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XXXIII

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.

XXXIV

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.

XXXV

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.

XXXVI

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.