Kitabı oku: «Waterloo: A sequel to The Conscript of 1813», sayfa 5

IX

It was winter. Rain fell constantly, mingled with snow. There were no gutters, and the wind blew the rain as it fell from the tiles quite into the middle of the street. We could hear it pattering all day while Catherine was running about, watching the fire, and lifting the covers of the saucepans, and sometimes singing quietly to herself as she sat down to her spinning. Father Goulden and I were so accustomed to this kind of life that we worked on without thinking. We troubled ourselves about nothing, the table was laid and the dinner served exactly on the stroke of noon. At night Mr. Goulden went out after supper to read the gazette at Hoffman's, with his old cloak wrapped closely round his shoulders and his big fox-skin cap pulled down over his neck.

But in spite of that, often when he came in at ten o'clock, after we had gone to bed, we heard him cough; he had dampened his feet. Then Catherine would say, "He is coughing again, he thinks he is as young as he was at twenty," and in the morning she did not hesitate to reproach him.

"Monsieur Goulden," she would say, "you are not reasonable; you have an ugly cold, and yet you go out every evening."

"Ah! my child, what would you have? I have got the habit of reading the gazette, and it is stronger than I. I want to know what Benjamin Constant and the rest of them say, it is like a second life to me and I often think 'they ought to have spoken further of such or such a thing. If Melchior Goulden had been there he would have opposed this or that, and it would not have failed to produce a great effect.'"

Then he would laugh and shake his head and say:

"Every one thinks he has more wit and good sense than the others, but Benjamin Constant always pleases me."

We could say nothing more, his desire to read the gazette was so great. One day Catherine said to him:

"If you wish to hear the news, that is no reason why you should make yourself sick, you have only to do as the old carpenter Carabin does, he arranged last week with Father Hoffman, and he sends him the journal every night at seven o'clock, after the others have read it, for which he pays him three francs a month. In this way, without any trouble to himself, Carabin knows everything that goes on, and his wife, old Bevel, also; they sit by the fire and talk about all these things and discuss them together, and that is what you should do."

"Ah! Catherine, that is an excellent idea, but – the three francs?"

"The three francs are nothing," said I, "the principal thing is not to be sick, you cough very badly and that cannot go on."

These words, far from offending, pleased him, as they proved our affection for him and that he ought to listen to us.

"Very well! we will try to arrange it as you wish, and the rather as the café is filled with half-pay officers from morning till night, and they pass the journals from one to the other so that sometimes we must wait two hours before we can catch one. Yes, Catherine is right."

He went that very day to see Father Hoffman, so that after that, Michel, one of the waiters at the café brought us the gazette every night at seven o'clock, just as we rose from the table. We were happy always when we heard him coming up the stairs, and we would say, "There comes the gazette."

Catherine would hurry off the cloth and I would put a big bullet of wood in the stove, and Mr. Goulden would draw his spectacles from their case, and while Catherine spun and I smoked my pipe like an old soldier, and watched the blaze as it danced in the stove, he would read us the news from Paris.

You cannot imagine the happiness and satisfaction we had in hearing Benjamin Constant and two or three others maintain the same opinions which we held ourselves. Sometimes Mr. Goulden was forced to stop to wipe his spectacles, and then Catherine would exclaim:

"How well these people talk. They are men of good sense. Yes, what they say is right – it is the simple truth."

And we all approved it. Sometimes Father Goulden thought that they ought to have spoken of this or that a little more, but that the rest was all very well. Then he would go on with his reading, which lasted till ten o'clock, and then we all went to bed, reflecting on what we had just heard. Outside the wind blew, as it only can blow at Pfalzbourg, and vanes creaked as they turned, and the rain beat against the walls, while we enjoyed the warmth and comfort, and thanked God till sleep came, and we forgot everything. Ah! how happily we sleep with peace in our souls, and when we have strength and health, and the love and respect of those whom we love.

Days, weeks, and months went by, and we became, after a manner, politicians, and when the ministers were going to speak, we thought:

"Now the beggars want to deceive us! the miserable race! they ought to be driven out, every one of them!"

Catherine above all could not endure them, and when Mother Grédel came and talked as before about our good King, Louis XVIII., we allowed her to talk out of respect, but we pitied her for being so blind to the real interests of the country.

It must be remembered, too, that these émigrés, ministers, and princes, conducted themselves in the most insolent manner possible toward us. If the Count d'Artois and his sons had put themselves at the head of the Vendéeans and Bretons, and marched on Paris and had been victorious, they would have had reason to say, "We are masters, and will make laws for you." But to be driven out at first, and to be brought back by the Prussians and the Russians, and then to come and humiliate us, that was contemptible, and the older I grow the more I am confirmed in that idea – it was shameful!

Zébédé came to see us from time to time, and he knew all that was in the gazette. It was from us that he first learned that the young émigrés had driven General Vandamme from the presence of the King. This old soldier, who had just returned from a Russian prison, and whom all the army respected in spite of his misfortune at Kulm, they conducted from the royal presence, and told him that was not his place. Vandamme had been colonel of a regiment at Pfalzbourg, and you cannot imagine the indignation of the people at this news.

And it was Zébédé who told us, that processes had been made out against the generals on half-pay, and that their letters were opened at the post, that they might appear like traitors. He told us a little afterward that they were going to send away the daughters of the old officers who were at the school of St. Denis and give them a pension of two hundred francs; and later still, that the émigrés alone would have the right to put their sons in the schools at "St. Cyr" and "la Flèche" to be educated as officers, while the people's sons would remain soldiers at five centimes (one cent) a day for centuries to come.

The gazettes told the same stories, but Zébédé knew a great many other details – the soldiers knew everything.

I could not describe Zébédé's face to you as he sat behind the stove, with the end of his black pipe between his teeth, recounting all these misfortunes. His great nose would turn pale, and the muscles would twitch around the corners of his light gray eyes, and he would pretend to laugh from time to time, and murmur, "It moves, it moves."

"And what do the other soldiers think of all this?" said Father Goulden.

"Ha! they think it is pretty well when they have given their blood to France for twenty years, when they have made ten, fifteen, and twenty campaigns, and wear three chevrons, and are riddled with wounds, to hear that their old chiefs are driven from their posts, their daughters turned out of the schools, and that the sons of those people are to be their officers forever – that delights them, Father Goulden!" and his face quivered even to his ears as he said this.

"That is terrible, certainly," said Father Goulden, "but discipline is always discipline there. The marshals obey the ministers, and the officers the marshals, and the soldiers the officers."

"You are right," said Zébédé, "but there, they are beating the assembly."

And he shook hands and hurried off to the barracks.

The winter passed in this way, while the indignation increased every day. The city was full of officers on half-pay, who dared not remain in Paris, – lieutenants, captains, commandants, and colonels of infantry and cavalry, – men who lived on a crust of bread and a glass of wine a day, and who were the more miserable because they were forced to keep up an appearance – think of such men with their hollow cheeks and their hair closely cropped, with sparkling eyes and their big mustaches and their old uniform cloaks, of which they had been forced to change the buttons, see them promenading by threes and sixes and tens on the square, with their sword-canes at their button-holes, and their three-cornered hats so old and worn, though still well brushed; you could not help thinking that they had not one quarter enough to eat.

And yet we were compelled to say to ourselves, these are the victors of Jemmapes, of Fleurus, of Zurich, of Hohenlinden, of Marengo, of Austerlitz, and of Friedland and Wagram. If we are proud of being Frenchmen, neither the Comte d'Artois nor the Duke de Berry can boast of being the cause; on the contrary, it is these men, and now they leave them to perish, they even refuse them bread and put the émigrés in their place. It does not need any extraordinary amount of common-sense, or heart, or of justice to discover that this is contrary to nature.

I never could look at these unhappy men; it made me miserable. If you have been a soldier for only six months, your respect for your old chiefs, for those whom you have seen in the very front under fire, always remains. I was ashamed of my country for permitting such indignities.

One circumstance I shall never forget: it was the last of January, 1815, when two of these half-pay officers – one was a large, austere, gray-haired man, known as Colonel Falconette, who appeared to have served in the infantry, the other was short and thick and they called him Commandant Margarot, and he still wore his hussar whiskers – came to us and proposed to sell a splendid watch. It might have been ten o'clock in the morning. I can see them now as they came gravely in, the colonel with his high collar, and the other one with his head down between his shoulders.

The watch was a gold one, with double case; a repeater which marked the seconds, and was wound up only once in eight days. I had never seen such a fine one.

While Mr. Goulden examined it I turned round on my chair and looked at the men, who seemed to be in great need of money, especially the hussar. His brown, bony face, his big red mustaches, and his little brown eyes, his broad shoulders and long arms, which hung down to his knees, inspired me with great respect. I thought that when he took his sabre his long arm would reach a good way, that his eyes would burn under his heavy brows, and that the parry and thrust would come like lightning. I imagined him in a charge, half hidden behind his horse's head, with the point advanced, and my admiration was greater still. I suddenly remembered that Colonel Falconette and Commandant Margarot had killed some Russian and Austrian officers in a duel in the rear of the "Green Tree," when the allies were passing through the town six months ago.

The large man too, without any shirt-collar, although he was thin, wrinkled, and pale, and his temples were gray and his manner cold, seemed respectable too.

I waited to hear what Father Goulden would say about the watch. He did not raise his eyes, but looked at it with profound admiration, while the men waited quietly like those who suffer from not being able to conceal their pain. At last he said:

"This, gentlemen, is a beautiful watch, fit for a prince?"

"Indeed it is," said the hussar, "and it was from a prince I received it after the battle of Rabbe," and he glanced at his companion, who said nothing.

Mr. Goulden saw that they were in great need. He took off his black silk bonnet, and said, as he rose slowly from his seat:

"Gentlemen, do not take offence at what I am going to say. I am like you an old soldier, I served France under the Republic, and I am sure it must be heart-breaking to be forced to sell such a thing as that, an object which recalls some noble action, the souvenir of a chief whom we revere."

I had never heard Father Goulden speak with such emotion, his bald head was bowed sadly, and his eyes were on the ground, so that he might not see the pain of those to whom he was speaking.

The commandant grew quite red, his eyes were dim, his great fingers worked, and the colonel was pale as death. I wished myself away.

Mr. Goulden went on, "This watch is worth more than a thousand francs, I have not so much money in hand, and besides you would doubtless regret to part with such a souvenir. I will make you this offer, leave the watch with me, I will hang it in my window – it shall always be yours – and I will advance you two hundred francs, which you shall repay me when you take it away."

On hearing this, the hussar extended his two great hairy hands, as if to embrace Father Goulden.

"You are a good patriot," he exclaimed, "Colin told us so. Ah! sir, I shall never forget the service you have rendered me. This watch I received from Prince Eugène for bravery in action, it is dear to me as my own blood, but poverty – "

"Commandant!" exclaimed the other, turning pale.

"Colonel, permit me! we are old comrades together. They are starving us, they treat us like Cossacks. They are too cowardly to shoot us outright."

He could be heard all over the house. Catherine and I ran into the kitchen in order not to see the sad spectacle. Mr. Goulden soothed him, and we heard him say:

"Yes, yes, gentlemen, I know all that, and I put myself in your place."

"Come! Margarot, be quiet," said the colonel. And this went on for a quarter of an hour.

At last we heard Mr. Goulden count out the money, and the hussar said:

"Thank you, sir, thank you! If ever you have occasion, remember the Commandant Margarot."

We were glad to hear the door open, and to hear them go downstairs, for Catherine and I were much pained by what we had heard and seen. We went back to the room, and Mr. Goulden, who had been to show the officers out, came back with his head bare. He was very much disturbed.

"These unhappy men are right," said he, "the conduct of the government toward them is horrible, but it will have to pay for it sooner or later."

We were sad all day, but Mr. Goulden showed me the watch and explained its beauties, and told me, we ought always to have such models before us, and then we hung it in our window.

From that moment the idea never left me that matters would end badly, and that even if the émigrés stopped here, they had done too much mischief already. I could still hear the commandant exclaiming, that they treated the army like Cossacks. All those processions and expiations and sermons about the rebellion of twenty-five years, seemed to me to be a terrible confusion, and I felt that the restoration of the national property and the rebuilding of the convents would be productive of no good.

X

It was about the beginning of March, when a rumor began to circulate that the Emperor had just landed at Cannes. This rumor was like the wind, nobody ever could tell where it came from. Pfalzbourg is two hundred leagues from the sea, and many a mountain and valley lies between them. An extraordinary circumstance, I remember, happened on the 6th of March. When I rose in the morning, I pushed open the window of our little chamber which was just under the eaves, and looked across the street at the old black chimneys of Spitz the baker, and saw that a little snow still remained behind them. The cold was sharp, though the sun was shining, and I thought, "What fine weather for a march!" Then I remembered how happy we used to be in Germany, as we put out our campfires and set off on such fine mornings as this, with our guns on our shoulders, listening to the footfalls of the battalion echoing from the hard frozen ground. I do not know how it was, but suddenly the Emperor came into my mind, and I saw him with his gray coat and round shoulders, with his hat drawn over his eyes, marching along with the Old Guard behind him.

Catherine was sweeping our little room, and I was almost dreaming as I leaned out into the dry, clear air, when we heard some one coming up the stairs. Catherine stopped her sweeping and said:

"It is Mr. Goulden."

I also recognized his step, and was surprised, as he seldom came into our chamber. He opened the door and said in a low voice:

"My children, the Emperor landed on the 1st of March at Cannes, near Toulon, and is marching upon Paris."

He said no more, but sat down to take breath. We looked at each other in astonishment, but a moment after Catherine asked:

"Is it in the gazette, Mr. Goulden?"

"No," he replied, "either they know nothing of it over there, or else they conceal it from us. But, in Heaven's name, not a word of all this, or we shall be arrested. This morning, about five o'clock, Zébédé, who mounted guard at the French gate, came to let me know of it; he knocked downstairs, did you hear him?"

"No! we were asleep, Mr. Goulden."

"Well! I opened the window to see what was the matter, and then I went down and unlocked the door. Zébédé told it to me as a fact, and says the soldiers are to be confined to the barracks till further orders. It seems they are afraid of the soldiers, but how can they stop Bonaparte without them? They cannot send the peasants, whom they have stripped of everything, against him, nor the bourgeoisie, whom they have treated like Jacobins. Now is a good time for the émigrés to show themselves. But silence, above all things, the most profound silence!"

He rose, and we all went down to the workshop. Catherine made a good fire, and everyone went about his work as usual.

That day everything was quiet, and the next day also. Some neighbors, Father Riboc and Offran, came in to see us, under pretence of having their watches cleaned.

"Anything new, neighbor?" they inquired.

"No, indeed!" replied Mr. Goulden. "Everything is quiet. Do you hear anything?"

"No."

But you could see by their eyes, that they had heard the news. Zébédé stayed at the barracks. The half-pay officers filled the café from morning till night, but not a word transpired, the affair was too serious. On the third day these officers, who were boiling over with impatience, were seen running back and forth, their very faces showing their terrible anxiety. If they had had horses or even arms, I am sure they would have attempted something. But the guards went and came also, with old Chancel at their head, and a courier was sent off hourly to Saarbourg. The excitement increased, nobody felt any interest in his work. We soon learned through the commercial travellers, who arrived at the "City of Basle," that the upper Rhine provinces and the Jura had risen, and that regiments of cavalry and infantry were following each other from Besançon, and that heavy forces had been sent against the usurper.

One of these travellers having spoken rather too freely, was ordered to quit the town at once, the brigadier in command having examined his passport and, fortunately for him, found it properly made out.

I have seen other revolutions since then, but never such excitement as reigned on the 8th of March between four and five in the evening, when the order arrived for the departure of the first and second battalions fully equipped for service for Lons-le-Saulnier. It was only then that the danger was fully realized, and every one thought, "It is not the Duke d'Angoulême nor the Duke de Berry that we need to arrest the progress of Bonaparte, but the whole of Europe."

The faces of the officers on half-pay lighted up as with a burst of sunshine, and they breathed freely again. About five o'clock the first roll of the drum was heard on the square, when suddenly Zébédé rushed in.

"Well!" said Father Goulden to him.

"The first two battalions are going away," he replied. He was very pale.

"They are sent to stop him," said Mr. Goulden.

"Yes," said Zébédé, winking, "they are going to stop him."

The drums still rolled. He went downstairs, four at a time. I followed him. At the foot of the stairs, and while he was on the first step, he seized me by the arm, and raising his shako, whispered in my ear:

"Look, Joseph, do you recognize that?"

I saw the old tri-colored cockade in the lining.

"That is ours," he said, "all the soldiers have it."

I hardly had time to glance at it when he shook my hand and, turning away, hurried to Fouquet's corner. I went upstairs, saying to myself, "Now for another breaking up, in which Europe will be involved; now for the conscription, Joseph, the abolition of all permits and all the other things that we read of in the gazettes. In the place of quiet, we must be plunged in confusion; instead of listening to the ticking of clocks, we must hear the thunder of cannon; instead of talking of convents, we must talk of arsenals; instead of smelling flowers and incense, we must smell powder. Great God! will this never come to an end? Everything would go prosperously without missionaries and émigrés. What a calamity! What a calamity! We who work and ask for nothing are always the ones who have to pay. All these crimes are committed for our happiness, while they mock us and treat us like brutes." A great many other ideas passed through my head, but what good did they do me? I was not the Comte d'Artois, nor was I the Duke de Berry; and one must be a prince in order that his ideas may be of consequence, and that every word he speaks may pass for a miracle.

Father Goulden could not keep still a moment that afternoon. He was just as impatient as I was when I was expecting my permit to marry. He would look out of the window every moment and say, "There will be great news to-day; the orders have been given, and there is no need of hiding anything from us any longer." And from time to time he would exclaim, "Hush! here is the mail coach!" We would listen, but it was Lanche's cart with his old horses, or Baptiste's boat at the bridge. It was quite dark and Catherine had laid the cloth, when for the twentieth time Mr. Goulden exclaimed, "Listen!"

This time we heard a distant rumbling, which came nearer every moment. Without waiting an instant, he ran to the alcove and slipped on his big waistcoat, crying:

"Joseph, it has come."

He rolled down the stairs, as it were, and from seeing him in such a hurry the desire to hear the news seized me, and I followed him. We had hardly reached the street when the coach came through the dark gateway, with its two red lanterns, and rushed past us like a thunder-bolt. We ran after it, but we were not alone; from all sides we heard the people running and shouting, "There it is, there it is!" The post-office was in the rue des Foins, near the German gate, and the coach went straight down to the college and turned there to the right. The farther we went the greater was the crowd; it poured from every door.

The old mayor, Mr. Parmentier, his secretary, Eschbach, and Cauchois, the tax-gatherer, and many other notables were in the crowd, talking together and saying:

"The decisive moment has come."

When we turned into the Place d'Armes, we saw the crowd already gathered in front of the postoffice; innumerable faces were leaning over the iron balustrade, one trying to get before the other, and interrogating the courier, who did not answer a word.

The postmaster, Mr. Pernette, opened the window, which was lighted up from the inside, and the package of letters and papers flew from the coach through this window into the room; the window closed, and the crack of the postilion's whip warned the crowd to get out of the way.

"The papers, the papers!" shouted the crowd from every side. The coach set off again and disappeared through the German gate.

"Let us go to Hoffman's café," said Mr. Goulden. "Hurry! the papers will go there, and if we wait we shall not be able to get in."

As we crossed the square we heard some one running behind us, and the clear, strong voice of Margarot, saying:

"They have come, I have them."

All the half-pay officers were following him, and as the moon was shining we could see they were coming at a great pace. We rushed into the café and were hardly seated near the great stove of Delft ware, when the crowd at once poured in through both doors. You should have seen the faces of the half-pay officers at that moment. Their great three-cornered hats, defiling under the lamps, their thin faces with their long mustaches hanging down, their sparkling eyes peering into the darkness, made them look like savages in pursuit of something. Some of them squinted in their impatience and anxiety, and I think that they did not see anything at all, and that their thoughts were elsewhere with Bonaparte; – that was fearful.

The people kept coming and coming, till we were suffocating, and were obliged to open the windows. Outside in the street, where the cavalry barracks were, and on the Fountain Square, there was a great tumult.

"We did well to come at once," said Mr. Goulden, springing on a chair and steadying himself with his hand on the stove. Others were doing the same thing, and I followed his example. Nothing could be seen but the eager faces and the big hats of the officers, and the great crowd on the square outside in the moonlight. The tumult increased and a voice cried, "Silence." It was the Commandant Margarot, who had mounted upon a table. Behind him the gendarmes Keltz and Werner looked on, and at all the open windows people were leaning in to hear. On the square at the same instant somebody repeated, "Silence, silence." And it was at once so still that you would have said, there was not a soul there.

The commandant read the gazette, his clear voice pronouncing every word with a sort of quaver in it, resembling the tic-tac of our clock in the middle of the night, and it could be distinctly heard in the square. The reading lasted a long time, for the commandant omitted nothing. I remember it commenced by declaring that the one called Bonaparte, a public enemy, who for fifteen years had held France in despotic slavery, had escaped from his island, and had had the audacity to set his foot on the soil deluged with blood through his own crimes, but that the troops – faithful to the King and to the nation – were on the march to stop him, and that in view of the general horror, Bonaparte, with the handful of beggars that accompanied him, had fled into the mountains, but that he was surrounded on all sides and could not escape.

I remember too, according to that gazette all the marshals had hastened to place their glorious swords at the service of the King, the father of the people and of the nation, and that the illustrious Marshal Ney, Prince of Moscowa, had kissed the King's hand and promised to bring Bonaparte to Paris dead or alive. After that there were some Latin words which no doubt had been put there for the priests.

From time to time I heard some one behind me laughing and jeering at the journal. On turning round, I saw that it was Professor Burguet and two or three other noted men who had been taken after the "Hundred days," and had been forced to remain at Bourges because, as Father Goulden said, they had too much spirit. That shows plainly that it is better to keep still at such times, if one does not wish to fight on either side; for words are of no use, but to get us into difficulty.

But there was something worse still toward the end, when the commandant commenced to read the decrees.

The first indicated the movement of the troops, and the second, commanded all Frenchmen to fall upon Bonaparte, to arrest and deliver him dead or alive, because he had put himself out of the pale of law.

At that moment the commandant, who had until then only laughed when he read the name of Bonaparte, and whose bony face had only trembled a little as it was lighted up by the lamp – at that moment his aspect changed completely, I never saw anything more terrible; his face contracted, fold upon fold, his little eyes blazed like those of a cat, and his mustaches and whiskers stood on end; he seized the gazette and tore it into a thousand pieces, and then pale as death he raised himself to his full height, extended his long arms, and shouted in a voice so loud that it made our flesh creep, Vive l'Empereur! Immediately all the half-pay officers raised their three-cornered hats, some in their hands and some on the end of their sword-canes, and repeated with one voice, Vive l'Empereur!

You would have thought the roof was coming down. I felt just as if some one had thrown cold water down my back. I said to myself, "It is all over now. What is the use in preaching peace to such people?"

Outside among the groups of citizens, the soldiers of the post repeated the cry, Vive l'Empereur. And as I looked in great anxiety to see what the gendarmes would do, they retired without saying a word, being old soldiers also.

But it was not yet over. As the commandant was getting down from the table, an officer suggested that they should carry him in triumph. They seized him by the legs, and forcing the crowd aside, carried him around the room, screaming like madmen, Vive l'Empereur. He was so affected by the honor shown him by his comrades and by hearing them shout what he so much loved to hear, that he sat there with his long hairy hands on their shoulders, and his head above their great hats, and wept. No one would have believed that such a face could weep; that alone was sufficient to upset you and make you tremble. He said not a word; his eyes were closed and the tears ran down his nose and his long mustaches. I was looking on with all my eyes, as you can imagine, when Father Goulden got down from his chair and pulled me by the arm, saying: "Joseph, let us go, it is time."