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Divès paused; and Hullin, who had become very thoughtful, asked him, – "This hole, then, pleases thee much, Marc?"

"Pleases me! Why, I would not go and live in the most beautiful house in Strasbourg for two thousand pounds a year. For twenty-three years I have here hidden my wares: sugar, coffee, powder, tobacco, brandy – everything goes in here. I have eight horses always travelling."

"But thou hast no happiness."

"I have no happiness! Dost thou think it is nothing to laugh at the gendarmes, excisemen, custom-house people; to enrage them, to outdo them, to hear on all sides, 'That rascally Marc – isn't he a sharp one! How he manages his business! He can do as he likes with the law and its agents,' and this and that. Hé! hé! hé! I can tell thee, I can, that it is the greatest pleasure in the world. And then the people like it: they get everything half price; one helps the poor, and keeps himself warm and well-off."

"Yes, but what dangers!"

"Bah! a customs'-guard would never think of crossing the chasm."

"I should suppose not," thought Hullin, remembering that he must cross the precipice again.

"At the same time thou art not altogether wrong, Jean-Claude. When I first had to enter this place with those little barrels on my back, I streamed with perspiration; now I am accustomed to it."

"And if thy foot slipped?"

"There would be an end of me! I would as soon die, spiked on a pine, as to cough weeks and months on a mattress."

Divès then shed the light of his lantern on the piles of kegs reaching to the top of the vault.

"It is the finest English powder," said he; "it runs like silver grains in the hand, and fires like Old Nick. No need to use much of it – a thimbleful is enough. And here is lead, unmixed with tin. From this very evening, Hexe-Baizel shall begin casting balls. She knows all about it, thou wilt see."

They were beginning to return by the path leading to the chasm, when suddenly a confused murmur of words began to fill the air. Marc blew out his lantern, and they stopped still in the darkness.

"Some one is walking up there," the smuggler softly said. "Who on earth has been able to climb up the Falkenstein in such snow?"

They listened, holding their breath, and their eyes fixed on the ray of bluish light which came down through a small chink into the cavern. Around the cleft grew a few shrubs, sparkling with frost; above, could be perceived the ridge of an old wall. While they were watching, keeping profound silence, there appeared at the foot of the wall a large shaggy head bound round with a shining circle, a long face, then a pointed red beard, – the whole standing out in curious relief against the white winter sky.

"It is 'The King of Diamonds,'" observed Marc, laughing.

"Poor devil!" said Hullin, gravely; "he has come to walk about his castle, his bare feet on the ice, and a tin crown on his head! But look! he is speaking: he is giving orders to his courtiers; he points with his sceptre to the north and to the south – all belongs to him; he is master of the heavens and earth! Poor devil! merely to see him in those trousers of his, with his dog-skin on his back, makes me cold all over."

"Yes, Jean-Claude, it produces on me the effect of a burgomaster or village mayor, who puffs himself out like a bullfinch, and blows his cheeks up, saying, 'I am Hans Aden; I have ten acres of fine meadows; I have two houses; I have a vineyard, an orchard, a garden, h-m! h-m! I have this and that!' The next day a little fit lays hold of him, and – good-evening. Mad, mad! who is not mad? Let us go, Hullin; the sight of this unfortunate who talks to the winds, and of his raven that croaks of famine, makes my teeth chatter."

They entered the passage, and the daylight almost blinded Hullin. Happily, the great height of his companion standing in front of him, prevented his becoming giddy.

"Lean firmly," said Marc; "imitate me: the right hand in the hole, the right foot on the step, turn a bit – here we are!"

They returned to the kitchen, where Hexe-Baizel told them that Yégof was in the ruins of the old Burg.

"We knew it," replied Marc: "we have just seen him breathing the fresh air over there. Each man to his taste."

Just then the raven Hans, sailing above the abyss, passed the door with a hoarse cry; they heard the frost crackling on the bushes, and the madman appeared upon the terrace. He was haggard; and after glancing toward the hearth, cried out – "Marc Divès, clear out quickly. I warn thee I am tired of this disorder. The fortifications of my domains ought to be free. I cannot allow vermin to lodge where I am; consequently, thou must make thy arrangements." Then perceiving Jean-Claude, his face brightened – "Thou here, Hullin?" said he, "Art thou at length clear-sighted enough to accept the proposals that I have condescended to make thee? Dost thou feel that an alliance such as mine, is the only resource to preserve thee from the total destruction of thy race? If it is so, I congratulate thee; thou showest more sense than I gave thee credit for."

Hullin could not help laughing.

"No, Yégof, no! heaven has not yet enlightened me, or I might accept the honor thou wouldst make me. Besides, Louise is not old enough to be married."

The madman became again serious and gloomy. Standing on the edge of the terrace, his back to the abyss, he seemed quite at home, and his raven, hovering from right to left, did not trouble him.

He raised his sceptre, frowned, and exclaimed:

"Then this is the second time, Hullin, that I have made my demand, and for the second time thou darest refuse me. Now, I will renew it once again – once, dost thou hear? Then the fate shall be accomplished!"

Hullin, Marc Divès, and Hexe-Baizel herself burst into fits of laughter.

"He is a great madman," said Hexe-Baizel.

"I think thou art right there," replied the smuggler. "Poor Yégof! decidedly he is out of his wits. But never mind! Baizel, attend to me. Thou must commence melting balls of all sizes. I am going to start for Switzerland. In a week, at latest, the remainder of our ammunition will be here. Give me my boots."

Then stamping down his heels, and twisting round his neck a thick scarf of red wool, he unhooked from the wall one of those dark-green mantles such as herdsmen wear, threw it over his shoulders, put on an old worn hat, took a gourd, and shouted: "Don't forget what I have been telling thee, old woman, or beware! Let us go, Jean-Claude!"

Hullin followed him on the terrace without wishing good-by to Hexe-Baizel, who, for her part, did not deign even to go to the doorstep to see them depart. When they were come to the base of the rock, Marc Divès drew up and said, "Thou art going into the mountain villages, art thou not, Hullin?"

"Yes: that must first be done. I must warn the wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, and others, of what is going on."

"Without doubt. Do not forget Materne of Hengst and his two boys, Labarbe of Dagsburg, and Jérome of St. Quirin. Tell them that there will he powder and balls; that we are of the number, Catherine Lefèvre, myself, Marc Divès, and all the honest folks of the country."

"Calm thyself, Marc – I know my men."

"Then good-by for the present."

They shook hands warmly.

The smuggler took the path to the right, toward Donon; Hullin that to the left, toward the Sarre.

They were now at some distance from each other, when Hullin called out to his comrade: "Hé! Marc, inform Catherine Lefèvre, as thou passest by, that all goes on well. Tell her I am going into the mountains."

The other assented by a nod, and they both continued their different ways.

CHAPTER VI
AMONG THE MOUNTAINEERS

An extraordinary agitation reigned at that time all along the line of the Vosges: the tidings of the invasion which was approaching spread from village to village, and among the farm-houses and woodmen's cottages of the Hengst and the Nideck. The hawkers, wagoners, tinkers, all that floating population which is continually moving from the mountains to the plains and from the plains to the mountains, brought every day, from Alsace and the borders of the Rhine, many strange reports. "The towns," so these people said, "were being put into a state of defence; expeditions were being made to provision them with corn and meat; the roads to Metz, Nancy, Huningue, and Strasbourg were swarming with convoys. Everywhere you met powder and ammunition wagons, cavalry, infantry, artillery, going to their posts. Marshal Victor still held the route to Saverne; but the bridges of the fortresses were already raised from seven in the evening to eight in the morning."

No one thought that all this could bode any good. Nevertheless, though many were seriously afraid of war, and though the old women lifted up their hands to heaven, crying, "Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" the greater number were preparing the means of defence. Under such circumstances, Jean-Claude Hullin was well received by all.

The same day, toward five in the evening, he reached the summit of the Hengst, and halted with the patriarch of forest-hunters, old Materne. He spent the night there; for in winter the days are short and the roads difficult. Materne promised to keep watch over the defile of the Zorn, with his two sons Kasper and Frantz, and to reply to the first signal which was made from the Falkenstein.

On the following day, Jean-Claude started early for Dagsburg, so as to come to an understanding with his friend Labarbe, the wood-cutter. They visited together the nearest hamlets, reanimating the love of country in the people's hearts; and the next day Labarbe accompanied Hullin into Christ-Nickel's, the anabaptist farmer of Painbach – a sensible and respectable man, but who could not be prevailed upon to participate in their glorious enterprise. Christ-Nickel had only one reply for all their observations; "It is well, it is just, but the Bible saith, 'Put up thy sword into its place. He who lives by the sword shall perish by the sword.'" He promised them, however, to pray for the good cause: it was all they could obtain.

They went from there to Walsch, and had some hearty shakes of the hand with Daniel Hirsch, a former marine gunner, who agreed to collect all the people of his district.

At this place Labarbe left Jean-Claude to make his way by himself.

For eight days longer he beat about the mountain, from Soldatenthal, to Léonsberg, Meienthal, Abreschwiller, Voyer, Loëttenbach, Cirey, Petit-Mont, and Saint-Sauveur; and on the ninth day he reached St. Quirin and saw the bootmaker Jérome. They visited the pass of Blanru together; after which Hullin, satisfied with what he had done, took his way to the village. He had been walking briskly for about two hours, picturing to himself the life of the camp, – the bivouac, marches and counter-marches – all that life of a soldier which he had so often regretted, and which he now saw returning with enthusiasm – when in the far distance, amidst the shades of the twilight, he perceived the hamlet of Charmes in a bluish mist, his little cottage sending forth a scarcely perceptible line of smoke, the small gardens surrounded with palisades, the stone-covered roofs, and to the left, bordering the hill, the great farm of Bois-de-Chênes, with the saw-mills of Valtin at the end of the now dark ravine.

Then suddenly, and without knowing why, his soul was filled with a great sadness.

He slackened his pace, and thought of the calm, peaceable life he was abandoning – perhaps forever; of his little room, so warm in the winter, and cheerful in spring when he opened his windows to the breath of the woods; of the tic-tac of the old timepiece, and then of Louise, his good little Louise, spinning in the silence with downcast eyes, and in the evenings singing some quaint strain with her pure penetrating voice when they were both feeling weary. These reflections laid such hold of him that the slightest objects, every instrument used in his profession, – the long shining augers, the round-handled hatchet, the mallets, the little stove, the old closet, the platters of varnished wood, the ancient figure of Saint Michael nailed to the wall, the old four-post bed at the bottom of the alcove, the stool, the trunk, the copper lamp, – all these things impressed themselves on his mind like a living picture, and the tears came into his eyes.

But it was Louise, his darling child, whom he pitied. How she would weep, and implore him to renounce the war! And how she would hang on his neck, saying: – "Oh! do not leave me, Papa Jean-Claude! Oh, I will love you so much! Oh, surely you will not abandon me!"

And the honest fellow could see the terror in her beautiful eyes – he could feel her arms round his neck. For a moment he fancied that he might deceive her, make her believe anything, no matter what, and so account for his absence to her satisfaction; but such means were not in accordance with his character, and his sadness increased the more.

Arrived at the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, he went in to tell Catherine Lefèvre that all was going well, and that the mountaineers were only awaiting the signal.

A quarter of an hour after, Master Jean-Claude came down by the Houx road in front of his own little house.

Before pushing open the creaking door, the idea struck him to see what Louise was about at that moment. He glanced into the little room through the window: Louise was standing by the curtains of the alcove; she seemed very animated, arranging, folding and unfolding clothes on the bed. Her sweet face beamed with happiness, and her large blue eyes sparkled with a sort of enthusiasm; she even talked aloud. Hullin listened; but a cart happening to pass at the time in the street, he could hear nothing. Making a firm resolve, he entered, saying quietly: "Louise, I have returned."

Immediately the young girl, joyous and skipping like a deer, ran to embrace him.

"Ah! it is you, Papa Jean-Claude! I was expecting you. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! how long you stayed away! At length you are back."

"It was, my child," replied the honest fellow, in a more undecided tone, putting his stick behind the door and his hat on the table, "it was because – "

He could say nothing else.

"Yes, yes, you went to see our friends," said Louise, laughing: "I know all about it – Mamma Lefèvre has told me everything."

"What! thou knowest? And dost thou not mind? So much the better, so much the better! it shows thy sense. And I, who fancied thou wouldst have cried!"

"Cry! and what for, papa Jean-Claude? Oh, I am courageous; you don't know me yet – go!" She put on a resolute air, which made Hullin smile; but he did not smile long when she continued: "We are going to war – we are going to fight – we are going to pass up the mountain!"

"Hullo! we are going! we are going!" exclaimed he in astonishment.

"Certainly. Then are we not going?" said she, regretfully.

"That is to say – I must leave thee for a little time, my child."

"Leave me – oh, no! I go with thee; it is all agreed upon. Look, see! my small parcel is ready, and here is yours, which I have arranged. Don't trouble yourself, let me alone, and you will be satisfied!"

Hullin could not get over his stupefaction. "But, Louise," he exclaimed, "thou canst not think of such a thing. Consider: we must pass nights abroad, and march and run; consider the cold, the snow, the musketry! It cannot be."

"Come," said the young girl, in a tearful voice, throwing herself into his arms, "do not pain me! You are only making fun of your little Louise. You cannot forsake her!"

"But thou wilt be much safer here – thou wilt be warm – thou wilt hear from us every day."

"No, no. I will not – I must go too. The cold does not harm me. Only too long have I been shut up. I, too, must breathe a little. Are not the birds out of doors? The robins are out all the winter. Have I not known what cold was when I was quite tiny? and hunger also?"

She stamped, and, for the third time, putting her arms round Jean-Claude's neck, – "Come then, Papa Hullin," said she softly, "Mamma Lefèvre said yes. Would you be more naughty than she was? Ah, if you only knew how much I love you!"

The good man had sat down and turned away his head, so as not to yield, and did not allow himself to be embraced.

"Oh, how naughty you are to-day, Papa Jean-Claude!"

"It is for thy sake, my child."

"Well, all the worse. I will run away after you. Cold – what is cold? And if you are wounded – if you ask to see your little Louise for the last time, and she is not there – near you, to take care of you, and love you to the end – oh, you must think me very cold-hearted."

She sobbed, and Hullin could not stand it any longer.

"Is it true that Mamma Lefèvre consents?"

"Oh, yes – oh, yes – she told me so. She said to me, – 'Try and make Papa Jean-Claude decide. I am willing, and quite satisfied.'"

"Well, what can I do against two of you. Thou shalt come with us; it is quite decided."

She gave a scream of delight which ran through the cottage, – "Oh, how kind you are!"

And with one rub she wiped all her tears away, – "We are going to be off, to take to the woods and to make war."

"Ah," said Hullin, shaking his head, "I see it now; thou art always the little gypsy. As soon try to tame a swallow."

Then making her sit on his knees: – "Louise, it is now twelve years since I found thee in the snow: thou wast blue, poor little one. And when we were in the cottage, near a good fire, and thou wert slowly reviving, the first thing thou didst was to smile at me. And since that time thy will has always been mine. With that smile thou hast led me wherever thou wouldst."

Then Louise began again to smile at him, and they embraced each other. "Now we will look at the packages," he said, sighing. "Are they well made, I wonder?"

He approached the bed, and was surprised to see his warmest clothes, his flannel-waistcoats, all well brushed, folded, and packed; and Louise's bundle, with her best dresses, petticoats, and stout shoes, in nice order. At last he could not help laughing and crying out – "O gypsy, gypsy! you are the one for making fine bundles, and going away without ever turning the head."

Louise smiled. "Are you satisfied?"

"I suppose I must be. But during all this piece of work, I will venture to say thou hast never thought of preparing my supper."

"Oh, it will soon be ready. I did not know you would return this evening, Papa Jean-Claude."

"That is true, my child. Bring me something – no matter what – quickly, for I am hungry. Meanwhile I shall smoke a pipe."

"Yes, that's it; smoke a pipe."

He sat down on the side of the bench and struck the tinder-box quite dreamily. Louise rushed right and left like a sprite, seeing to the fire, breaking the eggs, and turning out an omelette with surprising celerity. Never had she appeared so lively, smiling, and pretty. Hullin, his elbow on the table and his face in his hand, watched her gravely, thinking how much will, firmness, and resolution there was in this girl – as light as a fairy, yet determined as a hussar. In a few seconds she served him with the omelette on a large china plate, with bread, and the glass and bottle.

"There, Papa Jean-Claude, be hungry no longer." She observed him eating with a look of tenderness.

The flame sprang up in the stove, lighting clearly the low beams, the wooden stair in the shadow, the bed at the end of the alcove, the whole of the abode, so often cheered by the joyous humor of the shoemaker, the little songs of his daughter, and the industry of both. And all this Louise was leaving without any hesitation: she cared only for the woods, the snow-covered paths, and the endless mountains, reaching from the village into Switzerland, and even beyond. Ah, Master Jean-Claude had reason to cry "gypsy, gypsy!" The swallow cannot be tamed: it needs the open air, the broad sky – continual motion. Neither storms, nor wind, nor rain in torrents frighten it, when the hour of its departure is at hand. It has only one thought, one desire, one cry – "Let us away! Let us away."

The meal finished, Hullin rose and said to his daughter, "I am tired, my child; kiss me, and let us go to bed."

"Yes; but do not forget to awake me, Papa Jean-Claude, if you start before daybreak."

"Do not trouble thyself. It is understood thou shalt come with us." And seeing her mount the stair and disappear in the garret: "Isn't she afraid of stopping in the nest, that's all!" said he to himself.

The silence was great outdoors. Eleven o'clock had struck from the village church. The good man was sitting down to take off his boots, when he caught sight of his musket suspended above the door: he took it down, wiped it, and drew the trigger. His whole soul was intent on the business in hand.

"It is all right," he murmured: and then in a grave tone: "It is curious… The last time I held it … at Marengo … was fourteen years ago, and yet it seems like yesterday!"

Suddenly the hardened snow cracked under a quick footstep. He listened: "Someone!" At the same time two little sharp taps resounded on the panes. He ran to the window and opened it. The head of Marc Divès, with his broad hat stiff with the frost, bent forward from the darkness.

"Well, Marc, what news?"

"Hast thou warned the mountaineers – Materne, Jérome, Labarbe?"

"Yes, all."

"It was time: the enemy has passed."

"Passed?"

"Yes, along the whole line. I have walked fifteen leagues through the snow since this morning to announce it to thee."

"Good; the signal must be given: a great fire on the Falkenstein."

Hullin was very pale. He put on his boots. Two minutes later, his large blouse on his shoulders and his stick in his hand, he softly opened the door, and with long strides followed Marc Divès on the way to the Falkenstein.