taking away my cattle,
I cried:

"What are you doing, thief?  Let my cows
alone, or I will break every bone in your body."

Then, at my cries, the sergeant and his squad
of men, with drawn bayonets, Ykel, Marie-Rose,
and even the grandmother, dragging herself along
and leaning against the wall, entered the passage.

Marie-Rose cried out to me:

"Father, they want to take away our cows."

And the grandmother said lamentingly:

"Good Heavens! what will we have to live
on?  Those cows are our only possession; they
are all that we have left!"

The sergeant, a tall, lean man, with a tight-fitting
uniform and with a sword at his side, hearing
Ykel say, "Here is the master! the cows
belong to him!" turned his head, as if on a pivot,
and looked at me over his shoulder; he wore
spectacles under his helmet, and had red mustaches
and a hooked nose; he looked like an owl, who
turns his head without moving his body; a very
bad face!

The crowd was blocking up the passage and
the sergeant cried:

"Back!  Clear the premises, corporal, and if
they resist, fire upon them!"

The trampling of the sabots in the mud and
the cries of the grandmother, weeping and
sobbing, made this scene fearful.

"These cows suit me," said the station-master
to the sergeant; "I will take them; we can go."

"Do they belong to you?" said I, angrily, and
clutching my stick.

"That is no affair of mine," said he, in the tone
of a bandit, without heart and without honour.  "I
have my choice of all the cows in the country to
replace those that the rascals from Phalsbourg
carried off from me at their last sortie.  I choose
these.  They are Swiss cows.  I always liked
Swiss cows."

"And who gave you the choice?" I cried.
"Who can give you other people's property?"

"The *hauptmann*, my friend, the *hauptmann*!"
said he, turning up the brim of his hat with an air
of importance.

Then several of the crowd began to laugh, saying,
"The *hauptmann* is a generous man; he pays
those well who give him pleasure."

My indignation overcame me; and the sergeant
having ordered his squad of men to go on,
at the moment when the station-master, crying
"Hue!" was dragging my poor cows after him by
the horns, I was about to fall upon him like a wolf,
when Marie-Rose took hold of my hands and
whispered to me with a terrified look:

"Father, do not stir, they would kill you.
Think of grandmother."

My cheeks were quivering, my teeth clenched,
red flames were dancing before my eyes; but the
thought of my daughter alone in the world,
abandoned at this terrible time, and of the grandmother
dying of hunger, gave me the strength to
keep down my rage, and I only cried:

"Go, scoundrel!  Keep the property you have
stolen from me, but beware of ever meeting me
alone in the forest!"

The sergeant and his men pretended not to
hear; and he, the wretch, said, laughing:

"These cows, sergeant, are as good as mine;
after a long search we ended by finding two fine
animals."

They had searched all the villages, visited all
the stables, and it was on us that the misfortune
fell.  Marie-Rose, on seeing the poor beasts raised
by us at the forest house, could not restrain her
tears, and the grandmother, her hands clasped
above her gray head, cried:

"Ah! now—now we are lost!  Now this is
the last stroke.  My God, what have we done to
deserve such misery!"

I supported her by the arm, asking her to go
in, but she said:

"Frederick, let me look once more at those
good creatures.  Oh! poor Bellotte!  Poor
Blanchette!  I will never see you again!"

It was a heartrending spectacle, and the people
dispersed quickly, turning away their heads, for
the sight of such iniquities is the most abominable
thing on earth.  At last, however, we were obliged
to ascend to our wretched little rooms, and think
over our desolation; we had to think how we
should live, now that all our resources were taken
away.  You know, George, what a cow is worth
to a peasant; with a cow in the stable one has
butter, milk, cheese, all the necessaries of life; to
possess a cow is to be in easy circumstances, two
are almost wealth.  Up to the present time we
could sell the produce and make a few *sous* in
that way; now we would have to buy everything
at this time of dearth, while the enemy fattened
on our poverty.

Ah! what a terrible time it was!  Those who
come after us will have no idea of it.





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.. _`XXVIII`:

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   \XXVIII

.. vspace:: 2

All that we had left were five or six hundred
weight of hay and potatoes.  Ykel, who sympathized
with all our griefs, said to me the same day:

"Look here, brigadier; what I predicted has
come to pass.  The Germans hate you, because
you refused to serve under them, and because your
son-in-law has gone to join the republicans.  If
they could drive you away, or even kill you, they
would do it; but they want still to give themselves
airs of justice and highmindedness; for that reason
they will strip you of everything to force you to
leave the country, as they say 'of your own free
will!'  Take my advice, get rid of your fodder as
quickly as possible, for one of these fine mornings
they will come to requisition it, saying that those
who have no cows have no need of fodder.  And,
above all, do not say that I gave this advice!"

I knew that he was right; the next day my
hayloft was empty; Gaspard, Hulot, Diederick,
Jean Adam, big Starck, all the neighbours came
that evening and carried off our provision of hay
by bundles, and in this way I had a few francs in
reserve.  Starck even gave up to me one of his
goats, which was of the greatest use to us; at least
the grandmother had a little milk, morning and
evening, that prolonged her life; but after so
many shocks the poor old woman was terribly
weakened, she trembled like a leaf, and no longer
left her bed, dreaming always, murmuring prayers,
talking of Burat, her husband; of Grandfather
Duchêne, of all the old people that returned to
her memory.  Marie-Rose spun beside her, and
sat up till late at night, listening to her laboured
breathing and her complaints.

I sat alone in the side room, near the little
windows, almost blocked with snow, my legs
crossed, my unlighted pipe between my teeth,
thinking of all the acts of injustice, of all the
thefts, of those abominations that took place every
day; I began to lose confidence in the Almighty!
Yes, it is a sad thing to think of, but by dint of
suffering I said to myself that among men many
resemble the sheep, the geese, and the turkeys,
destined to feed the wolves, the foxes and the
hawks, who feast themselves at their expense.
And I pushed my indignation so far as to say to
myself that our holy religion had been invented
by malicious people to console fools for being
preyed upon by others.  You see, George, to what
excesses injustice drives us.  But the worst of all
was, that there was bad news from the interior.  A
party of Germans came from Wechem to confiscate
my hay and found the loft empty; they were
indignant at it; they asked me what had become
of the fodder, and I told them that the
station-master's cows had eaten it.  My goat happened
fortunately to be among those of Starck, or the
*bandits* would certainly have carried it off with
them.

This troop of brawlers, then going into the inn,
related how the republicans had been beaten; that
they had left thousands of corpses on the field of
battle; that they had been repulsed from Orleans,
and that they were still pursuing them; they
laughed and boasted among themselves.  We did
not believe one quarter of what they said, but their
good-humoured air and their insolence in speaking
of our generals, forced us to think that it was not
all a lie.

As to Jean, no letters, no news!  What had
become of him?  This question, which I often
asked myself, troubled me.  I was careful not to
speak of it to Marie-Rose; but I saw by her pallor
that the same thought followed her everywhere.

It was now December.  For some time the
cannon of Phalsbourg had been silenced, it was
said that at night flames had been seen to rise
suddenly from the ramparts; we wondered what it
could be.  We have since learned that they were
burning the powder and breaking up the artillery
material, and they were spiking the cannon, for
the provisions were running out and they were
about to be forced to open the gates.

This misfortune happened on the thirteenth of
December, after six bombardments and a hundred
and twenty days of siege.  Half the city was in
ruins; at the bombardment of the fourteenth of
August alone eight thousand five hundred shells
had laid whole streets in ruins; and the poor
fellows picked up hastily in the suburbs at the time
of the terrible heat and sent into the city, with
nothing but the blouses on their backs and their
shoes on their feet, after having passed that
fearful winter on the ramparts, were carried off again
as prisoners of war, some to Rastadt, others to
Prussia, through the snow.  On hearing this news
the consternation became universal.  As long as
the cannon of Phalsbourg thundered we had kept
up our hopes.  We said from time to time,
"France still speaks!"  And that made us lift up
our heads again; but then the silence told us that
the Germans were really our masters, and that we
must make ourselves small so as not to draw
down their anger upon us.

From that day, George, our sadness knew no
bounds.  To add to our misfortune, the
grandmother grew much worse.  One morning when I
entered her room, Marie-Rose said to me in a low
voice:

"Father, grandmother is very sick.  She does
not sleep any more.  She seems suffocating!  You
ought to go for the doctor."

"You are right, my daughter," said I; "perhaps
we have waited too long as it is."

And, in spite of the pain of seeing our old
fortress in the enemy's hands, I determined to go
to Phalsbourg in search of a physician.  That day
the country was nothing but mud and clouds.  I
went straight forward, with drooping head, walking
on the slope at the edge of the road, my mind
a blank, from having thought for so many months
of our abasement, and so downcast that I would
have given my life for nothing.

On the plateau of Bugelberg, just outside of
the forest, seeing before me about three leagues
distant the little city looking as if crushed under
the gloomy sky, its burned houses, its ruined
church, its ramparts levelled with the ground, I
stopped for a moment, leaning on my stick and
recalling bygone days.

How many times during the past twenty-five
years I had gone there on Sundays and holidays
with my poor wife, Catherine, and my daughter,
either to go to mass, or to see the booths of the
fair, or to shake hands with some old comrades,
laughing, happy, thinking that everything would
continue that way till the end of our days!  And
all the vanished joys, the old friends, who, in their
little gardens at the foot of the glacis, called to us
to come to pick currants or to gather a bunch of
flowers, seemed to return.  How many recollections
returned to me!  I could not remember
them all, and I cried to myself:

"Oh! how distant those things are!  Oh! who
would ever have believed that this
misfortune would come upon us, that we, Frenchmen
and Alsatians, should be obliged to bow our
necks to the Prussian yoke!"

My sight grew dim, and I set out again on my
journey, murmuring in my soul the consolation of
all the wretched:

"Bah! life is short.  Soon, Frederick, all will
be forgotten.  So take courage, you have not
much longer to suffer."

I seemed also to hear the trumpet of our joyous
soldiers; but at the gate, a squad of Germans,
in big boots, and their sentinel, with bow-legs, his
gun on his shoulder, his helmet on the back of
his neck, and, walking to and fro in front of the
guard-house, recalled to me our position.  My
old comrade, Thomé, city overseer and collector
of the city duties, beckoned to me to come in.
We talked over our misfortunes; and, seeing that
I was looking at a company of Prussians crossing
the bridge, who, holding themselves erect, were
keeping step, he said:

"Do not look at them, Frederick, they are
proud when one looks at them; they think that
we are admiring them."

Then I turned away my eyes, and having
rested for a few minutes I entered the city.





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   \XXIX

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Do I need to describe to you now the desolation
of that poor Phalsbourg, formerly so neat,
the little houses so well built, the large parade
ground, so gay on review day?  Must I tell you
of the houses fallen over on each other, the gables
overturned, the chimneys in the air amid the
ruins; and of the taverns filled with Germans,
eating, drinking and laughing, while we, with long
faces, looking scared, wretched and ragged after
all these disasters, saw these intruders enjoying
themselves with their big pay taken out of our
pockets?  No, only at the thought of it, my heart
sickens; it is a thousand times worse than all that
people relate.

As I reached the corner of the parade ground,
opposite the church tower, which was still standing,
with its cracked bells and its virgin with uplifted
arms, a harsh voice called from the state-house:

"*Heraus*!"[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Get out.

.. vspace:: 2

It was the sergeant of the station who was
ordering his men to go out; the patrolling officer
was coming, the others hastened from the guard-house
and formed the ranks; it was noon.  I had
halted in consternation before the Café Vacheron.
A crowd of poor people, homeless, without work
and without food, were walking backward and
forward, shivering with their hands in their pockets
up to the elbows; and I, knowing from what
Thomé had said that the military hospital and the
college were crowded with the sick, asked myself
if I could find a doctor to visit at Graufthal a
poor old woman at the point of death.  I was
overwhelmed with sadness and doubt.  I did not
know to whom to address myself or what to do,
when an old friend of the forest house, Jacob
Bause, the first trout fisher of the valley, began to
call behind me:

"Hallo! it is Father Frederick?  Then you
are still in the land of the living?"

He shook hands and seemed so glad to see me
that I was touched by it.

"Yes," said I, "we have escaped, thank God.
When one meets people now one almost thinks
that they have been resuscitated.  Unfortunately
grandmother is very ill and I do not know
where to find a doctor in the midst of this confusion."

He advised me to go to Dr. Simperlin, who
lived on the first floor of the Café Vacheron,
saying that he was a good and learned man, and a
true Frenchman, who would not refuse to
accompany me, in spite of the length of the road and
the work he had in the town, at the time of this
extraordinary press of business.  So I went up
stairs; and Dr. Simperlin, who was just sitting
down to dinner, promised to come as soon as he
had finished his repast.  Then, feeling a little
more easy, I went down stairs into the large
coffee room, to take a crust of bread and a glass
of wine, while waiting for him.  The room was
filled with *landwehr*; fat citizens in uniform,
brewers, architects, farmers, bankers, and
hotel-keepers, come to take possession of the country
under the command of the Prussian chiefs, who
made them march like puppets.

All these people had their pockets full of
money, and to forget the unpleasantness of their
discipline they ate as many sausages with
sauerkraut, and as much ham and salad with cervelats
as our veterans used formerly to drink glasses of
brandy.  Some drank beer, others champagne or
burgundy, each according to their means, of
course without offering any to their comrades—that
is understood; they all ate with two hands,
their mouths open to the ears, and their noses in
their plates; and all that I say to you is, that as
this muddy, rainy weather prevented us from
opening the windows, one had sometimes to go
outside in order to breathe.

I seated myself in one corner with my mug of
beer, looking at the tobacco smoke curling round
the ceiling, and the servants bringing in what was
wanted, thinking of the sick grandmother, of the
ruins that I had just seen, listening to the
Germans, whom I did not understand, for they spoke
an entirely different tongue from that of Alsace;
and at the other end of the room some Phalsbourgers
were talking of an assistance bureau that
was being organized at the State House, of a soup
kitchen that they wished to establish in the old
cavalry barracks, for the poor; of the indemnities
promised by the Prussians, and on which they
counted but little.

The time passed slowly.  I had ended by not
listening at all, thinking of my own misery, when
a louder, bolder voice drew me from my reflections;
I looked: it was Toubac, the station-master
of Bockberg, who was interrupting the conversation
of the Phalsbourgers, who cried, audaciously
thumping the table with his big fist:

"It is all very well for you, city people, to talk
now about the miseries of war.  You were behind
your ramparts, and when the shells came you ran
into your casemates.  No one could take anything
from you.  Those whose houses are burned will
receive larger indemnities than they are worth;
the old, worm-eaten furniture will be replaced by
new, and more than one whose tongue was
hanging before the campaign can rub his hands and
stick out his stomach, saying: 'The war has made
me a solid citizen; I have paid my debts and I
pass for a famous warrior because my cellar was
bullet proof.  I will devote myself to staying in
my country to buy cheap the goods of those who
are going away with the money from my indemnities;
I will sacrifice myself to the end as I have
done from the beginning.'  Yes, that kind of war
is agreeable; behind strong walls all goes well.
While we poor peasants, we were obliged to feed
the enemies, to give them hay, straw, barley, oats,
wheat, and even our cattle, do you hear?—our last
resource.  They took my two cows, and now who
shall I ask to repay me for them?"

This was too much.  When he said that, the
effrontery of the rascal made me so indignant that
I could not help calling to him from my place:

"Ah! wicked scoundrel, do you dare to boast
of your sufferings and of your noble conduct
during our misfortunes?  Speak of your sacrifices and
the good example that your daughters set.  Tell
those gentlemen how, having searched the country
with a squad of Germans, who gave you your
choice among all the animals of the mountains
and the plain, to replace your wretched beasts,
after having stolen, by this means, my two beautiful
Swiss cows, you are not yet satisfied.  You
dare to complain, and to undervalue honest folk
who have done their duty?"

As I spoke, thinking that this rascal was the
cause of the grandmother's illness, I grew more
and more angry; I would have restrained myself,
but it was too much for me, and all at once,
seizing my stick with both hands, I rushed upon him
to knock him down.

Fortunately, Fixeri, the baker, who was sitting
beside this rascal, seeing my uplifted stick, parried
the blow with his chair, saying:

"Father Frederick, what are you thinking about?"

This had a terrible effect; all the room was in
a commotion and trying to separate us.  He, the
thief, finding himself behind the others, shook his
fist at me and cried:

"Old rascal!  I will make you pay for that!
The Germans would have nothing to do with you.
The Oberförster turned you out.  You would
have liked to have served under them, but they
knew you; they slammed the door in your face.
That annoys you.  You insult honest people; but
look out, you will hear from me soon."

These astounding lies made me still more furious;
it took five or six men to hold me, so as to
prevent me from getting at him.

I should have ended by turning everything
upside down, if the *landwehr* had not called a
party of watchmen who were passing along the
road.  Then, hearing the butt ends of the muskets
as they were grounded at the door, and seeing the
helmets in front of the window, I sat down again,
and everything calmed down.

The corporal came in; Mme. Vacheron made
him take a glass of wine at the bar, and as the
noise had ceased, after wiping his mustaches, he
went out, making the military salute.  But
Toubac and I looked at each other with sparkling eyes
and quivering lips.  He knew, the wretch, that
now his shame would be discovered all through
the city, and that made him beside himself with rage.

As for me, I thought, "Only manage to be in
my way going to Biechelberg; I will pay you off
for all that you have done; the poor grandmother
will be avenged."

He, doubtless, had the same thoughts, for he
looked at me sideways, with his rascally smile.  I
was very glad when Dr. Simperlin appeared on
the threshold of the room, making me a sign to
follow him.

I left at once, after having paid for my glass
of wine, and we set out for Graufthal.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XXX`:

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   \XXX

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You know, George, how much bad weather
adds to one's melancholy.  It was sleeting, the
great ruts full of water were ruffled by the wind.
Dr. Simperlin and I walked for a long time in
silence, one behind the other, taking care to avoid
the puddles in which one could sink up to his knees.

Farther on, after having passed the Biechelberg,
on the firmer ground of the forest, I told
the doctor about the offers that the Oberförster
had made to us, and the refusal of all our guards
except Jacob Hepp; of our leaving the forest
house, and of our little establishment at Ykel's, in
a cold corner of the wretched inn, under the rocks,
where the grandmother had not ceased to cough
for six weeks.

He listened to me with bent head, and said at
the end that it was very hard to leave one's home,
one's fields, one's meadows, and the trees that one
has planted; but that one should never draw back
before one's duty; and that he also was about to
leave the country with his wife and children,
abandoning his practice, the fruit of his labour for
many years, so as not to become one of the herd
of King William.

Talking thus, about three o'clock, we reached
the wretched tavern of Graufthal.  We ascended
the little staircase.  Marie-Rose had heard us; she
was at the door, and hastened to offer a chair to
Dr. Simperlin.

The doctor looked at the black beams of the
ceiling, the narrow windows, the little stove, and
said:

"It is very small and very dark for people
accustomed to the open air."

He was thinking of our pretty house in the
valley, with its large, shining windows, its white
walls.  Ah! the times had changed sadly.

At last, having rested for a few minutes, to get
his breath, he said:

"Let us go see the invalid."

We entered the little side room together.  The
day was declining; we had to light the lamp, and
the doctor, leaning over the bed, looked at the
poor old woman, saying:

"Well, grandmother Anne, I was passing by
Graufthal, and Father Frederick beckoned me in;
he told me that you were not very well."

Then the grandmother, entirely aroused, recognised
him and answered:

"Ah! it is you, M. Simperlin.  Yes, yes; I
have suffered, and I suffer still.  God grant it
will soon be over!"

She was so yellow, so wrinkled and so thin,
that one thought when one looked at her:

"Good heavens, how can our poor lady continue
to exist in such a condition!"

And her hair, formerly gray, now white as
snow, her hollow cheeks, her eyes glittering, and
a forehead all shrivelled with wrinkles, made her,
so to speak, unrecognisable.

The doctor questioned her; she answered very
well to all his questions.  He listened with his ear
at her chest, and then at her back, while I held her
up.  At last he said, smiling:

"Well, well, grandmother, we are not yet in
danger.  This bad cold will pass away with the
winter; only you must keep yourself warm, and
not give way to sad thoughts.  You will soon
return to the forest house; all this cannot last."

"Yes, yes," said she, looking at us.  "I hope
that all will come right; but I am very old."

"Bah! when one has kept up like you, is one
old?  All this has been caused by a draught;
you must take care of draughts, Mlle. Marie-Rose.
Come, keep up your courage, grandmother."

So said the doctor; the grandmother seemed a
little reassured.

We left the room, and outside, when I was
questioning him and my daughter was listening,
Dr. Simperlin asked me:

"Shall I speak before Mlle. Marie-Rose?"

"Yes," I answered, "for my poor daughter
takes care of the invalid, and she ought to know
all; if the illness is serious, if we are to lose the
last creature who loves us and whom we love—well,
it is always best to know it beforehand, than
to be struck by the misfortune without having
been warned."

"Well," said he, "the poor woman is ill not
only because of her old age, but principally
because of the grief which is sapping her constitution.
She has something preying upon her mind,
and it is that which makes her cough.  Take care
not to grieve her; hide your troubles from her.
Always look gay before her.  Tell her that you
have strong hopes.  If she looks at you, smile
at her.  If she is uneasy, tell her it is nothing.
Let no one come in, for fear they should tell
her bad news; that is the best remedy I can give
you."

While he spoke, Marie-Rose, who was very
much alarmed, was coughing behind her hand, with
a little hacking cough; he interrupted himself, and,
looking at her, he said:

"Have you coughed like that for any length
of time, Mlle. Marie-Rose?"

"For some time," she answered, flushing.

Then he took her arm and felt her pulse, saying
as he did so:

"You must be careful and look after yourself,
too; this place is not healthy.  Have you fever at
nights?"

"No, sir."

"Well, so much the better; but you must take
care of yourself; you must think as little as
possible of sad things."

Having said that, he took his hat from my bed
and his cane from the corner, and said to me, as
we were descending the stairs together:

"You must come to the city to-morrow, and
you will find a little bottle at the shop of Reeb,
the apothecary; you must give three drops of it,
in a glass of water, morning and evening, to the
grandmother; it is to calm that suffocating feeling;
and look after your daughter, too; she is very
much changed.  When I remember Marie-Rose, as
fresh and as healthy as she was, six months ago, it
makes me uneasy.  Take care of her."

"Gracious Heavens!" said I to myself, in despair;
"take care of her!  Yes, yes, if I could give
her my own existence; but how take care of
people who are overwhelmed by fears, grief, and
regrets?"

And, thinking of it, I could have cried like a
child.  M. Simperlin saw it, and, on the threshold,
shaking my hand, he said:

"We, too, are very sick; is it not so, Father
Frederick?  Yes, terribly sick.  Our hearts are
breaking; each thought kills us; but we are men;
we must have courage enough for everybody."

I wanted to accompany him at least to the end
of the valley, for the night had come; but he
refused, saying:

"I know the way.  Go up stairs, Father Frederick,
and be calm before your mother and your
daughter; it is necessary."

He then went away and I returned to our
apartments.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`XXXI`:

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   \XXXI

.. vspace:: 2

Two or three days passed away.  I had gone
to the town to get the potion that the doctor had
ordered from Reeb, the apothecary; the grandmother
grew calmer; she coughed less; we talked
to her only of peace, tranquility, and the return of
Jean Merlin, and the poor woman was slowly
recovering; when, one morning, two Prussian
*gens-d'armes* stopped at the inn; as those people
usually passed on without halting, it surprised me,
and, a few moments later, Father Ykel's daughter
came to tell me to go down stairs, that some one
was asking for me.

When I went down, I found those two tall fellows,
with jack-boots, standing in the middle of
the room; their helmets almost touched the
ceiling.  They asked me if they were speaking to the
person known as Frederick, formerly the brigadier
forester of Tömenthal.  I answered in the affirmative;
and one of them, taking off his big gloves,
in order to fumble in his knapsack, gave me a
letter, which I read at once.

It was an order from the commander of Phalsbourg
to leave the country within twenty-four hours!

You understand, George, what an impression
that made on me; I turned pale and asked what
could have drawn upon me so terrible a sentence.

"That is no affair of ours," answered one of
the *gens-d'armes*.  "Try to obey, or we will have
to take other measures."

Thereupon they mounted their horses again
and rode off; and Father Ykel, alone with me,
seeing me cast down and overwhelmed by such an
abomination, not knowing himself what to say, or
to think, cried out:

"In the name of Heaven, Frederick, what
have you been doing?  You are not a man of
any importance, and, in our little village, I should
have thought they would have forgotten you
long ago!"

I made no reply; I remembered nothing; I
thought only of the grief of my daughter and of
the poor old grandmother when they learned of
this new misfortune.

However, at last I remembered my imprudent
words at the Café Vacheron, the day of my
dispute with Toubac; and Father Ykel at the first
word told me that it all came from that; that
Toubac had certainly denounced me; that there was
only one thing left for me to do, and that was to
go at once to the commander and beg him to grant
me a little time, in consideration of the
grandmother, over eighty years of age, seriously ill, and
who would certainly die on the road.  He also
sent for the schoolmaster, and gave me, as Mayor
of the parish, a regular attestation concerning my
good qualities, my excellent antecedents, the
unhappy position of our family; in short, he said all
the most touching and the truest things that could
be said on such an occasion.  He also recommended
me to go to M. Simperlin, too, and get a
certificate of illness, to confirm his attestation,
thinking that thus the commander would be
touched and would wait till the poor old woman
was well enough to travel.

In my trouble, seeing nothing else to do, I set
out.  Marie-Rose knew nothing of it, nor the
grandmother, either; I had not the courage to
announce the blow that was threatening us.  To
set out alone, to fly far away from those savages,
who coolly plunged us into all sorts of miseries,
would have been nothing to me; but the others!
Ah!  I dared not think of it!

Before noon I was at Phalsbourg, in a frightful
state of wretchedness; all the misfortunes that
crushed us rose before my eyes.

I saw the doctor, who declared simply in his
certificate that the invalid, who was old, weak,
and, moreover, entirely without resources, could
not stand a journey, even of two hours, without
dying.

"There," said he, giving me the paper, "that is
the exact truth.  I might add that your departure
will kill her also, but that would be nothing to the
commander; if this does not touch his heart, the
rest would be useless also."

I went then to the commander's quarters, which
were in the old government house, in the Rue du
College.  The humiliation of addressing supplications
to rascals whom I detested was not the least
of my sorrows; that I, an old French forester, an
old servant of the state, gray-headed and on the
point of retiring on a pension, should stoop to
implore compassion from enemies as hard-hearted, as
proud of their victories, gained by sheer force of
numbers, as they were!  However, for the grandmother,
for the widow of old Burat, I could bear
everything.

A tall rogue, in uniform, and with red whiskers,
made me wait a long time in the vestibule; they
were at breakfast, and only about one o'clock was
I allowed to go up stairs.  Up there another
sentinel stopped me, and then, having received
permission to enter a rather large room, opening on
the garden of the Arsenal, I knocked at the
commander's door, who told me to come in.  I saw a
large, red-faced man, who was walking to and fro,
smoothing down the sleeves of his uniform and
puffing out his cheeks in an ill-natured way.  I
told him humbly of my position, and gave him
my certificates, which he did not even take the
trouble to read, but flung them on the table.

"That has nothing at all to do with it," said
he sharply; "you are described as a dangerous
person, a determined enemy of the Germans.  You
prevented your men from entering our service;
your son-in-law has gone to join the bandits of
Gambetta.  You boasted openly in a restaurant
of having refused the offers of the Oberförster of
Zornstadt; that is four times more than is
necessary to deserve being turned out of doors."

I spoke of the grandmother's condition.

"Well! leave her in her bed," said he; "the
order of the *Kreissdirector* is for you alone."

Then, without listening to me any longer, he
went into a side room, calling a servant, and closed
the door behind him.  I went down stairs again,
feeling utterly crushed; my last hope was gone; I
had no other resource; I had to leave; I had to
announce this bad news to my daughter, to the
grandmother!  I knew what would be the result
of it; and, with hanging head, I went through
that German doorway, the bridge, the sentinels,
without seeing anything.  On the glacis, at
Biechelberg, all along the road through the woods
and through the valley, I was as if mad with
despair; I talked to myself, I cried out, looking
at the trees and raising my hand toward heaven.

"Now the curse is upon us!  Now pity, the
disgrace of crime, the remorse of conscience are
abolished!  Nothing is left now but strength.
Let them exterminate us, let them cut our
throats!  Let the rascals strangle the old woman
in her bed; let them hang my daughter before
the door, and as for me, let them chop me into
pieces!  That would be better.  That would be
less barbarous than to tear us from each other's
arms; to force the son to abandon his mother on
her death-bed!"

And I continued on my road, stumbling along.
The forests, the ravines, the rocks seemed to me
full of those old brigands, of those Pandoras of
whom I had heard tell in my childhood; I thought
I heard them singing round their fires, as they
shared the plunder; all the old miseries of the
time before the great revolution came back to
me.  The distant trumpet of the Prussians in
the city that sounded its three wild notes to the
echoes, seemed to me to arouse those old villains
who had been reduced to dust centuries before.





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All at once the sight of the cottages of
Graufthal aroused me from my dreams; I shivered
at the thought that the moment was come to
speak, to tell my daughter and the grandmother
that I was banished, driven away from the
country.  It seemed to me like a sentence of death
that I myself was about to pronounce against
those whom I loved best in the world.  I slackened
my steps so as not to arrive too quickly,
when, raising my eyes, after having passed the
first houses, I saw Marie-Rose waiting in the dark
little entry of the inn; my first glance at her told
me that she knew all.

"Well, father?" said she in a low voice, as she
stood on the threshold.

"Well," I answered, trying to be calm, "I
must go.  But you two can stay—they have
granted you permission to stay."

At the same time I heard the grandmother
moaning up stairs in her bed.  Katel, that morning,
directly after I set out, had gone up stairs to
tell my daughter the bad news; the poor old
woman had heard all.  The news had already
spread through the village; the people round us
were listening; and, seeing that the blow had
fallen, I told all who wished to hear how the
Prussian commander had received me.  The
crowd of neighbours listened to me without a
word; all were afraid of sharing my fate.  The
grandmother had heard my voice, and she called me:

"Frederick!  Frederick!"

When I heard her voice, a cold perspiration
broke out on my face.  I went up stairs, answering:

"Here I am, grandmother, here I am!  Don't
cry so!  It will not last long.  I will come back!
Now they distrust me.  They are wrong, grandmother;
but the others are the strongest!"

"Ah!" she cried, "you are going away,
Frederick—you are going away like poor Jean.  I
knew that he had gone away to fight.  I knew
all.  I will never see either of you again."

"Why not, grandmother, why not?  In a few
weeks I will be allowed to come back, and Jean
will come back, too, after the war!"

"I will never see you again!" she cried.

And her sobs grew louder.  The people, curious,
and even cruel in their curiosity, had come
up stairs one after another; our three little rooms
were filled with them; they held their breath, they
had left their sabots at the foot of the stairs; they
wanted to see and hear everything; but then,
seeing the poor old woman in the shadow of her
great gray curtains, sobbing and holding out her
arms to me, almost all hastened to go down stairs
again and to return to their homes.  No one was
left but big Starck, Father Ykel, and his daughter,
Katel.

"Grandmother Anne," said Father Ykel, "don't
get such ideas into your head.  Frederick is right.
You must be reasonable.  When peace is declared
all will be right again.  You are eighty-three years
old and I am nearly seventy.  What does that
matter?  I hope to see again Jean, Father
Frederick, and all those who are gone."

"Ah!" said she, "I have suffered too much;
now it is all over!"

And till night she did nothing but cry.
Marie-Rose, always courageous, opened the
cupboards and packed up my bundle, for I had no
time to lose; the next day I must be on my road.
She took out my clothes and my best shirts and
put them on the table, asking me, in a low voice,
while the grandmother continued to cry:

"You will take this, father?  And that?"

I answered:

"Do as you think best, my daughter.  I have
no sense left to think of anything with.  Only
put my uniform in the bundle—that is the
principal thing."

Ykel, knowing that we were pressed for time,
told us not to worry about the supper, that we
should sup with them.  We accepted.

That evening, George, we spoke little at table.
Katel was up stairs with the grandmother.  And
when night came, as my bundle was packed, we
went to bed early.

You may readily believe that I slept but little.
The moans of the grandmother, and then my
reflections, the uncertainty as to my destination,
the small amount of money that I could take
with me, for I had to leave enough to live on at
home—all these things kept me awake in spite of
my fatigue and the grief that was weighing me
down.  And all through that long night I asked
myself where I should go, what I should do, what
road I should take, to whom I should address
myself in order to make my living?  Turning these
ideas over a hundred times in my head, I at last
remembered my former chief of the guards,
M. d'Arence, one of the best men I had ever known,
who had always liked me, and even protected me
during the time that I was under his orders as a
simple guard many years before; I remembered
that people said that he had retired to Saint Dié,
and I hoped, if I had the good luck to find him
yet alive, that he would receive me well and
would help me a little in my misfortune.  This
idea occurred to me towards morning; I thought
it a good one, and I fell asleep for an hour or two.
But at daybreak I was up.  The terrible moment
was approaching; I was scarcely out of bed, the
grandmother heard me and called to me.  Marie-Rose
was also up; she had prepared our farewell
breakfast; Ykel had sent up a bottle of wine.

Having dressed myself, I went into the grandmother's
room, trying to keep up my spirits, but
knowing that I would never see her again.

She seemed calmer, and, calling me to her, she
threw her arms round my neck, saying:

"My son, for you have been my son—a good
son to me—my son Frederick, I bless you!  I
wish you all the happiness that you deserve.
Ah! wishes are not worth much, nor the blessings of
poor people either.  Without that, dear Frederick,
you would not have been so unhappy."

She wept, and I could not restrain my tears.
Marie-Rose, standing at the foot of the bed,
sobbed silently.

And as the grandmother still held me, I said:

"See here, grandmother, your benediction and
your kind words do me as much good as if you
could give me all the riches of the world; it is
my consolation to think that I will see you soon
again."

"Perhaps we will meet again in heaven," said
she; "but here on this earth I must say farewell.
Farewell, Frederick, farewell."

She held me tightly embraced, kissing me with
her trembling lips; and then, having released me
and turned away her head, she held my hand for
a minute, and, beginning to sob again, she repeated,
in a low voice: "Farewell!"

I left the room; my strength failed me.  In
the side room I took a glass of wine and I put
a piece of bread in my pocket; Marie-Rose was
with me; I beckoned her to come down stairs
softly, so that the grandmother should not hear
our sobs at the moment of parting.

We went silently down stairs into the large
lower room, where Father Ykel awaited us with
some other friends; Starck, who had helped us
to move from the forest house, Hulot, and some
other good people.

We bade each other farewell; then in the entry
I kissed Marie-Rose, as an unhappy father kisses
his child, and in that kiss I wished her everything
that a man can wish to the being whom he loves
better than his life, and whom he esteems as one
esteems virtue, courage, and goodness.  And then,
with my bundle slung on the end of a stick, I
went away without turning my head.





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The path of exile is long, George, and the
first steps that one takes are painful.  He who
said that we do not drag with us our country
fastened to the soles of our shoes, was learned in
human suffering.

And when you leave behind you your child;
when you seem to hear as you walk along the
grandmother's voice saying farewell; when from
the top of the mountain that sheltered you from
the wind and covered you with its shadow, at the
last turn of the path, before the descent, you turn
and look at your valley, your cottage, your orchard,
thinking, "You will never see them more!"
then, George, it seems as if the earth holds you
back, as if the trees were extending their arms
towards you, as if the child was weeping in the
distance, as if the grandmother was calling you
back in the name of God!

Yes, I felt all that on the hill of Berlingen,
and I shudder yet when I think of it.  And to
think that worms like us dare to inflict such
sufferings on their fellow-creatures!  May the Almighty
have mercy upon them, for the hour of justice
will surely come.

I tore myself away and continued my journey.
I went away; I descended the hill with
bent back, and the dear country gradually
vanished into the distance.  Oh! how I suffered, and
how many distant thoughts came back to me!
The forests, the firs, the old saw-mills passed away.

I was approaching Schönbourg, and I began to
descend the second hill, lost in my reveries and
my despair, when all at once a man with his gun
slung over his shoulder emerged from the forest
about a hundred yards in front of me, looking
towards me.  This sight awoke me from my sad
thoughts; I raised my eyes.  It was Hepp, the old
brigadier, whom the Prussians had won over, and
who was the only man among us that had entered
their service.

"Hillo!" said he, in amazement, "it is you,
Father Frederick!"

"Yes," I answered, "it is I."

"But where are you going so early in the
morning with your bundle on your shoulder?"

"I am going where God wills.  The Germans
have turned me out.  I am going to earn my
living elsewhere."

He turned very pale.  I had stopped for a
minute to breathe.

"How!" said he, "they are turning you out
of doors at your age—you, an old forester, an
honest man, who never did harm to any one?"

"Yes; they do not want me in this country
any longer.  They have given me twenty-four
hours in which to quit old Alsace, and I am on
my way."

"And Marie-Rose and the grandmother?"

"They are at Graufthal, at Ykel's.  The grandmother
is dying.  The others will bury her."

Hepp, with drooping head and eyes cast down,
lifted up his hands, saying: "What a pity! what
a pity!"

I made no reply, and wiped my face, which
was covered with perspiration.  After a moment's
pause, without looking at me, he said:

"Ah! if I had been alone with my wife!  But
I have six children.  I am their father.  I could
not let them die of hunger.  You had a little
money laid aside.  I had not a *sou*."

Then, seeing this man with a good situation—for
he was a German brigadier forester—seeing
this man making excuses to a poor, wretched exile
like me, I did not know any more than he did
what to answer, and I said:

"That is the way of the world.  Every one
has his burden to bear.  Well! well! good-bye till
I see you again."

He wanted to shake hands with me, but I
looked another way, and continued my journey,
thinking:

"That man, Frederick, is even more unhappy
than you; his grief is terrible; he has sold his
conscience to the Prussians for a piece of black
bread; at least you can look every one in the face;
you can say, in spite of your misery, 'I am an
honest man,' and he does not dare to look at an
old comrade; he blushes, he hangs his head.  The
others have profited by the fact of his having six
children to buy him."

And, thinking of that, I grew a little more
courageous, knowing that I had done well, in spite
of everything, and that in Hepp's place I would
have hanged myself long ago in some corner of
the wood.  That comforted me a little.  What
would you have?  One is always glad to have
done the best thing, even when one had nothing
to choose between but the greatest of misfortunes.

Then those thoughts vanished, too; others took
their place.  I must tell you that in all the villages,
and even in the smallest hamlets I passed through,
the poor people, seeing me travelling at my age,
with my bundle slung over my shoulder, received
me kindly; they knew that I was one of those
who were being sent away from the country
because they loved France; the women standing
before their doors with their children in their arms
said to me, with emotion, "God guide you!"

In the little taverns, where I halted from time
to time to recruit my strength, at Lutzelbourg, at
Dabo, at Viche, they would not receive any money
from me.  As soon as I had said, "I am an old
brigadier forester; the Germans have exiled me
because I would not enter their service," I had the
respect of everybody.

Naturally, also, I did not accept the kind offers
they made me; I paid my way, for at this time of
forced requisitions no one had anything too much.

The whole country sympathized with the
republic, and the nearer I got towards the Vosges
the more they spoke of Garibaldi, of Gambetta,
of Chanzy, of Faidherbe; but also the requisitions
were larger and the villages overrun with *landwehr*.

At Schirmeck, where I arrived the same day,
about eight o'clock in the evening, I saw, on
entering the inn, a *Feldwebel*, a schoolmaster, and
a commissioner, who were drinking and smoking
among a quantity of their people, who were seated
at tables like themselves.

They all turned round and stared at me, while
I asked a lodging for the night.

The commissioner ordered me to show him
my papers; he examined them minutely, the
signatures and the stamps; then he said to me:

"You are all right at present, but by daybreak
to-morrow you must be on your way."

After that the innkeeper ventured to serve me
with food and drink; and, as the inn was filled
with the German officials, they took me to the
barn, where I fell asleep on a heap of straw.  It
was freezing outside, but the barn was near the
stable; it was warm there; I slept well because of
my fatigue.  Slumber, George, is the consolation
of the wretched; if I had to speak of the
goodness of God, I would say that every day He calls
us to Him for a few hours to make us forget our
misfortunes.





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The next day a sort of calm had replaced my
dejection; I went away more resolute, hastening
across the plain to reach Rothau.  I began to
think of Jean Merlin.  Perhaps he had followed
the same route as I, for it was the shortest.  How
glad I would be if I could hear some news of him
on my way, to send to Marie-Rose and the
grandmother; what a consolation it would be in our
misfortune!  But I must not hope for it, so many
others during the last three months had climbed
from Rothau to Provenchères, French and Germans,
strangers whom no one could have remembered.

Nevertheless, I thought of it.  And as I
walked swiftly along I admired the beautiful
forests of this mountainous country, the immense
fir trees that bordered the road and recalled to
me those of Falberg, near Saverne.  The sight of
them touched me; it was like old comrades who
escort you for several hours on your journey
before saying a last farewell.

At last the rapid motion, the fresh, bracing air
of the mountains, the kind welcome from the good
people, the hope of finding M. d'Arence, my old
chief of the guard, and, above all, the wish not to
let myself be discouraged, when my poor daughter
and the grandmother still had need of me, all that
revived me, and I said to myself at each step I took:

"Courage, Frederick!  The French are not
yet all dead; perhaps after a while the happy days
will return.  Those who despair are lost; the poor
little birds that the winter drives away from their
nests and who are obliged to go far away to seek
the seeds and the insects upon which they live
suffer also; but the spring brings them back
again.  That ought to be an example to you.
Another effort, and you will reach the top; from
Provenchères you will only have to go down hill."

Thus encouraging myself climbing on and persevering,
as weary as I was, I reached Provenchères
about the middle of the day, and made a short
halt.  I drank a glass of good wine at the inn of
the Two Keys, and there I learned that M. d'Arence
was still at St. Dié, the inspector of the woods
and waters, and that he had even commanded the
national guard during the late events.  This news
gave me great pleasure; I left there full of hope;
and that evening having reached St. Marguerite,
at the bottom of the valley, I had only to follow
the highway till I reached the city, where I arrived
so fatigued that I could scarcely stand.

I halted at the first little tavern in the Rue du
Faubourg St. Martin, and I was fortunate enough
to get a bed there, in which I slept still better
than in my barn at Schirmeck.  The Prussian
trumpet awoke me early in the morning; one of
their regiments was occupying the city; the
colonel was quartered in the episcopal palace, the
other officers and the soldiers were lodged with
the inhabitants; and the requisitions of hay, straw,
meat, flour, brandy, tobacco, etc., were going on
as briskly as at other places.  I took a clean shirt
out of my bundle, and put on my uniform,
remembering that M. d'Arence had always paid great
attention to the appearance of his men.  Character
does not change: one is at fifty years of age
exactly as one was at twenty.  Then I went down
into the inn parlour, and inquired for the house of
the inspector of the forest.  A good old woman,
Mother Ory, who kept the inn, told me that he
lived at the corner of the large bridge, to the left,
as you went towards the railway station.  I went
there at once.

It was a clear cold day; the principal street,
which runs from the railway station to the
cathedral, was white with snow, and the mountains
round the valley also.  Some German soldiers, in
their earth-coloured overcoats and flat caps, were
taking away at a distance, before the mayor's
office, a cartload of provisions; two or three
servant maids were filling their buckets at the pretty
fountain of La Muerthe.  There was nothing else
to see, for all the people kept in doors.

Having reached the house of the inspector,
and after having paused for a moment to reflect,
I was going in, when a tall, handsome man in
hussar pantaloons, a tight-fitting braided overcoat,
a green cap with silver lace, set a little on one
side, began to descend the stair-case.  It was
M. d'Arence, as erect as ever, with his beard as
brown and his colour as fresh as it was at thirty
years of age.  I recognised him at once.  Except
for his gray head, he was not changed at all; but
he did not recognise me at first; and it was only
when I reminded him of this old guard, Frederick,
that he cried:

"What, is it you, my poor Frederick?  Decidedly
we are no longer young."

No, I was no longer young, and these last few
months had aged me still more, I know.  However,
he was very glad to see me all the same.

"Let us go up stairs," he said; "we can talk
more at our ease."

So we went up stairs.  He took me into a
large dark office, the blinds of which were closed,
then into his private room, where a good fire was
sparkling in a large porcelain stove; and, having
told me to take a chair, we talked for a long time
about our country.  I told him of all our wretchedness
since the arrival of the Germans; he
listened to me with compressed lips, his elbow on
the edge of the desk, and he finally said:

"Yes, it is terrible!  So many honest people
sacrificed to the selfishness of a few wretches!
We are expiating our faults terribly; but the
Germans' turn will come.  In the meantime, that
is not the question; you must be in straitened
circumstances; you are doubtless at the end of
your funds?"

Of course I told him the truth; I said that I
had to leave enough to live on at home, and that
I was trying to get work.

Then he quietly opened a drawer, saying that
I, like the other brigadiers of Alsace, had a right
to my quarter's pay, that he would advance it to
me, and that I could repay him later.

I need not tell you my satisfaction at receiving
this money at a time when I needed it so much;
it touched me so that my eyes filled with tears
and I did not know how to thank him.

He saw by my face what I thought, and, as I
tried to utter a few words of thanks, he said:

"All right, all right, Frederick.  Don't let us
speak of that.  You are an honest man, a servant
of the state.  I am glad to be able to help you."

But what pleased me most of all was that,
when I was about to go, he asked me if several
of our guards had not joined the army of the
Vosges.

Then I instantly thought of Jean; I thought
that perhaps he had news of him.  In spite of
that, I first cited big Kern and Donadieu, and
then only Jean Merlin, who had left last, and who
had doubtless followed the same road as I had
done, by Schirmeck and Rothau.

"A big, solid fellow," said he, "with brown
mustaches; formerly in the cavalry, was he not?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, in great excitement;
"that is my son-in-law."

"Well," said he, "that honest fellow passed
this way; I gave him the means and the necessary
indications to reach Tours.  If you are uneasy
about him, you may be comforted; he is all
right; he is at his post."

We had then reached the foot of the stairs;
at the door M. d'Arence shook hands with me;
then he went away, crossing the bridge, and I
went towards the railway station, feeling happier
than I can tell you.





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I anticipated Marie-Rose's joy, and I seemed
to hear the poor grandmother thank God when
she heard the good news; it seemed to me that
our greatest misfortune had passed away, that the
sun was beginning to shine through the clouds
for us.  I walked along with my head full of
happy thoughts; and when I entered the parlour
of the Golden Lion, Mother Ory looked at me,
saying:

"Ah! my good man, you have had some good
luck befall you."

"Yes," I answered, laughing, "I am not the
same man I was this morning and yesterday.
Great misfortunes don't always stick to one
person all the time!"

And I told her what had occurred.  She
looked at me good-humouredly; but when I
asked her to give me some paper, so that I could
write all the good news to Graufthal, she said,
clasping her hands:

"What are you thinking about?  To write
that your son-in-law is with the army, that he
received aid from M. d'Arence to speed him on his
way!  Why, M. d'Arence would be arrested
tomorrow, and you, too, and your daughter!  Don't
you know that the Germans open all the letters;
that it is their best means of spying, and that they
seek every opportunity to levy new taxes on the
city?  For such a letter they would require still
more requisitions.  Beware of such fearful imprudence."

Then, seeing the justice of her remarks, I
suddenly lost all my gaiety; I had scarcely spirit
enough left to write to Marie-Rose that I had
arrived safe and well and that I had received some
help from my former chief.  I thought at every
word that I had said too much; I was afraid that
a dot, a comma, would serve as a pretext to the
scoundrels to intercept my letter and to drive me
farther away.

Ah! how sad it was not to be able to send
even a word of hope to those one loves—above
all, at such a cruel moment!  And how barbarous
they must have been to charge against the father
as a crime the consoling words that he sent to his
child, the good news that a son sends to his dying
mother!  But that is what we have seen.

Only the letters announcing the death of one's
relatives, or some new disaster to our country,
arrived; or else lies—news of victories invented by
the enemy, and that was followed the next day by
the announcement of a defeat.

From that day, not daring to write what I
knew, and receiving no news from home, I lived
a melancholy life.

Imagine, George, a man of my age, alone
among strangers, in a little room at an inn,
looking for hours together at the snow whirling against
the window-panes, listening to the noises outside,
a passing cart, a company of Prussians who were
going their rounds, the barking of a dog, people
quarrelling; without any amusement but his
meditations and his recollections.

"What are they about yonder?  Does the
grandmother still live?  And, Marie-Rose—what
has become of her?  And Jean, and all the
others?"  Always this weight on my heart!

"No letters have come; so much the better.
If anything had happened, Marie-Rose would have
written.  She does not write; so much the worse.
Perhaps she, too, is ill!"

And so it went on from morning till night.
Sometimes, when I heard the hum of voices down
stairs in the parlour, I would go down, to hear the
news of the war.  Hope, that great lie which lasts
all one's life, is so rooted in our souls that we cling
to it till the end.

So I went down stairs, and there, around the
tables, by the stove, were all kinds of
people—merchants, peasants, wagoners—talking of fights
in the north, the east; of pillages, of military
executions, of fires, of forced contributions, of
hostages, and I know not what all!

Paris was still defending herself; but near the
Loire our young troops had been forced to fall
back; the Germans were too many for them!
They were arriving by all the railroads; and then
our arms and ammunition were giving out.  This
young army, assembled in haste, without a head,
without discipline, without arms, without provisions,
was forced to keep up against this terrible
war, and the fearful weight of numbers could not
fail to crush it after a while.

That is what the Swiss and Belgian newspapers
said, that the travellers sometimes left
behind them.

The bombardment of Belfort continued.  The
weather was fearful; snow and hard frosts
followed each other in quick succession.  One could
almost say that the Almighty was against us.

For my part, George, I must confess that,
after so many misfortunes, I was discouraged;
the least rumour made me uneasy; I was
always afraid of hearing of fresh disasters; and
sometimes, too, my indignation made me wish
to go, in spite of my old legs, and get
myself killed, no matter where, so as to be done
with it.

*Ennui* and discouragement had got the upper
hand of me, when I received a letter from my
daughter.

The grandmother was dead!  Marie-Rose was
coming to join me at St. Dié.  She told me to
hire a small apartment, as she was going to bring
a little furniture, some linen, and some bedding,
and that she was going to sell the rest at Graufthal
before her departure.

She said also that Starck had offered to bring
her on his cart, through Sarrebourg, Lorquin,
Raon l'Étape; that the journey would probably
last fully three days, but that we would meet
again at the end of the week.

So the poor grandmother had ceased to suffer;
she lay beside her daughter, Catherine, and Father
Burat, whom I had loved so much!  I said to
myself that they were all luckier than I; that they
slept among their ancestors, in the shadow of our
mountains.

The thought of seeing my daughter once more
did me good.  I said to myself that we would be
no longer alone; that we could live without much
expense till the end of the invasion; and then,
when Jean returned, when he had found a
situation, we would build up our nest again in some
forest; that I would have my pension, and that,
in spite of all our misfortunes, I would end my
days in peace and quietness, among my grandchildren.

That appeared very natural to me.  I repeated
to myself that God is good, and that all would
soon be in order again.

Marie-Rose arrived on the fifth of January, 1871.





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   \XXXVI

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I had rented, for twelve francs a month, two
small rooms and a kitchen on the second floor of
the house next door to the Golden Lion; it
belonged to M. Michel, a gardener, a very good
man, who afterward rendered us great services.

It was very cold that day.  Marie-Rose had
written that she was coming, but without saying
whether in the morning or the evening; so I was
obliged to wait.

About noon Starck's cart appeared at the end
of the street, covered with furniture and bedding.

Marie-Rose was on the vehicle, wrapped in a
large cape of her mother's; the tall coalman was
walking in front, holding his horses by the bridle.

I went down stairs and ran to meet them.  I
embraced Starck, who had stopped, then my
daughter, saying to her, in a whisper:

"I have heard news of Jean.  He passed
through St. Dié.  M. d'Arence gave him the
means to cross the Prussian lines and join the
Army of the Loire."

She did not answer, but as I spoke, I felt her
bosom heave and her arms tighten round me with
extraordinary strength.

They went on again; a hundred yards farther
we were before our lodgings.  Starck took his
horses to the stable of the Golden Lion.  Marie-Rose
went into the large parlour of the inn, and
good Mother Ory made her take at once a cup of
broth, to warm her, for she was very cold.

That same day Starck and I took up the furniture.
At four o'clock all was ready.  We made a
fire in the stove.  Marie-Rose was so worn out
that we had almost to carry her up stairs.

I had noticed when I first saw her her extreme
pallor and sparkling eyes; it astonished me; but
I attributed the change to the long watches, the
grief, the anxiety, and, above all, to the fatigue of
a three days' journey in an open wagon, and in
such terribly cold weather.  Was it not natural
after such suffering?  I knew her to be strong;
since her childhood she had never been ill; I said
to myself that she would get over that in time,
and that with a little care and perfect rest she
would soon regain her rosy cheeks.

Once up stairs, in front of the sparkling little
fire, seeing the neat room, the old wardrobe at the
back, the old pictures from the forest house hung
on the wall, and our old clock ticking away in the
right-hand corner behind the door, Marie-Rose
seemed satisfied, and said to me:

"We will be very comfortable here, father; we
will keep quiet, and the Germans will not drive us
farther away.  If only Jean comes back soon, we
will live in peace."

Her voice was hoarse.  She also wanted to see
the kitchen, which opened on the court; the
daylight coming from over the roofs made this place
rather dark; but she thought everything was very nice.

As we had not any provisions yet, I sent to the
inn for our dinner and two bottles of wine.

Starck would take nothing but the expenses
on the road.  He said that at this season there
was nothing to do in the forest, and that he might
as well have come as to have left his horses in the
stable; but he could not refuse a good dinner, and
then, too, he liked a good glass of wine.

Then, at table, Marie-Rose told me all the
details of the grandmother's death; how she had
expired, after having cried for three days and three
nights, murmuring in her dreams: "Burat!
Frederick!  The Germans!  Frederick, do not desert
me!  Take me with you!"  At last the good God
took her to Himself, and half Graufthal followed
her bier through the snow to Dôsenheim, to bury
her with her own people.

In telling her sad tale, Marie-Rose could not
restrain her tears, and from time to time she
stopped to cough; so I told her that I had heard
enough, and that I did not care to know any more.

And when dinner was over, I thanked Starck
for the services he had rendered us.  I told him
that in misfortune we learn to know our true
friends, and other just things, which pleased him,
because he deserved them.  About six o'clock he
went away again, in spite of all that I could say
to persuade him to remain.  I went with him to
the end of the street, asking him to thank Father
Ykel and his daughter for all that they had done
for us, and if he went to Felsberg to tell Mother
Margredel how we were getting along, and, above
all, to ask her to send us all news of Jean that she
might receive.  He promised, and we separated.

I went back, feeling very thoughtful; glad to
see my child once more, but uneasy about the
terrible cold that kept her from speaking.  However,
I had no serious fears, as I told you, George.
When one has always seen people in good health
one knows very well that such little ailments do
not signify anything.

There was still seven or eight weeks of winter
to pass through.  In the month of March the sun
is already warm, the spring is coming; in April,
sheltered as we were by the great hill of Saint
Martin, we would soon see the gardens and the
fields grow green again in the shelter of the forest.
We had also two large boxes of climbing plants
to place on our window-sills, which I pictured to
myself beforehand extending over our window-panes,
and that would remind us a little of the
forest house.

All these things seemed good to me, and, in
my emotion at seeing Marie-Rose again, I looked
on the bright side of the future; I wanted to live
as much to ourselves as we could while waiting for
Jean's return, and to worry ourselves about the
war as little as possible, although that is very hard
to do when the fate of one's fatherland is in
question; yes, very hard.  I promised myself to
tell my daughter nothing but pleasant things, such
as tidings of our victories, if we were so fortunate
as to gain any, and, above all, to hide from her my
uneasiness about Jean, whose long silence often
gave me gloomy thoughts.

In the midst of these meditations I returned
home.  Night had come.  Marie-Rose was waiting
for me beside the lamp; she threw herself into
my arms, murmuring:

"Ah! father, what happiness it is for us to be
together once more!"

"Yes, yes, my child," I answered, "and others
who are now far away will return also.  We must
have a little patience still.  We have suffered too
much and too unjustly for that to last forever.
You are not very well now; the journey has
fatigued you; but it will be nothing.  Go sleep,
dear child, and rest yourself."

She went to her room, and I retired to bed,
thanking God for having given me back my
daughter.





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.. _`XXXVII`:

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   \XXXVII

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Thus, George, after the loss of my situation
and my property, earned by thirty years of labour,
economy and faithful services; after the loss of
our dear country, of our old parents and our
friends, I had still one consolation: my daughter
still remained to me, my good, courageous child,
who smiled at me in spite of her anxiety, her grief,
and her sufferings when she saw me too much cast
down.

That is what overwhelms me when I think of
it; I always reproach myself for having allowed
her to see my grief, and for not having been able
to keep down my anger against those who had
reduced us to such a condition.  It is easy to put a
good face on the matter when you have everything
you want; in need and in a strange country it is a
different thing.

We lived as economically as possible.  Marie-Rose
looked after our little household, and I often
sat for hours before the window, thinking of all
that had occurred during the last few months, of
the abominable order that had driven me from my
country; I suddenly grew indignant, and raised
my arms to heaven, uttering a wild cry.

Marie-Rose was more calm; our humiliation,
our misery, and the national disasters hurt her as
much and perhaps more than me, but she hid it
from me.  Only what she could not hide from me
was that wretched cold, which gave me much
anxiety.  Far from improving as I had hoped, it
grew worse—it seemed to me to get worse every
day.  At night, above all, when I heard through
the deep silence that dry, hacking cough, that
seemed to tear her chest asunder, I sat up in bed
and listened, filled with terror.

Sometimes, however, this horrible cold seemed
to get better, Marie-Rose would sleep soundly,
and then I regained my courage; and thinking of
the innumerable misfortunes that were extended
over France, the great famine at Paris, the
battlefields covered with corpses, the ambulances
crowded with wounded, the conflagrations, the
requisitions, the pillages, I said to myself that we had
still a little fire to warm us, a little bread to
nourish us.  And then, so many strange things
happened during the wars!  Had we not formerly
conquered all Europe, which did not prevent us
from being vanquished in our turn?  Might not
the Germans have the same fate?  All gamblers
end by losing!  Those ideas and many others I
turned over in my mind; and Marie-Rose said, too:

"All is not over, father; all is not over!  I had
a dream last night.  I saw Jean in a brigadier-forester's
costume; we will soon have some good
news!"

Alas! good news.  Poor child!  Yes, yes, you
can dream happy dreams; you may see Jean wearing
a brigadier's stripes, and smiling at you and
giving you his arm to lead you, with a white wreath
on your head, to the little chapel at Graufthal,
where the priest waits to marry you.  All would
have happened thus, but there should be fewer
rascals on earth, to turn aside the just things
established by the Almighty.  Whenever I think of
that time, George, I seem to feel a hand tearing
out my heart.  I would like to stop, but as I
promised you, I will go on to the end.

One day, when the fire was sparkling in the
little stove, when Marie-Rose, very thin and
thoughtful, was spinning, and when the old
recollections of the forest house, with the beautiful
spring, the calm, melancholy autumn, the songs of
the blackbirds and thrushes, the murmur of the
little river through the reeds, the voice of the old
grandmother, that of poor Calas, the joyous
barking of Ragot, and the lowing of our two
handsome cows under the old willows, came stealing
back to my memory; while I was forgetting
myself in these things, and while the monotonous
hum of the spinning wheel and the ticking of our
old clock were filling our little room, all at once
cries and songs broke out in the distance.

Marie-Rose listened with amazement; and I,
abruptly torn from my pleasant dreams, started
like a man who has been roused from sleep.  The
Germans were rejoicing so, some new calamity
had befallen us.  That was my first idea, and I
was not mistaken.

Soon bands of soldiers crossed the street, arm
in arm, crying with all their might:

"Paris has fallen!  Long live the German fatherland!"

I looked at Marie-Rose; she was as pale as
death, and was looking at me also with her great
brilliant eyes.  We turned our eyes away from
each other, so as not to betray the terrible emotion
that we felt.  She went out into the kitchen,
where I heard her crying.

Until dark we heard nothing but new bands,
singing and shouting as they passed; I, with
bowed head, heard from time to time my
daughter coughing behind the partition of the
kitchen, and I gave myself up to despair.  About
seven o'clock Marie-Rose came in with the lamp.
She wanted to set the table.

"It is no use," I said; "do not put down my
plate.  I am not hungry."

"Neither am I," said she.

"Well, let us go to bed; let us try to forget
our misery; let us endeavour to sleep!"

I rose; we kissed each other, weeping.  That
night, George, was horrible.  In spite of her
efforts to stifle the cough I heard Marie-Rose
coughing without intermission until morning, so
that I could not close my eyes.  I made up my
mind to go for a doctor; but I did not want to
frighten my daughter, and thinking of a means to
speak of that to her, towards dawn I fell asleep.

It was eight o'clock when I woke up, and
after dressing myself I called Marie-Rose.  She
did not answer.  Then I went into her room, and
I saw spots of blood on her pillow; her handkerchief,
too, which she had left on the night-table,
was all red.

It made me shudder!  I returned and sat
down in my corner, thinking of what I had just
seen.





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.. _`XXXVIII`:

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   \XXXVIII

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It was market day.  Marie-Rose had gone to
lay in our small stock of provisions; she returned
about nine o'clock, so much out of breath that she
could scarcely hold her basket.  When I saw her
come in I recollected the pale faces of those
young girls, of whom the poor people of our
valley used to say that God was calling them, and
who fell asleep quietly at the first snow.  This
idea struck me, and I was frightened; but then,
steadying my voice, I said quite calmly:

"See here, Marie-Rose, all last night I heard
you coughing; it makes me uneasy."

"Oh! it is nothing, father," she answered,
colouring slightly; "it is nothing, the fine weather
is coming and this cold will pass off."

"Anyhow," I replied, "I will not be easy, as
long as a doctor has not told me what it is.  I
must go at once and get a doctor."

She looked at me, with her hands crossed over
the basket, on the edge of the table; and, guessing
perhaps by my anxiety that I had discovered
the spots of blood, she murmured:

"Very well, father, to ease your mind."

"Yes," I said, "it is better to do things
beforehand; what is nothing in the beginning may
become very dangerous if neglected."

And I went out.  Down stairs M. Michel
gave me the address of Dr. Carrière, who lived in
the Rue de la Mairie.  I went to see him.  He
was a man of about sixty, lean, with black
sparkling eyes and a grizzled head, who listened to me
very attentively and asked me if I was not the
brigadier forester that his friend M. d'Arence had
spoken to him about.  I answered that I was he,
and he accompanied me at once.

Twenty minutes afterward we reached our
room.  When Marie-Rose came the doctor
questioned her for a long time about the beginning of
this cold, about her present symptoms, if she had
not fever at night with shivering fits and attacks
of suffocation.

By his manner of questioning her she was, so
to speak, forced to answer him, and the old
doctor soon knew that she had been spitting blood
for over a month; she confessed it, turning very
pale and looking at me as if to ask pardon for
having hidden this misfortune from me.  Ah!  I
forgave her heartily, but I was in despair.  After
that Dr. Carrière wished to examine her; he
listened to her breathing and finally said that it was
all right, that he would give her a prescription.

But in the next room, when we were alone, he
asked me if any of our family had been consumptive;
and when I assured him that never, neither
in my wife's family nor my own, had we ever had
the disease, he said:

"I believe you; your daughter is very beautifully
formed; she is a strong and handsome creature;
but then she must have had an accident; a
fall, or something like that must have put her in
this condition.  She is probably hiding it from
us; I must know it."

So I called Marie-Rose, and the doctor asked
her if some weeks before she did not remember
having fallen, or else run against something
violently, telling her that he was going to write his
prescription according to what she would reply,
and that her life probably depended upon it.

Then Marie-Rose confessed that the day the
Germans came to take away our cows she had
tried to hold them back by the rope, and that
one of the Prussians had struck her between the
shoulders with the hilt of his sword, which had
thrown her forward on her hands, and that her
mouth had suddenly filled with blood; but that
the fear of my anger at hearing of such an
outrage had kept her from saying anything to me
about it.

All was then clear to me.  I could not restrain
my tears, looking at my poor child, the victim of
so great a misfortune.  She withdrew.  The
doctor wrote his prescription.  As we were
descending the stairs he said:

"It is very serious.  You have only one
daughter?"

"She is my only one," I answered.

He was sad and thoughtful.

"We will do our best," he said; "youth has
many resources!  But do not let her be excited
in any way."

As he walked down the street he repeated to
me the advice that M. Simperlin had given me
about the grandmother; I made no answer.  It
seemed to me that the earth was opening under
my feet and was crying to me:

"The dead—the dead!  Give me my dead!"

How glad I should have been to be the first to
go to rest, to close my eyes and to answer:

"Well, here I am.  Take me and leave the
young!  Let them breathe a few days longer.
They do not know that life is a terrible misfortune;
they will soon learn it, and will go with less
regret.  You will have them all the same!"

And, continuing to muse in this way, I entered
an apothecary's shop near the large bridge and
had the prescription made up.  I returned to the
house.  Marie-Rose took two spoonfuls of the
medicine morning and evening, as it had been
directed.  It did her good, I saw it from the first
few days; her voice was clearer, her hands less
burning; she smiled at me, as if to say:

"You see, father, it was only a cold.  Don't
worry about it any more."

An infinite sweetness shone in her eyes; she
was glad to get well.  The hope of seeing Jean
once more added to her happiness.  Naturally, I
encouraged her in her joyous thoughts.  I said:

"We will receive news one of these days.
Neighbour such a one also expects to hear from
her son; it cannot be long now.  The mails were
stopped during the war, the letters are lying at
the offices.  The Germans wanted to discourage
us.  Now that the armistice is signed we will get
our letters."

The satisfaction of learning such good news
brightened her countenance.

I did not let her go to the city; I took the
basket myself and went to get our provisions;
the market women knew me.

"It is the old brigadier," they would say;
"whose pretty daughter is sick.  They are alone.
It is he who comes now."

None of them ever sold me their vegetables at
too high a price.





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.. _`XXXIX`:

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   \XXXIX

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I thought no longer of the affairs of the
country.  I only wanted to save my daughter;
the rumours of elections, of the National
Assembly at Bordeaux, no longer interested me; my
only thought was:

"If Marie-Rose only lives!"

So passed the end of January, then came the
treaty of peace: we were deserted!  And from
day to day the neighbours received news from
their sons, from their brothers, from their friends,
some prisoners in Germany, others in cantonments
in the interior; but for us not a word!

I went to the post-office every morning to see
if anything had come for us.  One day the
postmaster said to me:

"Ah! it is you.  The postman has just gone.
He has a letter for you."

Then I hastened hopefully home.  As I reached
the door the postman left the alley and called to
me, laughing:

"Hurry up, Father Frederick, you have got
what you wanted this time: a letter that comes
from the Army of the Loire!"

I went up stairs four steps at a time, with
beating heart.  What were we about to hear?  What
had happened during so many weeks?  Was Jean
on the road to come and see us?  Would he arrive
the next day—in two, three, or four days?

Agitated by these thoughts, when I got up
stairs my hand sought for the latch without finding
it.  At last I pushed open the door; my little
room was empty.  I called:

"Marie-Rose!  Marie-Rose!"

No answer.  I went into the other room; and
my child, my poor child was lying there on the
floor, near her bed, white as wax, her great eyes
half open, the letter clutched in her hand, a little
blood on her lips.  I thought her dead, and with
a terrible cry I caught her up and laid her on the
bed.  Then, half wild, calling, crying, I took the
letter and read it with one glance.

See, here it is!  Read it, George, read it aloud;
I know it by heart, but it does not matter, I like
to turn the knife in the wound; when it bleeds it
hurts less.

.. vspace:: 2

"MY DEAR MARIE-ROSE: Adieu!  I shall never
see you more.  A bursting shell has shattered my
right leg; the surgeons have had to amputate it.
I will not survive the operation long.  I had lain
too long on the ground.  I had lost too much
blood.  It is all over.  I must die!  Oh!  Marie-Rose,
dear Marie-Rose, how I would like to see
you again for one instant, one minute; how much
good it would do me!  All the time I lay wounded
in the snow I thought only of you.  Do not
forget me either; think sometimes of Jean Merlin.
Poor Mother Margredel, poor Father Frederick,
poor Uncle Daniel!  You will tell them.  Ah! how
happy we would have been without this war!"

.. vspace:: 2

The letter stopped here.  Underneath, as you
see, another hand had written: "Jean Merlin,
Alsatian.  Detachment of the 21st Corps.
Silly-le-Guillaume, 26th of January, 1871."

I took this all in with one look, and then I
continued to call, to cry, and at last I fell into a
chair, utterly exhausted, saying to myself that all
was lost, my daughter, my son-in-law, my country—all,
and that it would be better for me to die, too.

My cries had been heard; some people came
up stairs, Father and Mother Michel, I think.
Yes, it was they who sent for the doctor.  I was
like one distracted, without a sign of reason; my
ears were singing; it seemed to me that I was
asleep and was having a horrible dream.

Long after the voice of Dr. Carrière roused
me from my stupor; he said:

"Take him away!  Do not let him see this!
Take him away!"

Some people took me by the arms; then I
grew indignant, and I cried:

"No, sir; I will not be taken away!  I want
to stay, she is my daughter!  Have you children,
that you tell them to take me away?  I want to
save her!  I want to defend her!"

"Let him alone," said the doctor, sadly; "let
the poor fellow alone.  But you must be silent,"
he said to me; "your cries may kill her."

I fell back in my seat, murmuring:

"I will not cry out any more, sir; I will say
nothing.  Only let me stay by her; I will be very
quiet."

A few minutes after, Dr. Carriére left the
room, making a sign to the others to withdraw.

A great many people followed him, a small
number remained.  I saw them moving to and
fro, arranging the bed and raising the pillows,
whispering among themselves.  The silence was
profound.  Time passed.  A priest appeared with
his assistants; they began to pray in Latin.  It was
the last offices of the church.  The good women,
kneeling, uttered the responses.

All disappeared.  It was then about five o'clock
in the evening.  The lamp was lighted.  I rose
softly and approached the bed.

My daughter, looking as beautiful as an angel,
her eyes half open, still breathed; I called her in
a whisper: "Marie-Rose!  Marie-Rose!" crying
bitterly as I spoke.

It seemed every minute as if she was about to
look at me and answer, "Father!"

But it was only the light that flickered on her
face.  She no longer stirred.  And from minute
to minute, from hour to hour, I listened to her
breathing, which was growing gradually shorter
and shorter.  I looked at her cheeks and her
forehead, gradually growing paler.  At last, uttering a
sigh, she lifted her head, which was slightly drooping,
and her blue eyes opened slowly.

A good woman, who was watching with me,
took a little mirror from the table and held it to
her lips; no cloud dimmed the surface of the
glass; Marie-Rose was dead.

I said nothing, I uttered no lamentations, and
I followed like a child those who led me into the
next room.  I sat down in the shadow, my hands
on my knees; my courage was broken.

And now it is ended.  I have told you all, George.

Need I tell you of the funeral, the coffin, the
cemetery?  and then of my return to the little
room where Marie-Rose and I had lived together;
of my despair at finding myself alone, without
relations, without a country, without hope, and to
say to myself, "You will live thus always—always
until the worms eat you!"

No, I cannot tell you about that; it is too
horrible.  I have told you enough.

You need only know that I was like a madman,
that I had evil ideas which haunted me,
thoughts of vengeance.

It was not I, George, who cherished those
terrible thoughts; it was the poor creature
abandoned by heaven and earth, whose heart had been
torn out, bit by bit, and who knew no longer
where to lay his head.

I wandered through the streets; the good
people pitied me; Mother Ory gave me all my meals.
I learned that later.  Then I did not think of
anything; my evil thoughts did not leave me; I talked
of them alone, sitting behind the stove of the
inn, my chin on my hands, my elbows on my
knees, and my eyes fixed on the floor.

God only knows what hatred I meditated.
Mother Ory understood all, and the excellent
woman, who wished me well, told M. d'Arence
about me.

One morning, when I was alone in the inn
parlour, he came to talk things over with me,
reminding me that he had always shown himself
very considerate towards me, that he had always
recommended me as an honest man, a good servant,
full of zeal and probity, in whom one could
repose perfect trust, and that he hoped it would
be that way till the end; that he was sure of it;
that a brave, just man, even in the midst of the
greatest misfortunes, would show himself the same
that he was in prosperity; that duty and honour
marched before him; that his greatest consolation
and his best was to be able to say to himself: "I
am cast down, it is true; but my courage remains
to me; my good conscience supports me; my
enemies themselves are forced to confess that fate
has been unjust to me."

He talked to me in this manner for a long
time, pacing up and down the room; and I, who
had not shed a tear at my daughter's funeral, I
burst out crying.

Then he told me that the time had come to
depart; that the sight of the Prussians only
embittered my nature; that he would give me a letter
of recommendation for one of his intimate friends
in Paris; that I would obtain there a situation
with a small salary, either on the railway or
elsewhere; and that in this way, when my pension
was paid to me, I could live in peace, not happy,
but far from all that reminded me unceasingly of
my misfortunes.

I was ready to do anything that he wished,
George, but he wanted nothing but for my own
good.

So I set out, and for the last three years I have
been one of the superintendents of the Eastern
Railway Station.





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   \XL

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When I arrived in the midst of the great
confusion after the siege, I had the pain of seeing a
terrible thing, the recollection of which adds to
my suffering—Frenchmen fighting against Frenchmen.
The great city was in flames, and the Prussians
outside looked at this sight with a barbarous joy.

"There is no longer any Paris," they said;
"no longer any Paris."

The horrible envy that gnawed these people
was satisfied.

Yes, I have seen that!  I thought that it was
all over with us; I shuddered at it.  I cried,
"The Almighty has determined that France shall
descend into the abyss!"

But that, thanks to Heaven, has also passed
away.  The recollection remains; let us hope that
it will never perish.

And that was not all.  After these great
calamities I was obliged to witness, as I fulfilled the
duties of my post, pass, day by day, before my
eyes, the great emigration of our brothers of Alsace
and Lorraine; men, women, children, old men, by
thousands, going to earn their living far from their
native land—in Algeria, in America, everywhere.

Our poor countrymen all recognised me by
my face; they said, "He is one of our people."

The sight of them does me good also; it is
like a breath from one's native land of good and
wholesome air.  We shook hands.  I pointed
them out the hotel where one can live cheaply; I
rendered them all the little services that one can
render to friends of a day, who will retain a kind
remembrance of him who held out his hand to them.

And in the evening, when I went back to my
little room under the roof, and thinking about
these things, I am still glad at not being quite
useless in this world; it is my only consolation,
George; sometimes this thought gives me a good
night's rest.

Other days, when the weather is gloomy,
when it rains, when it is cold, or when I have
met in the street the bier of a young girl, with its
white wreath, then sad thoughts get the upper
hand.  I wrap my old cloak around me when my
work is over, and I wander aimlessly through the
streets, among the people who are all occupied by
their own affairs and pay no attention to any one.
I walk very far, sometimes to the Arc de
Triomphe, sometimes to the Garden of Plants, and I
return utterly exhausted.  I fall asleep, trying not
to think of the happy days of the past, for those
remembrances make my heart throb even in a
dream, and suddenly I awake, covered with
perspiration, and crying:

"All is over.  You have no longer a daughter.
You are alone in the world."

I am obliged to rise, to light my lamp, and to
open the window in order to calm myself a
little, to soothe myself and to restore myself to
reason.

Sometimes, too, I dream that I am at the
forest house with Jean Merlin and Marie-Rose.
I see them; I talk to them; we are happy.  But
when I awake—do not let us talk of it; what is
ended cannot return.

Things will go on this way as long as they
can.  I shall not be buried with the old people,
neither with Jean; nor with my daughter.  We
will all be scattered.  This thought also gives me
pain.

I must confess, George, that our brothers of
Paris have received us very well; they have
helped us, they have aided us in a hundred ways;
they have done all that they could for us.  But
after such terrible disasters, they themselves
having been so severely tried, the poverty was still
very great; for a long time in the garrets of
La Villette, of La Chapelle, and of the other
suburbs, we suffered from cold and hunger.

To-day the greatest portion of the stream of
emigration has passed; almost all the labourers
have got work; the women and the old people
have found a refuge, and the children are
receiving instruction in the public schools.

Others are always coming, the emigation will
last as long as the annexation, for Frenchmen
cannot bow their heads like the Germans under
the Prussians' despotism, and the annexation will
last long if we continue to dispute over party
questions instead of uniting together in the love
of our fatherland.

But do not let us speak of our dissensions;
that is too sad.

The only thing that I have still to say to you
before ending this sorrowful story is, that in the
midst of my misfortunes, I do not accuse the
Almighty; no, the Almighty is just; we deserve
to suffer.  Whence came all our misfortunes?
From one man who had taken an oath before
God to obey the laws, and who trampled them
under his feet, who had those killed who defended
them, and transported far away to the islands
thousands of his fellow beings whose courage and
good sense he feared.  Well, this man we
approved of; we voted for him, not once but twenty
times; we took, so to speak, his evil actions upon
ourselves; we threw aside justice and honour; we
thought, "Interest does everything; this man is
shrewd; he has succeeded; we must support him."

When I remember that I voted for that
wretch, knowing that it was not just, but afraid
of losing my place, when I remember that, I cry,
"Frederick, may God forgive you!  You have
lost everything, friends, relatives, country—everything.
Confess that you deserved it.  You were
not ashamed to support the man who caused
thousands of Frenchmen, as honest as yourself,
also to lose their little all.  You voted for
strength against justice; you must bow beneath
the law that you accepted.  And, like millions of
others, you, too, gave that man the right to
declare war; he did so.  He staked you, your
country, your family, your possessions, those of all
Frenchmen in the interests of his dynasty,
without thinking of anything, without reflecting or
taking any precautions; he lost the game.  Pay
and be silent.  Do not reproach the Almighty
with your own stupidity and injustice; beat your
breast and bear your iniquity."  That is what I
think.

May others profit by my example; may they
always nominate honest people to represent
them; may honesty, disinterestedness and patriotism
come before anything else; people who are
too cunning are often dishonest, and people who
are too bold, who do not fear to cry out against
the laws, are also capable of upsetting them and
of putting their own will in the place of them.

That is the best advice to be given to the
French; if they profit by it all will go well, we
will regain our frontiers; if they do not profit by
it, that which happened to the Alsatians and
Lorrainers will happen to them also, province by
province; they may repent, but it will be too late.

As to the Germans, they will reap what they
have sown.  Now they are at the pinnacle of
power; they made all Europe tremble, and they
are foolish enough to rejoice at it.  It is very
dangerous to frighten every one; we learned it at
our own expense; they will learn it in their turn.
Because Bismark has succeeded in his enterprises,
they look upon him as a kind of a god;
they will not see that this man employed only
dishonest means: strategy, lies, espionage, corruption
and violence.  Nothing is ever firm that is
erected on such a foundation.

But to tell all this or nothing to the Germans
would come to the same thing; they are
intoxicated by their victories, and will only awake
when Europe, wearied by their ambition and by
their insolence, will rise to bring them to reason;
then they will be forced to acknowledge, as we
have acknowledged ourselves, that, if strength
sometimes overwhelms right, justice is eternal.

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   THE END OF BRIGADIER FREDERICK

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.. _`THE DEAN'S WATCH`:

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   THE DEAN'S WATCH

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   \I

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The day before the Christmas of 1832, my
friend Wilfrid, his double-bass slung over his
shoulder, and I with violin under my arm, were
on our way from the Black Forest to Heidelberg.
An extraordinary quantity of snow had fallen that
season.  As far as our eyes could see over the
great desert plain before us, not a trace of the
route, either of road or path, was to be discovered.
The north wind whistled its shrill aria about our
ears with a monotonous persistence, and Wilfrid,
with wallet flattened against his thin back, his
long heron-legs stretched to the utmost, and the
visor of his little flat cap pulled down over his
nose, strode along before me, humming a gay air
from "Ondine."  Every now and then he turned
his head with a grim smile, and cried:

"Comrade, play me the waltz from 'Robin'—I
wish to dance!"

A peal of laughter always followed, and then
the brave fellow would push on again with fresh
courage.  I toiled on behind in his footsteps, with
the snow up to my knees, and my spirits sinking
lower and lower every moment.

The heights about Heidelberg had begun to
appear on the distant horizon, and we were hoping
to reach the town before nightfall, when we heard
the gallop of a horse behind us.  It was about five
o'clock, and great flakes of snow were whirling
about in the gray light.  Soon the rider was within
twenty steps.  He slackened his pace, examining
us out of one corner of his eye.  We also examined him.

Imagine a big man with red beard and hair,
wrapped in a brown cloak, over which was loosely
thrown a pelisse of fox-skins; on his head a
superb cocked-hat; his hands buried in fur gloves
reaching to the elbows.  On the croup of his
stout stallion was strapped a well-filled valise.
Evidently he was some burly sheriff, or burgomaster.

"Hey, my lads!" he cried, drawing one of his
big hands from the muff which hung across his
saddle-bow, and clapping his charger's neck, "we
are going to Heidelberg, I see, to try a little
music."

Wilfrid eyed the traveller askance.

"Is that any affair of yours, sir?" he answered,
gruffly.

"Eh? yes; I should have a piece of advice to
give you."

"Well, you can keep it till it's asked for,"
retorted Wilfrid, quickening his pace.

I cast a second glance at our new companion.
He looked exactly like a great cat, with ears standing
out from his head, his eyelids half closed, and
a long, bristling mustache; altogether he had a
sort of purring, paternal air.

"My friend," he began again, this time addressing
me, "the best thing you can do is to return
whence you came."

"Why, sir?"

"The famous maestro Prinenti, from Novare,
has announced a grand Christmas concert at
Heidelberg.  Everybody is going to it; you will not
get a single kreutzer."

This was too much for Wilfrid.

"A fig for your maestro, and all the Prinentis
in this world!" he cried, snapping his fingers.
"This lad here, with his long curls and blue eyes,
and not a hair yet on his chin, is worth an army
of your Italian charlatans.  Though he never
played outside the Black Forest, he can handle a
bow with the first musician in Europe, and will
draw melody from his violin such as was never
heard before in Heidelberg."

"Hear, hear!" cried the stranger.

"It is just as I tell you," said Wilfrid, blowing
on his fingers, which were red with the cold.

Then he set out to run, and I followed him as
best I might, thinking he wished to make game
of the traveller, who kept up with us, however, at
a little trot.

In this way we went on in silence for more
than half a league.  Suddenly the stranger cried
out, in a harsh voice:

"Whatever your talents may be, go back
to the Black Forest.  We have vagabonds
enough in Heidelberg already without you.  It
is good advice I give you—you had best profit
by it."

Wilfrid was about to make an angry retort,
but the rider had started off at a gallop, and
already reached the grand avenue of the elector.
At the same moment, a great flock of crows rose
from the plain, and seemed to follow him, filling
the air with their loud cries.

About seven o'clock in the evening we reached
Heidelberg.  There, in fact, we found posted on
all the walls Prinenti's flaming placards, "Grand
Concert, Solo, etc., etc."  We wandered about
among the different ale-houses, in which we met
several musicians from the Black Forest, all old
comrades of ours, who immediately engaged us to
play in their band.  There were old Bremer, the
violoncellist; his two sons, Ludwig and Carl,
capital second violins; Heinrich Siebel, the
clarinet-player; and big Berthe with her harp.  Wilfrid
with his bass-viol, and myself as first violin, made
up the troupe.

It was agreed that we should all go together,
make one purse, and divide after Christmas.
Wilfrid had already engaged a room for himself and
me.  It was on the sixth story of the little tavern
"Pied-du-Mouton," in the middle of the Holdergasse,
and was only a garret, though, luckily, it
had a sheet-iron stove, in which we lighted a fire
to dry ourselves.

While we were sitting quietly over the fire,
roasting chestnuts and discussing a pot of wine,
who should come tripping up the stairs and knock
at the door but little Annette, the maid of the inn,
in scarlet petticoat and black-velvet bodice, with
cheeks like roses, and lips as red as cherries!
Next moment she had thrown herself into my
arms with a cry of joy.

We were old friends, the pretty Annette and
I, for we were both from the same village, and, to
say truth, my heart had long been captive to her
bright eyes and coquettish airs.

"I saw you go up just now," she said, drawing
a stool to my side, "and here I am, come for a
minute's talk with you."

With that she began such a string of questions
about this one and that—in fact, about every one
in our village—that I declare to you it was as
much as I could do to answer the half of them.
Every little while she would stop and look at me
with such a tender air—we would have been there
till this time, had not suddenly Mother Gréder
Dick screamed from the bottom of the stairs:

"Annette, Annette, are you ever coming?"

"This minute, madame, this minute," cried the
poor child, jumping up in a fright.  She gave me
a little pat on the cheek, and flew to the door.
But, just as she was going out, she stopped.

"Ah!" she cried, turning back, "I forgot to
tell you.  Have you heard——?"

"What?"

"The death of our pro-recteur Zahn?"

"Well, what is that to us?"

"Ah, yes; but take care, sir, take care—if
your papers are not all right!  To-morrow morning,
at eight o'clock, they will come to ask for
them.  They have arrested, oh! so many people
during the last two weeks.  The pro-recteur was
assassinated yesterday evening, in the library, at
the Cloister of Saint-Christophe.  Last week the
old priest, Ulmet Elias, who lived in the Jews'
quarter, was killed in the same way.  Only a few
days before that they murdered the nurse,
Christina Haas, and Seligmann, the agate-merchant of
the Rue Durlach.  So, my poor Kasper," she
added, with a tender glance, "take good care of
yourself, and be sure that your papers are all
right."

All the while she was speaking, the cries below
continued.

"Annette, O Annette, will you come?  Oh,
the miserable creature, to leave me here all
alone!"

And now, too, we could hear the shouts of
the guests in the saloon calling for wine, beer,
ham, sausages.  Annette saw that she must go,
and ran down the stairs as quickly as she had
come up.

"*Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!*" I heard her soft
voice answering her mistress, "what can be the
matter, madame, that you should make such an
outcry?  One would think the house were on fire."

Wilfrid closed the door after her, and came
back to his seat.  We looked at each other with
some uneasiness.

"This is strange news," said he at last.  "At
any rate, your papers are all in order?"

"Certainly," I replied, and showed him my pass.

"Good!  There is mine, I had it viséed before
we left.  But still, all these murders bode no good
to us.  I am afraid we shall make but a poor
business here.  Many families must be in mourning,
and then, besides all these annoyances, the trouble
which the police will give us."

"Bah!" cried I, "you take too dismal a view
of everything."

We continued to talk about these strange
events until long past midnight.  The fire in our
little stove lighted up the angles of the roof, the
square dormer window with its three cracked panes
of glass, the mattress spread upon the bare boards,
the blackened beams overhead, the little fir table,
which cast an unsteady shadow on the worm-eaten
floor.  A mouse, attracted by the heat, darted back
and forth like an arrow along the wall.  We could
hear the wind without, whistling and bellowing
around the high chimney-stacks, sweeping the
snow from the gutters beneath the eaves in misty
swirls.  I was dreaming of Annette.  Silence had
fallen upon us.  Suddenly Wilfrid, throwing off
his coat, cried:

"It is time to sleep; put another stick of wood
in the stove, and let us go to bed."

"Yes, that is the best thing we can do," said I,
and began to pull off my boots.  Two minutes
afterward we were stretched on the mattress, the
coverings drawn up to our chins, and a great log
under our heads for a pillow.  Wilfrid was asleep
in a moment.  The light from the little stove
blazed up and died away, the wind redoubled its
violence without, and, in the midst of dreams of
Annette, I, too, in my turn, slept the sleep of the
just.

About two o'clock in the morning I was
awakened by a strange noise.  At first I thought
it was a cat running along the gutters; but, my
ear being close to the rafters, I could not remain
long in doubt.  Some one was walking over the
roof.  I touched Wilfrid with my elbow to awaken
him.

"Hist!" whispered he, pressing my hand.

He also had heard the noise.  The fire was
just dying out, the last feeble flame flickered on
the crumbling walls.  I was on the point of springing
from the bed, when, at a single blow, the little
window, kept closed by a fragment of brick, was
pushed open.  A pale face, with red hair, eyes
gleaming with phosphorescent light, and quivering
cheeks appeared in the opening, and looked about
the room.  Our fright was so great that we could
not utter a sound.  The man passed first one leg,
then the other, through the window, and descended
into the garret so carefully that not a board creaked
under his footsteps.

This man, with heavy, round shoulders, short
and thick-set, his face wrinkled and set like a tiger
couched to spring, was none other than the rider
who had overtaken us on the road to Heidelberg.
But what a change in his appearance since then!
In spite of the excessive cold, he was in his
shirtsleeves, a pair of breeches belted about his waist,
woollen stockings, and shoes with silver buckles.
A long knife, flecked with blood, glittered in his hand.

Wilfrid and I gave ourselves up for lost.  But
he did not seem to see us under the shadow of the
sloping roof, although the fire was fanned again
into a blaze by the current of cold air from the
open window.  The intruder seated himself on a
stool, cowering and shivering in a strange way.
Suddenly his greenish-yellow eyes fixed themselves
on me, his nostrils dilated; for more than a minute,
which seemed to me an age, he stared at me.  The
blood stood still in my veins.  Then at last,
turning towards the fire, he coughed with a husky,
hoarse sound, like that which a cat makes, without
moving a muscle of his face.  Drawing a watch
from the fob of his pantaloons, he seemed to look
at the hour, and then, whether from absence of
mind or some other reason, I know not, laid it
upon the table.  At length, rising from his seat
with an air of uncertainty, he looked towards the
window, appeared for a moment to hesitate, and
then passed out of the door, leaving it wide open
behind him.

I jumped up to shove the bolt, but already the
man's steps were creaking on the staircase two
stories below.  An irresistible curiosity overcame
my terror.  I heard a window open, which looked
upon the court, and, in a moment, I was at the
dormer in the landing of the stairs on the same
side.  The court, seen from this height, was like a
deep well.  A wall, fifty or sixty feet high, divided
it into two parts.  On the right was the court of
a pork-butcher; on the left, that of the
Pied-du-Mouton.  The wall was covered with moss and
the rank vegetation which flourishes in the shade.
Its summit reached from the window which the
marauder had just opened, in a straight line to
the roof of a great, gloomy building in the rear of
the Bergstrasse.  All this I took in at a glance,
as the moon shone out from among the heavy
snow-laden clouds, and I trembled as I saw the
man come out through the window, and fly along
the top of this wall, his head bent forward, the
long knife in his hand, while the wind whistled
and wailed a dismal chorus.

He gained the roof in front, and disappeared
through a window.  I believed I must be
dreaming.  For several moments I remained with open
mouth, my breast bare, and my hair blown about
by the wind and wet by the sleet which fell from
the eaves.  At last, waking from my stupor, I
returned to our garret, and found Wilfrid with
face blanched, and haggard with fright, and
muttering a prayer under his breath.  I hastened to
bolt the door, throw some wood into the stove,
and slip on my clothes.

"Well?" asked my comrade, getting out of bed.

"Well," I replied, "we are safe this time.  If
that man did not see us, it was only because
Heaven was not ready yet for us to die."

"Yes," he murmured, "yes; it is one of the
assassins Annette told us about.  Good
Heavens! what a face! and what a knife!"

He fell back on the mattress.  I swallowed
what was left of the wine in the pitcher; and, as
the fire was now burning brightly, filling the room
with its heat, and the bolt seemed a strong one, I
began to regain my courage.

Still, the watch was there; the man might
return to look for it.  Our fears awoke again at
this idea.

"What is to be done now?" asked Wilfrid.
"Our shortest plan will be to go back at once to
the Black Forest.  I have no wish to play any
more double-bass.  You can do as you choose——"

"But why?  What should make us go back?
We have committed no crime."

"Hush! speak low!" whispered he.  "The
word crime alone is enough to hang us if any one
heard.  Poor devils like us serve as examples for
others.  Were they only to find this watch
here——"

"Come, Wilfrid," said I; "it is no use to lose
one's head.  I dare say, a crime has been committed
this night in the neighbourhood, it is more
than probable; but, instead of flying, an honest
man should aid justice; he should——"

"But how aid it? how?"

"The simplest way will be to take the watch
to-morrow to the provost, and tell him what has
taken place."

"Never! never!  I would not dare touch the
watch."

"Very well; I will go myself.  Come, let us
go to bed again."

"No; I cannot sleep any more."

"As you will.—Light your pipe, then, and let
us talk."

As soon as day dawned, I took the watch
from the table.  It was a very fine one, with two
dials—one for the hours, the other for the
minutes.  Wilfrid seemed, however, by this time, to
have regained his assurance.

"Kasper," he said, "all things considered, it
will be better for me to go to the provost.  You
are too young for such a piece of business.  You
will not be able to explain properly."

"Just as you choose," I replied.

"Besides, it would seem strange for a man of
my age to send a child."

"Oh, yes, Wilfrid; I understand."

I saw that his self-esteem had driven him to
this resolution.  He would have been ashamed to
own to his comrades that he had shown less
courage than I.

He took the watch, and we descended the
stairs with grave faces.  Passing through the alley
which leads to the street Saint-Christophe, we
heard the clinking of glasses and knives and
forks.  At the same time I recognised the voices
of old Bremer and his two sons.

"Faith, Wilfrid," said I, "a good glass of wine
would not be bad before we go out."

I pushed open the door into the saloon.  All
our friends were there; violins and horns hung
upon the walls—the harp in one corner.  They
received us with joyful cries of welcome, and
made us take seats at the table.

"Hey!" cried old Bremer; "good luck, comrades!
See the snow, and the wind!  The saloons
will all be full.  Every flake of snow in the air
is a florin in our pockets!"

The sight of my little Annette, as fresh and
piquant as ever, smiling on me with eyes and lips
full of love, gave me new spirits.  The best pieces
of ham were for me; and, every time that she
came to set down a glass near me, her hand would
tenderly press my shoulder.  Ah! how my heart
beat, as I thought of the nuts which we had
cracked together the night before!

Still, the pale face of the assassin would pass
from time to time before my eyes, making me
shudder at the recollection.  I looked at Wilfrid.
He was grave and thoughtful.  As eight o'clock
struck, we all rose to go, when suddenly the door
opened, and three mean-looking fellows, with
leaden faces, and eyes sharp as rats', followed by
several more of the same sort, presented
themselves on the threshold.  One of them, with a
long nose, which seemed to be on the scent for
some mischief, a great cudgel in his fist, advanced
with the demand—

"Your papers, gentlemen!"

Every one hastened to satisfy him.  Unhappily,
however, Wilfrid, who was standing near the
stove, was seized with a sudden fit of trembling;
and, as he saw the practised eye of the police
agent regarding him with an equivocal look, the
unlucky idea occurred to him of letting the watch
slip down into his boot.  Before it reached its
destination, however, the officer stepped up to
him, and, slapping him on the leg, cried, in a
bantering tone:

"Ah! ha! something seems to trouble you here!"

Upon this, Wilfrid, to the consternation of all,
succumbed entirely.  He fell back upon a bench,
as pale as death; and Madoc, the chief of police,
with a malicious shout of laughter, drew forth the
watch from his pantaloons.  But, the moment the
agent looked at it, he became grave.

"Let no one go out!" he thundered to his
followers; "we've the whole gang here.  'Tis the
watch of the dean, Daniel Van der Berg.  Quick! the
handcuffs!"

Thereupon arose a terrible tumult.  Giving
ourselves up for lost, I slipped down under the
bench close to the wall.  In spite of their
protests, poor old Bremer, his sons, and Wilfrid, were
all handcuffed.  Just then I felt a soft little hand
passed gently about my neck.  It was Annette's,
and I pressed my lips upon it as a last adieu,
when, seizing my ear, she pulled it gently—gently.
Under one end of the table I saw the
cellar-door open; I slipped through; the trap-door
closed.

All had passed in a second.  In my hiding-place
I heard them trampling over the door; then
everything was still; my unlucky comrades were
gone.  Without, on the door-step, I heard Mother
Grédel Dick lamenting in shrill tones the
dishonour which had fallen on the Pied-du-Mouton.

All day long I remained squeezed behind a
hogshead, with back bent and legs doubled under
me—a prey to a thousand fears.  Should a dog
stray into the cellar—should the landlady take a
fancy to refill the jug herself, or a fresh cask have
to be broached—the least chance might be my
destruction.  I imagined old Bremer and his sons,
Wilfrid, big Berthe herself, all hanging from the
gibbet on the Harberg, in the middle of a great
flock of crows that were feasting at their expense.
My hair stood on end.

Annette, as anxious as myself, carefully closed
the door each time she left the cellar.

"Leave the door alone," I heard the old
woman say.  "Are you a fool, to lose half your
time in opening it?"

After that the door remained open.  I saw the
tables surrounded by new guests, who discussed in
loud tones the doings of the famous band of
murderers who had just been captured, and exulted
over the fate in store for them.  All the musicians
from the Black Forest, they said, were bandits,
who made a pretence of their trade to find their
way into houses and spy out the bolts and bars,
and then, next morning, the master would be
found murdered in his bed, the mistress and
children with their throats cut.  They ought all to be
exterminated without pity.

"All the town will go to see them hanged!"
cried Mother Grédel.  "It will be the happiest
day of my life!"

"And to think that the watch of Maître Daniel
was the means of their capture!  He told the
police of its loss, and gave them a description of
it this morning; and, an hour afterward, Madoc
bagged the whole covey."

Thereupon followed shouts of laughter and
triumph.  Shame, indignation, terror, made me
hot and cold by turns.

Night came at last.  All the drinkers had
gone, save two or three who still lingered over
their cups.  A single candle remained lighted in
the saloon.

"Go to bed, madame," said Annette's soft
voice to Mother Grédel; "I will stay till these
gentlemen go."

The carousers, tipsy as they were, understood
the hint, and took their leave, one by one.

"At last," thought I, as I heard the last one
go, stumbling and hiccoughing through the door—"they
are all gone.  Mother Grédel will go to
bed.  Annette will come, without delay, to deliver me."

In this agreeable anticipation, I had already
disentangled my numb limbs, when these dreadful
words of the portly landlady met my ears:

"Annette, go and close up, and do not forget
the bar.  I am going myself into the cellar."

Alas! this seemed to be the praiseworthy, but
for me most unlucky, custom of the good lady—so
as to see herself that all was right.

"But, madame," stammered Annette, "there
is no need; the cask is not empty——"

"Mind your own business," interrupted her
mistress, whose candle already was shining at the
top of the steps.

I had hardly time to crouch again behind the
cask.  The old woman went from one cask to the
other, stooping beneath the low ceiling of the
vault.

"Oh, the hussy!" I heard her mutter; "how
she lets the wine leak out!  But only wait—I will
teach her to close the stopcocks better.  Just to
see! just to see!"

The light cast dark shadows on the walls glistening
with moisture.  I made myself as small as
possible.

Suddenly, just as I thought the danger over, I
heard a sigh from the stout dame—a sigh so long,
so lugubrious, that it struck me at once.  Something
extraordinary must have happened.  I risked
a look.  To my horror, I saw Mother Grédel,
with open mouth, and eyes starting from her head,
staring at the ground beneath the cask behind
which I was standing motionless.  She had espied
one of my feet, projecting beneath the joist which
supported the hogshead.  No doubt, she thought
she had discovered the chief of the brigands,
hidden there for the purpose of cutting her throat
during the night.  My resolution was taken
quickly.  Rising up, I said in a low voice:

"Madame, for Heaven's sake, have pity on
me!  I am——"

But thereupon, without listening—without
even looking at me, she began to scream like any
peacock—the shrillest, the most ear-piercing
screams—and at the same time to clamber up the
stairs as fast as her fat body would let her.
Almost beside myself with terror, I clung to her
robe—fell on my knees beside her.  But this was
worse still.

"Help! help! assassins! murder!" she shrieked.
"Oh! oh!  Let me go!  Take my money!  Oh! oh!"

It was frightful.

"Look at me, madame," I tried to say; "I am
not what you think."

But she was crazy with fear; she raved, she
gasped, she bawled at the top of her lungs—so
that, had we not been underground, the whole
quarter would have been aroused.  In despair, and
furious at her stupid folly, I clambered over her
back, and gained the door before her—slammed
it in her face, and shoved the bolt.  During the
struggle the light had been extinguished, and
Mistress Grédel remained in the dark, her voice only
faintly heard at intervals.

Exhausted, almost annihilated, I looked at
Annette, whose distress was equal to mine.  We
stood listening in silence to the faint cries.
Gradually they died away and ceased.  The poor
woman must have fainted.

"Oh, Kasper!" cried Annette, clasping her
hands.  "What is to be done?  Fly!  Save
yourself!  Have you killed her?"

"Killed her?  I?"

"No matter—fly!  Here—quick!"

And she drew the bar from before the street-door.
I rushed into the street, without even
thanking her—ungrateful wretch that I was!  The
night was black as ink—not a star to be seen, not
a lamp lighted, snow driving before the wind.  I
ran on for half an hour, at least, before I stopped
to take breath.  I looked up—imagine my
despair—there I was, right in front of the
Pied-du-Mouton again.  In my terror I had made the tour
of the quarter perhaps two or three times, for
aught I knew.  My legs were like lead; my knees
trembled.

The inn, just before deserted, was buzzing like
a bee-hive.  Lights went from window to window.
It was full, no doubt, of police-agents.  Exhausted
with hunger and fatigue, desperate, not knowing
where to find refuge, I took the most singular of
all my resolutions.

"Faith," said I to myself, "one death as well
as another!  It is no worse to be hung than to
leave one's bones on the road to the Black Forest.
Here goes!"

And I entered the inn to deliver myself up to
justice.  Besides the shabby men with crushed
hats and big sticks whom I had already seen in
the morning, who were going and coming, and
prying everywhere, before a table were seated
the grand-provost Zimmer, dressed all in black,
solemn, keen-eyed, and the secretary Rôth, with
his red wig, imposing smile, and great, flat ears,
like oyster-shells.  They paid hardly any attention
at all to me—a circumstance which at once modified
my resolution.  I took a seat in one corner of
the hall, behind the great stove, in company with
two or three of the neighbours, who had run in to
see what was going on, and called calmly for a
pint of wine and a plate of sauerkraut.

Annette came near betraying me.

"Ah, good Heavens!" she exclaimed; "is it
possible that you are here?"

But luckily no one noticed her exclamation,
and I ate my meal with better appetite, and listened
to the examination of the good lady Grédel, who
sat propped up in a big arm-chair, with hair
dishevelled, and eyes still dilated by her fright.

"Of what age did this man seem to be?" asked
the provost.

"Forty or fifty, sir.  It was an immense
man, with black whiskers, or brown—I don't
know exactly which—and a long nose, and green
eyes."

"Had he no marks of any kind—scars, for instance?"

"No, I can't remember.  Luckily, I screamed
so loud, he was frightened; and then I defended
myself with my nails.  He had a great hammer
and pistols.  He seized me by the throat.  Ah! you
know, sir, when one tries to murder you, you
have to defend yourself."

"Nothing more natural, more legitimate, my
dear madame.—Write, M. Rôth—'The courage
and presence of mind of this excellent lady were
truly admirable.'"

Then came Annette's turn, who simply declared
that she had been so frightened she could
remember nothing.

"This will do," said the provost.  "If we
need to make further inquiry, we will return
tomorrow."

The examination being thus ended, every one
departed, and I asked Mme. Grédel to give me a
room for the night.  She did not in the least
recollect ever having seen me before.

"Annette," she gasped, "take the gentleman
to the little green room in the third story.  As
for myself, sir, you see I cannot even stand on my
legs!  O good Lord! good Lord! what does not
one have to go through in this world!"

With this she fell to sobbing, which seemed to
relieve her.

"Oh, Kasper, Kasper!" cried Annette, when
she had taken me to my room, and we were alone,
"who would have believed that you were one of
the band?  I can never, never forgive myself for
having loved a brigand!"

"How?  Annette, you too?" I exclaimed;
"this is too much!"

"No, no!" she cried, throwing her arms about
my neck, "you are not one of them—you are too
good for that.  Still, you are a brave man just the
same to have come back."

I explained to her that I should have died of
cold outside, and that this alone had decided me.
After a few minutes, however, we parted so as
not to arouse Mother Grédel's suspicions, and
having made certain that none of the windows
opened on a wall, and that the bolt on the door
was a good one, I went to bed and soon was fast
asleep.





.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   \II

.. vspace:: 2

When I drew the curtain of my bed next
morning, I saw that the window-panes were white
with snow, which was heaped up also on the sill
without.  I thought mournfully of my poor
comrades' fate.  How they must have suffered from
cold!  Old Bremer and big Berthe especially—my
heart ached for them.

While I was absorbed in these sad reflections
a strange noise arose outside.  It drew near the
inn, and, not without fear and trembling, I jumped
out of bed and rushed to the window, to see what
new danger threatened.

They were bringing the terrible band to
confront it with Mme. Grédel Dick.  My poor
companions came down the street between two files of
policemen, and followed by a perfect avalanche of
ragamuffins, yelling and hissing like true savages.
There was poor Bremer, handcuffed to his son
Ludwig, then Carl and Wilfrid, and last of all
stout Berthe, who walked by herself, lamenting
her fate all the while in heart-rending tones:

"For Heaven's sake, gentlemen, for Heaven's
sake, have pity on a poor innocent harpist!
I—kill!  I—rob!  Oh! good Lord! can it be possible?"

And she wrung her hands.  The others looked
doleful enough as they walked with heads bent,
and dishevelled hair hanging over their faces.

The procession, rabble and all, turned into the
dark alley which led to the inn.  Presently the
guards drove out the eager crowd, who remained
outside in the mud, with their noses flattened
against the window-panes.

I dressed myself quickly, and opened my door,
to see if there were not some chance of escape,
but I could hear voices and footsteps going to and
fro down-stairs, and made up my mind that the
passages were well guarded.  My door opened on
the landing, just opposite the window which our
midnight visitor of the night before must have
used in his flight.  At first I paid no attention to
this window, but, while I remained listening, on a
sudden I perceived that it was open—that there
was but little snow on the sill, and drawing near I
perceived that there were fresh tracks along the
wall.  I shuddered at this discovery.  The man
had been there again, perhaps he came every
night.  The cat, the weasel, the ferret, all such
beasts of prey, have their accustomed paths in this
way.  In a moment, everything was clear to my mind.

"Ah," thought I, "if chance has thus put the
assassin's fate in my hands, my poor comrades may
be saved."

Just at this moment the door of the saloon
was opened, and I could hear some words of the
examination going on.

"Do you admit having participated, on the
20th of this month, in the assassination of the
priest Ulmet Elias?"

Then followed some words which I could not
make out, and the door was closed again.  I leaned
my head on the banister, debating in my mind a
great, an heroic resolution, "Heaven has put the
fate of my companions in my hands.  I can save
them.  If I recoil from such a duty, I shall be
their murderer! my peace of mind, my honour,
will be gone forever!  I shall feel myself the most
contemptible of men!"

For a long time I hesitated, but all at once my
resolution was taken.  I descended the stairs and
made my way into the hall.

"Have you never seen this watch?" the
provost was saying to Grédel.  "Try to
recollect, madame."

Without awaiting her answer, I advanced and
replied myself, in a firm voice: "This watch, sir,
I have seen in the hands of the assassin himself, I
recognise it, and I can deliver the assassin into your
hands this very night, if you will but listen to me."

Profound silence for a moment followed my
address.  The astounded officials looked at each
other; my comrades seemed to revive a little.

"Who are you, sir?" demanded the provost,
recovering himself.

"I am the comrade of these unfortunate men,
and I am not ashamed to own it," I cried, "for all,
all of them, though poor, are honest.  Not one of
them is capable of committing the crime they are
accused of."

Once more there was silence.  The great
Berthe began to sob under her breath.  The
provost seemed to reflect.  At last, looking at me
sternly, he said:

"Where do you pretend you will find the
assassin for us?"

"Here, sir, in this house, and, to convince
you, I only ask to speak one moment to you in
private."

"Come," said he, rising.

He motioned to the chief detective, Madoc,
to follow us, and we went out.

I ran quickly up-stairs; the others close
behind me.  On the third story, I stopped before
the window, and pointed out the tracks in the
snow.

"There are the assassin's footsteps," said I.
"This is where he passes every evening.  Night
before last he came at two o'clock in the morning.
Last night he was here; no doubt he will return
to-night."

The provost and Madoc looked at the footsteps
for several moments without saying a word.

"And how do you know these are the footprints
of the murderer?" asked the chief of
police, incredulously.

I told them about the man's entrance into
our garret, and pointed out above us the lattice
through which I had watched his flight in the
moonlight.  "It was only by accident," I said,
"that I had discovered the footsteps this
morning.

"Strange!" muttered the provost.  "This
modifies considerably the position of the prisoners.
But how do you explain the murderer's being
in the cellar?"

"The murderer was myself, sir."

And I related in a few words the events of the
night before.

"That will do," said he, and then, turning to
the chief of police, continued:

"I must confess, Madoc, that these fiddlers'
story has seemed to me by no means conclusive
of their having had anything to do with the
murders.  Besides, their papers establish, for several
of them, an *alibi* very hard to disprove.—Still,
young man, though the account you give us has
the appearance of being true, you will remain in
our power until it is verified.—Madoc, do not lose
sight of him, and take your measures accordingly."

With this he went down-stairs, collected his
papers, and ordered the prisoners to be taken back
to jail.  Then, casting a look of contempt at the
corpulent landlady, he took his departure, followed
by his secretary.

"Madame," said Madoc, who remained with
two of his men, "you will please preserve the
most profound silence as to what has taken place.
Also, prepare for this brave lad here the same
room he occupied night before last."

His tone admitted of no reply, and Mme. Grédel
promised by all that was sacred to do
whatever they wished, if they would only save
her from the brigands.

"Give yourself no uneasiness about the brigands,"
replied Madoc.  "We will stay here all
day and all night to protect you.  Go quietly about
your affairs, and begin by giving us breakfast.—Young
man, will you do me the honour to breakfast with me?"

My situation did not permit me to decline this
offer.  I accepted.

We were soon seated in front of a ham and a
bottle of Rhine wine.  The chief of police, in
spite of his leaden face—his keen eye and great
nose like the beak of an eagle—was a jolly enough
fellow after a few glasses of wine.  He tried to
seize Annette by the waist as she passed.  He told
funny stories, at which the others shouted with
laughter.  I, however, remained silent, depressed.

"Come, young man," said Madoc, with a laugh,
"try to forget the death of your estimable
grandmother.  We are all mortal.  Take a good drink,
and chase away all these gloomy thoughts."

So the time slipped away, amid clouds of
tobacco-smoke, the jingling of glasses, and
clinking of cans.  We sat apart during the day in one
corner of the saloon.  Guests came to drink as
usual, but they paid no attention to us.  At nine
o'clock, however, after the watchman had gone his
round, Madoc rose.

"Now," said he, "we must attend to our little
business.  Close the door and shutters—softly,
madame, softly.  There, you and Mlle. Annette
may go to bed."

The chief and his two followers drew from
their pockets bars of iron loaded at the ends with
leaden balls.  Madoc put a fresh cap on his pistol,
and placed it carefully in the breast-pocket of his
overcoat, so as to be ready at hand.

Then we mounted to the garret.  The too-attentive
Annette had lighted a fire in the stove.
Madoc, muttering an oath between his teeth,
hastened to throw some water on the coals.  Then
he pointed to the mattress.

"If you have any mind for it," said he to me,
"you can sleep."

He blew out the candle, and seated himself
with his two acolytes in the back part of the
room against the wall.  I threw myself on the
bed, murmuring a prayer that Heaven would send
the assassin.

The hours rolled by.  Midnight came.  The
silence was so profound I could scarcely believe
the three men sat there with eye and ear strained
to catch the least movement—the slightest sound.
Minute after minute passed slowly—slowly.  I
could not sleep.  A thousand terrible images
chased each other through my brain.  One o'clock
struck—two—yet nothing—no one appeared.

At three o'clock one of the policemen moved.
I thought the man was coming—but all was silent
again as before.  I began to think that Madoc
would take me for an impostor, to imagine how
he would abuse me in the morning.  And then
my poor comrades, instead of aiding, I had only
riveted their chains!

The time seemed now to pass only too rapidly.
I wished the night might last forever, so as to
preserve at least a ray of hope for me.

I was going over the same torturing fancies for
the hundredth time—on a sudden, without my
having heard the least sound—the window opened—two
eyes gleamed in the aperture—nothing moved
in the garret.

"They have gone to sleep!" thought I, in
an agony of suspense.

The head remained there—motionless—watchful.
The villain must suspect something!
Oh! how my heart thumped—the blood coursed
through my veins!  And yet cold beads of
sweat gathered on my forehead.  I ceased to
breathe.

Several minutes passed thus—then, suddenly,
the man seemed to have decided—-he glided down
into the garret, with the same noiseless caution as
on the previous night.

But at the same instant a cry—a terrible, short,
thrilling cry—vibrated through the room.

"We have him!"

Then the whole house was shaken from garret
to cellar by cries—the stamping of feet—hoarse
shouts.  I was petrified by terror.  The man
bellowed—the others drew their breaths in quick
gasps—then came a heavy fall which made the
floor crack—and I heard only the gnashing of
teeth and clink of chains.

"Light!" cried the terrible Madoc.

By the flame of the burning coals, which cast
a bluish light through the room, I could dimly
see the police-officers crouched over the body
of a man in his shirt-sleeves; one held him
by the throat, the knees of the other rested
upon his chest; Madoc was roughly clasping
the handcuffs on his wrists.  The man lay as
if lifeless, save that from time to time one of
his great legs, naked from knee to ankle, was
raised and struck the floor with a convulsive
movement.  His eyes were starting from their
sockets—a blood-stained foam had gathered upon
his lips.

Hardly had I lighted the candle when the
officers started back with an exclamation:

"Our dean!"

And all three rose to their feet, looking at each
other with pale faces.

The bloodshot eye of the assassin turned towards
Madoc, his lips moved, but only after several
seconds I could hear him murmur:

"What a dream!—Good God! what a dream!"

Then a sigh, and he lay motionless again.

I drew near to look at him.  Yes, it was he,
the man who had overtaken us on the road to
Heidelberg, and advised us to turn back.
Perhaps even then he had a presentiment that we
would be the cause of his ruin.  Madoc, who had
recovered from his surprise, seeing that he did not
move, and that a thread of blood was oozing along
the dusty floor, bent over him and tore asunder
the bosom of his shirt; he had stabbed himself to
the heart with his huge knife.

"Eh!" said Madoc, with a sinister smile.
"Monsieur the dean has cheated the gallows.  He
knew where to strike, and has not missed his
mark.  Do you stay here," he continued to us.
"I will go and inform the provost."

I remained with the two police agents, watching
the corpse.

By eight o'clock next morning all Heidelberg
was electrified with the news.  Daniel Van der
Berg, dean of the woollen-drapers, possessed of
wealth and position such as few enjoyed, who
could believe that he had been the terrible assassin?

A hundred different explanations were offered.
Some said the rich dean had been a somnambulist,
and therefore not responsible for his actions—others,
that he had murdered from pure love of
blood—he could have had no other motive for
such a crime.  Perhaps both theories were true.
In the somnambulist the will is dead, he is
governed by his animal instincts alone, be they pacific
or sanguinary, and in Master Daniel Van der
Berg, the cruel face, the flat head swollen behind
the ears—the green eyes—the long bristling
mustache, all proved that he unhappily belonged to
the feline family—terrible race, which kills for
the pleasure of killing.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   THE END OF THE DEAN'S WATCH

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PORTRAITS OF ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN`:

.. class:: center large bold white-space-pre-line

   THE PORTRAITS OF
   ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`ÉMILE ERCKMANN. After a portrait by Otto de Frère, about 1856.`:

.. figure:: images/img-43.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: left
   :alt: ÉMILE ERCKMANN. After a portrait by Otto de Frère, about 1856.

   ÉMILE ERCKMANN. 
   After a portrait by Otto de 
   Frère, about 1856.

.. vspace:: 2

The popular names of
Erckmann-Chatrian, names which
recall so many stirring and
patriotic tales, represent, to
our great regret, only a very
obscure and unæsthetic
iconography.  We have but very
few pictures of the authors
of *Madame Thérèse* and
*L'Ami Fritz*.  Simple and
rural in their tastes, Erckmann and Chatrian,
without at any time parading that celebrity in which
so many authors of "smart" literature take so
much pride, when in the most brilliant epoch of
their fame still preserved that rustic simplicity
which characterized their first appearance.  With
their genial and upright natures these two Alsatians
never thought to put themselves before their
works.  They were men of a bygone age, Nature's
philosophers, wise men without vanity.  Our task
in respect of them has been difficult, but we hope
not altogether infelicitous.  It is not without a
certain satisfaction that, by the side of other
personalities so often popularized, we have been able
by dint of persevering research to discover two or
three portraits of these writers.

Thus we have given as frontispiece two pictures
of these Siamese twins of literature, ingenuously
painted, in timid and awkward strokes, by one of
those travelling professors of the familiar art of
charcoal and pencil, such as were to be seen in the
villages of Alsace about fifty years ago.  It
portrays the "Amis Fritz" and the worthy pastors
seated round the tables in the old Gothic inns.

A detached portrait of Erckmann by Otto de
Frère, of about the year 1864 or 1865, gives us an
opportunity of studying more closely one of the
collaborators.  Émile Erckmann, born in 1822, at
Phalsbourg, has in the portrait before us already
passed his fortieth year.  The calm features and
high bald forehead of the professor leave an
impression of gravity and thoughtfulness.  A pair of
spectacles which he wears adds to his pedagogical
appearance.  Émile Erckmann represents the philosophic
and the contemplative side of this romantic
couple.  Born in a town which has given so many
chiefs to the French army, he brought to their joint
work a deep and profound study of the Alsatian
land, together with the silent tenacity of his race.
The confined life of his province, rural and
industrious in times of peace, implacable and ardent in
the hour of strife, finds in
him an able and truthful
historian.

.. _`Erckmann.  About 1868.`:

.. figure:: images/img-45.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: right
   :alt: Erckmann.  About 1868.

   Erckmann.
   About 1868.

The first portrait of
Émile Erckmann is
contemporary with *Madame
Thérèse*, one of the most
admirable and best known
of their *romans nationaux*.
A second portrait,
which is reproduced here,
seems a trifle older and
of about the year 1868.
That year the Théâtre de Cluny in Paris produced
a piece adapted by the two friends from the novel
*Le Juif Polonais*.  Erckmann at that time wore a
beard.  His dress, like his appearance, is without
care, but in that serious face and behind those
spectacles there shines the profound and
concentrated look of one accustomed to gaze upon the
waters and the mountains of the Vosges; and the
expression, brilliant as a fixed star, obliterates all
that is crude and inharmonious in this face, which
otherwise reminds one of a German schoolmaster.
In contradistinction to Chatrian, who spent nearly
the whole of his life in Paris and its environs,
Erckmann seems to pine for the green woods and
scenery of that beautiful country where the healthy
and simple people are so much in harmony with
nature.  Thus is he shown to us here.  His
features remind us both of Taine and Cherbuliez,
though he possessed nothing in common with
them beyond that serene look full of reflection
and deduction.  Erckmann worked in Alsace;
Chatrian, on the contrary, whose administrative
duties kept him all day at his desk in Paris, could
indulge his taste for novel-writing only in the
evenings, occasionally stealing a few hours in the day
out of the time which he was bound to devote to
his Government work.  To the calm and quietude
of his companion Chatrian added the animation of
an ardent and inventive spirit.  To the reflective
and poetic talent of Erckmann, he opposed the
hastiness of his own dashing and spontaneous
genius.  To his pen, no doubt, can be assigned all
those parts where the story, leaving the description
of rustic life, plunges boldly into dramatic action.

A double portrait, from a photograph taken
about 1874, depicts them in the constrained
attitude characteristic of the work of Daguerre and
his followers.  Doubtless they were together in
that little house at Raincy, where they often met
to discuss the plot of some new work, and where
the photographer must have invaded their privacy.

.. _`ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN. About 1874.  (After a photograph)`:

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   :alt: ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN. About 1874.  (After a photograph)

   ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN. 
   About 1874.  (After a photograph)

"Only once did I see that little garden at
Raincy," writes one of their friends, "but I can
see again the kindly, portly Erckmann seated
under the shade of a cherry-tree, a picture which later
on I saw reproduced again at the Théâtre Français
in *L'Ami Fritz*—Erckmann with his calm face
and shrewd eyes, smoking his pipe, and throwing
out philosophical theories between the whiffs of
tobacco.  He is, as it were, the dream, and
Chatrian the reality in this partnership.  Erckmann
would willingly have kept to the fantastic tales of
their early days, but it was Chatrian, the type of
the soldier, with the mustache and face of a
somewhat harsh-looking non-commissioned officer, and
a strict disciplinarian, who directed the collaboration
towards the Napoleonic era and the national
chronicles.  This, in a measure, explains the
portraits and helps us to show them both, united in a
work simultaneously conceived, both simple and
great in their baffling expression, happy in knowing
themselves understood by the multitude of the
poor and humble.  That photograph dates from
the representation of *L'Ami Fritz* in the Théâtre
Français.

After the defeat of the Alsatians these poets,
deeply touched, sing to us in their heartfelt words
of the picturesqueness of their mountains and
forests, henceforth to be under German rule.  At
that moment (and it is also the last portrait we
have been able to find) Erckmann is aged, his
beard and mustache are silvered, his appearance
no longer that of a professor, but rather that of an
old officer whom the close of the war has thrown
out of employment.  Chatrian, on the other hand,
though only four years his junior, with hair and
beard still abundant, seems alive with vigour and
strength.  His glance is keen, frank, and loyal, his
face open and bold, his attitude full of energy.
No picture could express better than this the
striking contrast between two temperaments so
widely dissimilar, and yet so well designed to
supplement each other and form a complete whole.

.. _`ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN. After a caricature by André Gill, 1879.`:

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   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN. After a caricature by André Gill, 1879.

   ERCKMANN AND CHATRIAN. 
   After a caricature by André Gill, 1879.

André Gill, in a typical and humorous caricature,
has admirably shown the expressions of the
two writers as their faces appear above a jug of
beer, each with an Alsatian pipe in his mouth.  A
peaceful happiness marks their brotherly features.
They are enjoying the dramatic successes of the
*Rantzau* and Madame Thérèse.  The final
disagreement, which did not happen until 1890, at
Villemomble, and which ended only with
Chatrian's death, had not yet come, like a detestable
intruder, to separate those two strong characters.
Their dreams, their work, and their successes were
still joint property at the time Andre Gill drew
this caricature.  The two writers have been termed
the "Siamese twins" of historical romance.  One
cannot understand why these two figures, so full
of contrast, were never delineated in painting nor
sculpture, in view of the large measure of success
which directed attention to their names.  Such
incomprehensible mysteries do sometimes occur in
the lives of celebrated men, and we fail to find the
solution of the enigma, which forces us to admit
that Erckmann and Chatrian left us no portraits,
no important engravings, no great popular
lithographs, nor any medallions or busts.  If ever
posterity thinks of raising a monument to the
memory of these two curious writers, the artist to
whom the task is assigned will have some difficulty
in finding any other valid and interesting documents
than the few pictures which are collected here.

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OCTAVE UZANNE.

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THE END

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