The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories (136 page)

The mountaineers, seated by their kettles, with their hats slouched over their faces, were very melancholy: three days they had been awaiting the enemy. Among one of the groups, sitting with their legs doubled up, bent shoulders, and pipes in their mouths were old Materne and his two sons.

From time to time Louise appeared on the step of the farm, then quickly re-entered, and set herself again to her work. A great cock was scratching up the manure with his claws, and crowing hoarsely; two or three fowls were strutting up and down among the bushes. All that was pleasant to look upon; but the chief pleasure of the partisans was to contemplate some magnificent quarters of bacon, with red-and-white sides, which were spitted on greenwood sticks, the fat melting drop by drop on to the small coals—and to fill their flasks at a small cask of brandy placed on Catherine Lefèvre’s cart.

Toward eight o’clock in the morning a man suddenly appeared between the great and little Donon; the sentinels perceived him at once; he descended, waving his hat.

A few minutes later Nickel Bentz, the old forest-keeper of the Houpe, was recognized.

The whole camp was roused; they ran to awaken Hullin, who had been sleeping for an hour in the farm-house, on a great straw mattress, side by side with Doctor Lorquin and his dog Pluto.

The three came out, accompanied by the herdsman Lagarmitte, nicknamed Trumpet, and the anabaptist Pelsly—a silent man, having his arms buried to the elbows in the deep pockets of his gray woollen tunic trimmed with pewter clasps, with an immense beard, and the tassel of his cotton cap half way down his back.

Jean-Claude seemed light-hearted. “Well, Nickel, what is going on down there?” cried he.

“At present, nothing new, Master Jean-Claude; only on the Phalsbourg side one hears something like the rumbling of a storm. Labarbe says that it is cannon, for all night we have seen flashes through the forest of Hildehouse, and since the morning gray clouds have been spreading over the plain.”

“The town is attacked,” said Hullin; “but what about the Lutzelstein side?”

“One can hear nothing,” replied Bentz.

“Then the enemy is trying to turn the place. In any case, the allies are down there: there must be hosts of them in Alsace.” And turning toward Materne, who was standing behind him, “We cannot remain any longer in uncertainty,” said he; “thou, with thy two sons, go on a reconnoissance.”

The old hunter’s face brightened. “So be it! I can stretch my legs a little,” said he, “and see if I can’t knock over one of those rascally Austrians or Cossacks.”

“Stop an instant, my old fellow! it is not now a question of knocking anybody over; we want to see what is going on. Frantz and Kasper will remain armed; but I know thee: thou must leave thy carbine here, thy powder-flask, and thy hunting-knife.”

“What for?”

“Because thou wilt have to go into the villages, and if thou art taken in arms, thou wilt be shot directly.”

“Shot?”

“Certainly. We do not belong to the regular troops; they do not take us prisoners; they shoot us. Thou wilt follow, then, the road to Schirmeck, stick in hand, and thy sons will accompany thee at a distance, in the underwood, within musket-range. If any marauders attack thee, they will come to thy rescue; if it is a column, or a handful of troops, they must allow thee to be taken.”

“They are to let me be taken!” cried the old hunter, indignantly. “I should like to see that.”

“Yes, Materne; it will be the best plan: for an unarmed man would be released, an armed shot. I do not need to tell thee not to sing out to the Germans that thou art come to spy upon them.”

“Ah, ah! I comprehend. Yes, yes, that is not badly planned. As for me, I never quit my gun, Jean-Claude, but war is war. Hold! there is my carbine, and my powder-flask, and my knife. Who will lend me his blouse and his stick?”

Nickel Bentz handed him his blue blouse and his cap. They were surrounded by an admiring crowd.

After he had changed his clothes, notwithstanding his large gray mustaches, one would have taken the old hunter for a simple peasant from the high mountains.

His two sons, proud to be of this first expedition, looked to the priming of their muskets, and fixed to the end of the barrel a boar-spear, straight and long as a sword. They felt their hunting-knives, flung their bags upon their backs, and confident that all was in order, they glanced proudly round them.

“Ah,” said Doctor Lorquin, laughing, “do not forget Master Jean-Claude’s advice. Be careful. One German more or less in a hundred thousand would not make much difference in our affairs; whereas if one or the other of you came back to us injured, you would be replaced with difficulty.”

“Oh, fear nothing, doctor: we shall have our eyes open.”

“My boys,” replied Materne, haughtily, “are true hunters; they know how to wait the moment and profit by it. They will only fire when I call. You can rest assured! and now, let us start; we must be back before night.”

They departed.

“Good luck to you!” shouted Hullin, while they mounted the snow in order to avoid the breastworks.

They soon descended toward the narrow path, which turns sharply on the right of the mountain.

The partisans watched them. Their red frizzy hair, long muscular legs, their broad shoulders, and supple, quick movements,—all showed that in case of an encounter, five or six “kaiserlichs” would have little chance against such fine fellows.

In a quarter of an hour they had reached the pine-forest and disappeared.

Then Hullin quietly returned to the farm, talking to Nickel Bentz.

Doctor Lorquin walked behind, followed by Pluto, and all the others returned to their places round the bivouac fires.

CHAPTER XII

THE LANDLORD OF THE “PINEAPPLE”

Materne and his two boys walked for some time in silence. The weather had become fine; the pale winter sun shone over the brilliant snow without melting it, and the ground remained firm and hard.

In the distance, along the valley, stood out, with surprising clearness, the tops of the fir-trees, the reddish peaks of the rocks, the roofs of the hamlets, with their icy stalactites hanging from the eaves, their small sparkling windows, and sharp gables.

People were walking in the street of Grandfontaine. A troupe of young girls were standing round the washing-place; a few old men in cotton caps were smoking their pipes on the doorsteps of the little houses. All this little world, lying in the depths of the blue expanse, came, and went, and lived, without a sound or sigh reaching the ears of the foresters.

The old hunter halted on the outskirts of the wood, and said to his sons: “I am going down to the village to see Dubreuil, the innkeeper of the ‘Pineapple.’”

And he pointed with his stick to a long white building, the doors and windows of which were surrounded with a yellow bordering, a pine-branch being suspended to the wall as a signboard.

“You must await me here. If there is no danger, I will come out on to the doorstep and raise my hat; you can then come and take a glass of wine with me.”

He immediately descended the snowy slopes to the little gardens lying above Grandfontaine, which took about ten minutes; he then made his way between two furrows, reached the meadow, and crossed the village square: his two sons, with their arms at their feet, saw him enter the inn. A few seconds after he reappeared on the doorstep and raised his hat.

Fifteen minutes later they had rejoined their father in the great room of the “Pineapple.” It was a rather low room with a sanded floor, and heated by a large iron stove.

Excepting the innkeeper Dubreuil, the biggest and most apoplectic landlord in the Vosges, with immense paunch, round eyes, flat nose, a wart on his left cheek, and a triple chin reaching over his collar—with the exception of this curious individual, seated near the stove in a leather arm-chair, Materne was alone. He had just filled the glasses. The clock was striking nine, and its wooden cock flapped its wing with a peculiar scraping sound.

“Good-day, Father Dubreuil,” said the two youths in a gruff voice.

“Good-day, my brave fellows,” replied the innkeeper, trying to smile.

Then, in an oily voice, he asked them, “Nothing new?”

“Faith, no!” replied Kasper; “here is winter, the time for hunting boars.”

And they both, putting their carbines in the corner of the window, within reach, in case of attack, passed one leg across the bench, and sat down, facing their father, who was at the head of the table.

At the same time they drank, saying, “To our healths!” which they were always very careful to do.

“Thus,” said Materne, turning to the fat man, as though taking up the threads of an interrupted conversation, “you think, Father Dubreuil, that we have nothing to fear from the wood of Baronies, and that we may hunt boar peaceably?”

“Oh, as to that, I know nothing!” exclaimed the innkeeper; “only at present the allies have not passed Mutzig. Besides, they harm no one; they receive all well-disposed people to fight against the usurper.”

“The usurper? Who is he?”

“Why, Napoleon Bonaparte, the usurper, to be sure. Just look at the wall.”

He pointed to a great placard stuck on the wall, near the clock.

“Look at that, and you will see that the Austrians are our true friends.”

Old Materne’s eyebrows nearly met, but, repressing his feelings, “Oh, ah!” said he.

“Yes, read that.”

“But I do not know how to read, Monsieur Dubreuil, nor my boys either. Explain to us what it is.”

Then the old innkeeper, leaning with his hands on the arms of his chair, arose, breathing like a calf, and placed himself in front of the placard, with his arms folded on his enormous paunch; and in a majestic tone he read a proclamation from the allied sovereigns, declaring “that they made war on Napoleon personally, and not on France. Therefore everybody ought to keep quiet and not meddle in their affairs, under pain of being burnt, pillaged, and shot.”

The three hunters listened, and looked at each other with a strange air.

When Dubreuil had finished, he reseated himself and said, “Now do you see?”

“And where did you get that?” demanded Kasper.

“That, my boy, is put up everywhere!”

“Well, we are pleased with that,” said Materne, laying his hand on Frantz’s arm, who had risen with sparkling eyes. “Dost thou want a light, Frantz? Here is my flint.”

Frantz sat down again, and the old man continued, good-naturedly: “And our good friends the Germans take nothing from any one?”

“Quiet, orderly people have nothing to fear; but as to the rascals who rise, all is taken from them. And it is just—the good ought not to suffer for the wicked. For example, instead of doing you any harm, the allies would receive you well at their head-quarters. You know the country: you would serve as guides, and you would be richly paid.”

There was a slight pause. The three hunters again looked at each other: the father had spread his hands on the table, as though to recommend calm to his sons; but even he was very pale.

The innkeeper, observing nothing, continued: “You would have much more to fear in the woods of Baronies from those brigands of Dagsburg, Sarre, and Blanru, who have all revolted, and wish to have ‘93 over again.”

“Are you sure of that?” demanded Materne, making an effort to control himself.

“Am I sure! You have only to look out of the window and you will see them on the road to the Donon. They have surprised the anabaptist Pelsly, and bound him to the foot of his bed. They pillage, rob, break up the roads. But beware! In a few days they will see strange things. It is not with a thousand men that they will be attacked, not with ten thousand, but with millions. They will all be hung.”

Materne rose.

“It is time for us to be going,” said he briefly. “At two o’clock we must be at the wood, and here we are talking quietly like magpies! Au revoir, Father Dubreuil.” They rushed out hastily, no longer able to contain their passion.

“Think of what I have said,” cried the innkeeper to them from his chair.

Once in the open air, Materne, turning round, said, with trembling lips: “If I had not restrained myself, I should have broken the bottle on his head.”

“And I,” said Frantz, “should have run him through with my bayonet.”

Kasper, one foot on the step, seemed about to re-enter the inn; he grasped the handle of his hunting-knife, and his face bore a terrible expression. But his father took him by the arm and dragged him off, saying: “Come, come, we will deal with him later on. To counsel me to betray the country! Hullin told us to be on our guard: he was right.”

They went down the street, looking to the right and left with haggard eyes. The people asked among themselves: What is the matter with them?

On reaching the end of the village, they halted, in front of the old cross, close to the church, and Materne in a calmer tone, pointing out the path which winds round Phramond over the heath, said to his sons: “You must take that road. I shall follow the route to Schirmeck. I shall not go too fast, so that you may have time to come up with me.”

They parted, and the old hunter, with bowed head, walked on thoughtfully for a long time, asking himself by what inward strength he had been able to keep from breaking the fat innkeeper’s head. He said to himself that no doubt it was from fear of compromising his sons.