CHAPTER XV
JOINING THE REGIMENT
At a quarter to seven, Jean Oberlé, wearing a jacket and round cap, walked by the stable of the old French barracks of St. Nicholas, built on the site of a convent, now called by the Germans "Nikolaus Kaserne." He reached the iron gate, saluted the officer, exchanged a few words with him, and advanced towards a group of about a dozen young men, volunteers for a year's service, who were standing at the end of the courtyard, under the clock. Cavalry men in undress—light blue tunic with yellow braid, black trousers, and flat caps—moved here and there over vast, level, dusty grounds. A detachment of cavalry, lance at shoulder, had taken up their station to the left by one of the stables, waiting their officer's command to take the road.
"Herr Sergeant," said Jean, approaching the non-commissioned officer, carefully dressed, but of vulgar appearance, who, with a protecting and pretentious manner, was waiting for him by the group of volunteers. "I am one of the volunteers for the year."
The sergeant, who had very long black moustaches, which he never ceased twirling between the thumb and first finger, asked his christian and surname, and compared them with the names and surnames on the list he held in his hand.
Meanwhile, secretly intimidated by the supposed wealth of those he received, eager to please them, but anxious lest they should discover it, the sergeant looked the volunteer up and down, as though seeking some physical defect, anything in fact which might make this Alsatian civilian ridiculous in the eyes of a non-commissioned officer.
"Join the others," he said, when his examination was finished.
The others were for the most part Germans, who, judging by the different types, had come from all parts of the Empire. They had dressed carefully, so as to show their comrades, volunteers like themselves, and the soldiers in the barracks, that in civil life they were men who belonged to wealthy families.
They wore patent leather shoes, kid gloves, yellow or tan, elegant ties, valuable neck-pins. Each man introduced himself to his future comrades. "Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Furbach, my name is Blossmann." Jean knew none of them. He merely bowed without giving his name. What did it matter to him who was to be their comrade for this one day only?
He took his place to the left of the group, his mind far away from the St. Nicholas barrack, while the whispered question, "Who is he—an Alsatian?" went the round of his comrades.
The easy-going smiled amiably, others put themselves on the defensive, and with the rivalry of racial instinct, drew themselves up and fixed their hard blue eyes upon the new-comer with an unflinching stare.
Two other volunteers arrived, and the sergeant, as the clock struck, preceded the fifteen young men up the staircase, and marshalled them into a room on the second floor, where the medical examination was to take place. At eight o'clock the volunteers were again in the courtyard, no longer grouped as the fancy took them, but drawn up in two files, the sergeant in attendance. They were awaiting the colonel. Jean's neighbour was a tall, beardless youth, son of a manufacturer of Fribourg, with bright eyes, and smooth cheeks, which bore, however, two scars, one near the nose, and one under the right eye, souvenirs of his duels as a student. Seeing Jean Oberlé's dreamy, reserved look, he put it down to timidity caused by his new surroundings, and took upon himself the office of guide.
Whilst the Alsatian, his arms behind his back, his pale, strong face turned to the gate, watched the people of Strasburg crossing the street in the October sun, his companion endeavoured to arouse his interest in the inhabitants of the barracks.
"You were wrong not to do as I did: I got introductions to several officers, and even know several of the chief quartermasters. There, do you see the wachtmeister coming out of the stable; that's Stubel, hard drinker, great eater, good sort; that other one who is watching us from the end of the courtyard, the man with a little red moustache, do you see? That's Gottfried Hamm—a bad sort."
"You know him?"
"Yes."
"Attention!" called the sergeant. "Eyes right!", He himself marched ten quick steps forward, halted with head erect, his arms hanging straight at each side, his left hand gripping his sabre below the guard. He had caught sight of an officer advancing towards them with deliberate step, wrapped in his grey cloak, the mere sight of whom had scattered some twenty hussars, who had been leaning against the walls sunning themselves. The colonel stopped before the first file of young men, the hope of the German reserve army. He was sanguine, bustling, and energetic, a very good cavalry-man, broad-shouldered, with thin legs, hair almost black, and eyes fierce in the interests of the service.
"These, Colonel," said the sergeant, "are the volunteers for a year's service."
The colonel frowned immediately, and fixing his eyes on each of these young men in turn, said severely:
"You are privileged. You are dispensed from more than a year's service. Be worthy of it. Be an example to the soldiers; remember that you will be their chiefs later. No breaking of rules, no larking, no wearing of civilian dress. I shall punish severely."
He asked for the list of volunteers. Seeing Jean's name he mentally connected it with Lieutenant von Farnow's.
"Volunteer Oberlé," he called out.
Oberlé stepped out of the ranks. Without relaxing the severity of his expression, the colonel fixed his eyes for a few moments on the young man's face, thinking to himself that here was the brother of the Lucienne Oberlé whose hand he had allowed Lieutenant Farnow to ask in marriage.
"That's right," he said; and saluting rapidly he walked away, his grey cloak swelling with the north wind.
As he disappeared, a lieutenant in the 1st regiment, adjutant-major of the Rhenish Hussars, a well-made, distinguished-looking man, bearing himself in the correct military style, a perfect man of the world, came towards the group of volunteers, and read an order assigning to each one his appointed place in such and such a company and squadron. Jean was to join the 3rd company of the 2nd squadron.
"No luck," murmured his neighbour: "that's Gottfried Hamm's company."
Henceforward the fifteen volunteers were part of the army; each one had his allotted place in that well-disciplined multitude, their responsible chiefs, the right to demand a uniform from such and such a depot, a horse from such and such a stable. To this they now turned their attention. Jean and his chance companion, son of a librarian of Leipzig, made their way to the top floor of the barrack, entered the clothing-stores and received their uniforms, leaving behind various articles, such as cavalry cloaks and pairs of boots, which the kammer-sergeant was pleased to accept for himself as a token of welcome, or undertook to remit to certain non-commissioned officers of the company. It was a long business, and did not finish till past ten. Then there was a visit to the principal brusher's room, where there was the little wardrobe of white wood, used henceforth in common by the volunteer and the soldier; and there was still the visit to the stable sergeant, whose duty it was to assign to each his horse and second brusher; then another to the regimental tailor; it was past midday when Jean was able to leave the barracks and lunch hastily.
For this first day the volunteers were dispensed from returning to barracks at one o'clock. It was only after the horses had been groomed that they made their appearance simultaneously as arranged between themselves, radiant in their shining new uniforms, before the curious gaze of the cavalry, and the jealous scrutiny of the non-commissioned officers who examined, as they passed, the cut and quality of their uniforms, the style of their collars and braid, the lustre of their shining boots. Among the young men there was only one who remained a stranger to the self-complacency of the others. He was thinking of a telegram which he should have received by now, of which the terms of the pre-arranged code floated before his eyes all the afternoon. This was his only thought. Anxiety at not hearing news of his uncle Ulrich's departure, nervousness mixed with a certain defiance which, in anticipation of the morrow, he mentally hurled at the authority to which he at present bowed, prevented the young man from feeling fatigue. It was half-past eight before the exercises for man and horse were concluded, and then some of the volunteers were so tired that they sought their beds, supperless. Jean did likewise, but for a different reason. He went at once to the Rue des Balayeurs.
The landlady met him at the door:
"There is a telegram for you, M. Oberlé."
Jean went to his room, lit a candle, and read the unsigned telegram awaiting him:
"All is well."
This meant that all was ready for next day, that M. Ulrich had made all necessary preparations. The dice were cast; on the 2nd October, in a few hours, Jean would leave the barracks of Alsace. Although he never hesitated for a moment, yet, upon reading the words which settled his fate, the young man was overcome by emotion. The reality of separation entered his soul more bitterly, and being physically weary, he wept.
He had thrown himself on his bed fully dressed, his face buried in his pillow; he thought of all his friends who remained behind in Alsace, whilst he was an exile for ever; he could hear their exclamations of pity or indignation when the news reached Alsheim; he saw the girl he loved, the radiant Odile of Easter Eve, become the despairing woman who had clung to him in the moment of farewell, guessing all, yet begging for an answer he could not give. All this was necessary, irreparable. The night passed slowly. Silence reigned in the streets. Jean realised that he would soon need all his moral energy, and endeavoured to lay aside vain visions and regrets, repeating to himself over and over again the plans settled between himself and his uncle at their last interview, which he was to carry out in every detail to-day.
Yes, to-day, for the neighbouring cocks were beginning to crow. It was not possible to leave by an early train. The rendezvous at the barracks was fixed for four o'clock, while the first train for Schirmeck left Strasburg at 5.48; he would not reach Russ-Hersbach until after seven, and to take it was a great risk. The absence of a volunteer would be noticed in less than three hours, and the alarm given. Uncle Ulrich and Jean had come to the conclusion that the most sure means of crossing the frontier without arousing suspicion was to take the train which left Strasburg at 12.10 a.m., that is to say, whilst the volunteers were at lunch.
"I have been over the ground to make sure," said M. Ulrich: "I am sure of my calculations. You will reach Russ-Hersbach at twenty-one minutes past one, a trap will take us to Schirmeck in a quarter of an hour. We turn to the right and reach Grande Fontaine half an hour later. There we leave the trap, and, thanks to our good legs, we can reach French ground by two forty-five or fifty. There I leave you and return."
It was important to catch the 12.10 train, which would be an easy matter, as the volunteers were usually free by eleven.
Jean fell asleep at last, but not for long. Before four in the morning he was again at the barracks.
The short repose he had taken had restored his strength of will. Like most energetic people, Jean was nervous beforehand, but when the moment of action came difficulties vanished. While the horses were being groomed, and during the exercises, which lasted till close on eleven, he was perfectly calm. His attitude was even less reserved and detached than on the previous day, and his Saxon comrade remarked upon it.
"Already at home?" he inquired.
Jean smiled. He looked upon buildings, officers, and soldiers, all the pomp of the German army, with the same feelings as a school-boy set at liberty looks on the professors and pupils of his college. He already felt detached from his surroundings, and observed with a certain amused curiosity the scenes he would never see again.
About eleven he saw at the head of a detachment of Hussars, Lieutenant Farnow ride into the barracks, superb in his youth and military splendour. The horses were splashed with mud from their ride, and the men, tired out, only awaited the signal to halt, that they might curse the day's exercises. Not in the least weary, Farnow rode into the courtyard with as much pleasure as though he had been invited to a hunting party, and was expecting the signal to start. "There's my sister's future husband," thought Jean; "we shall never see one another again, and if war breaks out, he is my enemy."
He saw the vision of a tall cavalry chief, charging across a dusty plain, rising in his stirrups, nostrils distended, shouting out orders. Farnow, not suspecting the distraction he was causing the young volunteer, just let his blue eyes linger a minute on the latter's face. He moved off, followed by his men, to the farther side of the courtyard. A brief word of command was heard, then the clashing of arms, and silence. The exercises were prolonged another half hour, to satisfy the instructor's zeal. At half-past eleven Jean was rushing up the staircase, knowing that there was barely time to catch the train, when one of the men of his company called out:
"There's no time to go out; we have a review at midday: it's the captain's orders."
Jean continued on up the stairs, not paying the slightest attention to this obstacle raised at the last minute. His mind was made up. He was going to leave. He would meet his uncle at Russ-Hersbach, who would be waiting there with a carriage. Jean's one thought was to reach the station. He changed hurriedly, and mixing with a group of men belonging to other companies, and who had no reason to remain in barracks, he had no difficulty in getting away. When he was in the street, some yards away from the guard-house, on the pavement of the rue des Balayeurs he began to run. The clock stood at seventeen minutes to twelve. Was there time to run the three hundred yards which lay between him and his apartments, change into civilian dress and catch the 12.10? It was some distance to the station. On the other hand there was great risk in attempting to cross the frontier in uniform. While he was running Jean thought it would be simple to change in the train or at Russ-Hersbach. Entering the hall, he called breathlessly to his landlady:
"I am in a great hurry. Will you call a cab? I will be down in a minute."
Three minutes later he ran down carrying a bag into which he had thrown his civilian clothes, which he had left ready on his bed. He jumped into the cab, giving as address, "Rue de la Mésange," but at the next corner he called out: "Drive with all speed to the station, coachman."
He reached the station a minute before the time, got his ticket for Russ-Hersbach, and jumped into a first-class compartment, which contained two other passengers. A minute later the train had entered the tunnel under the fortifications, reappeared, and steamed away to the west, across the plains of Alsace.
At the same moment the captain, who was holding the review in the courtyard, caught sight of one of the volunteers attached to his company, and turning to the wachtmeister said: "Where is the other?"
"I have not seen him, Captain," Hamm replied, and turning to the young Saxon, Oberlé's comrade: "Do you know where he is?"
"He went out after the exercises, sir, and has not returned."
"I won't punish him this time," growled the captain; "no doubt he misunderstood, but speak to him in my name when he returns, Hamm; don't forget."
There was no immediate alarm, but when the men again assembled at one o'clock for the grooming of the horses, which went on every afternoon from one to two o'clock, Jean's absence could not fail to be noticed. The whole length of the wall outside the stables, horses tethered to iron rings were being brushed down by men, amongst whom were the volunteers receiving a lesson in the art. The sergeants looked on nonchalantly when the wachtmeister of the 3rd Company came out of his office, and made his way to the south side of the court, where Oberlé should have been. He bit his red moustache as his eyes wandered up and down the ranks.
"Oberlé has not come back?" he asked. The same man as before replied:
"When he left the barracks he ran towards his apartments."
"Did you see him in the mess-room?"
"He did not lunch with us."
"That'll do," said the wachtmeister.
Hamm turned away briskly. The expression of his face and eyes showed that he considered the situation serious. Serious for Oberlé, but equally serious for himself. Neither the captain nor the lieutenant was in barracks at the moment. If there was trouble the captain would not fail to ask why he had not been warned. Hamm crossed the courtyard, thinking over what he ought to do, and recalling a remark of the brigadier of Obernai. When Gottfried was at Obernai a fortnight before, he had said to him: "You are going to have Oberlé's son in your regiment. Keep an eye on him. I shall be surprised if he does not create some disturbance. He is the counterpart of his grandfather, a madman who hates Germans, and who is quite capable of any folly."
But before taking zealous action it was necessary to know some details. This was easy: the rue des Balayeurs faced the gateway. Hamm brushed his blue tunic with his hand, left the barracks, and made his way to a large house on the left with green shutters.
"Left in a cab, before midday, carrying a bag," was the answer Jean's landlady gave him.
"What address did he give?"
"Rue de la Mésange."
"Any number?"
"I don't know; anyway I heard none."
Hamm's suspicions became more definite. The wachtmeister no longer hesitated. He hastened to the captain's quarters in the Herderstrasse.
The captain was out.
Disappointed and warm from his sharp walk, Hamm took a short cut to the barracks, through the University gardens. He suddenly remembered that close by in the rue Grandidier, lived Lieutenant Farnow. It is true the lieutenant did not belong to the 2nd squadron, but Hamm knew of his engagement. It had been talked of among the officers. He made his way to the superb stone house and mounted to the first floor.
"The lieutenant is dressing," replied the orderly to his question.
Von Farnow in shirt and trousers was dressing before paying certain calls, and going to the officers' casino. In trousers and shirt he was leaning over his toilet-table with its bevelled glass, washing his face. The room was perfumed with eau-de-cologne, brushes and manicure set were strewn round him. He turned as the door opened, his face all wet.
"What is the matter, Hamm?" he cried, seizing a towel.
"I took upon myself to call upon you, lieutenant, as the captain is not there, and Oberlé——"
"Oberlé? What has he done?" Farnow interrupted nervously.
"He has not put in an appearance since half-past eleven this morning."
Farnow, who was drying his face, threw down the towel violently on the table, and approached the non-commissioned officer. He remembered Madame Oberlé's fears. "He thinks as I do," thought Hamm.
"Has not come back? Have you been to the rue des Balayeurs?"
"Yes, lieutenant; he left the house in a cab at ten minutes to twelve."
The young lieutenant felt as though death's icy hand was on his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment, and with a violent effort regained his composure.
"There is only one thing to do, Hamm," he said. He was deadly pale, but not a muscle of his face quivered. "You must warn your captain, and he will do what is prescribed in such cases."
Farnow turned calmly, and looked at the ornamental clock on his desk.
"One-forty—you must be quick."
The wachtmeister saluted and withdrew.
The lieutenant ran to the adjoining study, and asked to be connected with the Strasburg station. Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang, and he learnt that a volunteer of the 9th Hussars, in uniform, had reached the station at the last moment with a valise portmanteau and taken a first-class ticket to Russ-Hersbach.
"It's impossible," exclaimed Farnow, throwing himself on to the sofa; "there must be some mistake Russ-Hersbach is almost on the frontier. Jean would not desert—he is in love; he must be at Alsheim—he must at least have wanted to see Odile again. I must find out."
"Hermann," he called, rapping with his knuckles on the mahogany table.
The orderly, a stolid German, opened the door.
"Saddle my horse and yours immediately."
Farnow was soon ready; he hastened downstairs, found the horses waiting, crossed Strasburg, and once past the fortifications, spurred his horse to a sharp trot.
As he neared Alsheim, Jean's desertion seemed to him more credible. Every detail of his conversation with Madame Oberlé came back to him, and other reasons as well for believing the calamity against which his imperious will was fighting desperately. "He does not understand Germany; he was glorying in it at Councillor Brausig's. And then his disunited family—a disunion increased by my engagement. But then he is himself engaged, or almost; and characters like his, French characters, must be dominated by love. No; I shall find him there—or have news of him."
It was warm; the long dusty road stretched from village to village, without shade, a thin line between the fields, now bare of their crops. The sky hung over them like brass, on the horizon banks of motionless clouds rose above the Vosges, throwing out rays of light. The horses, covered with sweat, continued to gallop. Under the scattered walnut-trees, among the stubble, children raised their switches and shouted as the riders passed them.
"Is the lieutenant crazy?" thought Hermann; "he is going faster and faster."
Farnow's anguish increased as he drew nearer his destination. "If I do not find him," he murmured, "supposing he has——"
Obernai was passed on the right. A sign-post at the cross roads pointed to Alsheim, and soon the blue roof of the Oberlés' house appeared among the green.
"Lucienne, Lucienne, Lucienne!"
The house seemed to slumber in the heavy heat of the autumn day, the silence being broken only by a feeble, monotonous voice. Seated near grandfather Oberlé's chair, in the room which the invalid could never hope to leave, Madame Oberlé was reading aloud the Journal d'Alsace, which the postman had just delivered.
Through the open window her voice could be heard murmuring as though engaged in the rhythmic recital of the rosary. In the billiard-room above, that which was still called Jean's room, M. Joseph Oberlé was dozing behind the curtain, on his knees lay several letters, and a copy of the Strasburger Post. At the end of the room Lucienne could be seen writing at a Louis XVI. desk.
"Monsieur? Monsieur Oberlé?"
Joseph Oberlé jumped up and threw open the door, which was ajar, meeting the concierge running towards him.
"Why do you call me; you know I don't like——"
He remained speaking with the man for a minute, and returned smiling.
"My Lucienne, Herr von Farnow is waiting for you at the park gate."
She rose, blushing.
"Why doesn't he come in?"
"It appears that he is on horseback, and in a great hurry. Perhaps he dares not. Go and fetch him, my darling; tell him from me that there shall be no disturbance, that I will prevent any further scenes."
With a gesture he implied that he would bolt all the doors sooner, especially that of the room whence came the monotonous voice reading the paper.
She looked in the glass, arranging her hair. He repeated:
"Run, my treasure; he is asking for you. If you don't return quickly I'll come for you."
She nodded, and ran down the steps two at a time. She walked rapidly down the avenue, happy, yet troubled, her mouth slightly open, her eyes seeking Farnow.
At the end of the avenue she caught sight of the two steaming horses on the road held by the orderly, and almost at the same moment the lieutenant came towards her.
Farnow's usually pale face was flushed, his expression troubled; he hastened, but with no sign of joy, towards Lucienne, who came half running to meet him, trying to laugh.
"How are you, Wilhelm? What a nice surprise!"
The lieutenant raised his hat, but made no reply. He took her hand, and drew her aside; he did not raise it to his lips; no accustomed words of admiration came from him; his eyes were hard and feverish, and he drew her near the wood-yard close by.
Lucienne continued to smile bravely, though her heart was heavy with painful dread.
"Where are you taking me? Who is this churlish friend, who won't even say good day? You, so particular——"
"Come, we shan't be seen here," he said; he drew her behind a pile of wood into a kind of retreat formed by three unequal piles of planks. Farnow dropped Lucienne's hand.
"Is Jean here? Be careful; is he at Alsheim?"
His eyes expressed his anguish, his manner an imperious will struggling against calamity.
"No; he is not here," replied Lucienne simply.
"You expect him, then?"
"No."
"Then we are lost, mademoiselle, lost!"
"Mademoiselle?"
"Yes; if he is not here he has deserted."
"Ah!" The young girl recoiled, supporting herself against the wood, her eyes haggard, her arms outstretched.
"Deserted? Lost? Can't you see that you are killing me with such words? Do you really mean Jean? Deserted! Are you sure?"
"Since he is not here, I am convinced of it. He took a ticket for Russ-Hersbach—do you understand, Russ-Hersbach? He must be across the frontier. He left Strasburg more than three hours ago." He laughed harshly, angrily, beside himself with misery.
"Don't you remember? He swore to your mother he would go to the barracks. He did go. To-day the time for his promise expired, and he deserted. And now...."
"Yes ... now?"
Lucienne asked no proof. She believed it. Her bosom heaved; she let go her hold on the wood, and joined her hands beseechingly. She was obliged to repeat her question; Farnow stood motionless, grief-stricken. "What shall you do now, Wilhelm?"
Farnow drew himself up in his dusty uniform; his brow was contracted.
"I must leave you," he said in a low voice."
"Leave me, because my brother has deserted?"
"Yes."
"But this is madness!"
"It is my duty as a soldier."
"Then you do not love me?"
"Love you. Ah!... But honour forbids me to marry you. I cannot become the brother-in-law of a deserter. I am an officer, a von Farnow!"
"Well, cease to be an officer and continue to love me," cried Lucienne, holding out her arms to the rigid figure in blue. "Wilhelm, true honour consists in loving me, Lucienne Oberlé, in keeping the promise you made me! Leave my brother to go his own way, but don't spoil our two lives."
Farnow could scarcely speak; the veins of his neck were swollen with his efforts for self-control.
"There is worse to come," he said at last, "you must know the truth, Lucienne. I must denounce him."
"Denounce him? Jean? You cannot. I forbid you!" cried Lucienne with a gesture of horror.
"I must do so. Military law compels me to do so."
"It is not true!—it is too cruel."
"I will prove it to you. Hermann!"
Hermann came forward in amazement.
"Listen. What is the article of the law relating to any person who has knowledge of a plan of desertion?"
The soldier collected his thoughts, and recited:
"Any one who shall have credible knowledge of a plan of desertion, when there is still time to frustrate it, and who does not give information thereof to his superiors, is liable to be imprisoned for ten months, and during war for three years."
"Quick! To horse!" cried Farnow. "We must start.
"Farewell, Lucienne."
She ran forward and seized his arm.
"No, no, you must not go; I shall not let you."
He gazed a moment on her tear-stained face, where ardent love and sorrow were mingled.
"You must not go! Do you hear?" she repeated.
Farnow lifted her from the ground, pressed her against his breast and kissed her passionately. By the despairing violence of his kiss, Lucienne realised it was indeed farewell.
He put her from him brusquely, ran to the gate, leapt to the saddle, and galloped away in the direction of Obernai.
CHAPTER XVI
IN THE FOREST OF THE MINIÈRES
Night was falling, but Jean was still on German soil. He was sleeping, worn out with fatigue; he lay stretched upon a bed of moss and fir cones, while M. Ulrich watched, on the look out for fresh danger, still trembling from the danger he had just escaped. The two men had crept into a space between two stacks of branches left by the wood-cutters, who had been thinning the fir-tree plantation. The branches, still green, stretched from one stack to the other, making their hiding-place more secure. A storm of wind blew across the mountain, but otherwise no sound could be heard upon the heights.
Two hours must have passed since Jean and his uncle had taken refuge in their hiding-place.
When the train reached Russ-Hersbach, M. Ulrich had at once seen and said that the moment for Jean to change his uniform had passed. Even such a little thing as that would have excited too much attention in that frontier province, peopled by visible and invisible watchers, where the stones listen and the fir-trees are spies. He threw the valise to the coachman of the landau engaged three days previously at Schirmeck.
"Here's some useless luggage," he cried, "fortunately it's not heavy. Drive quickly, coachman."
The carriage crossed the poverty-stricken village, reached the town of Schirmeck, and quitting there the principal valley turned to the right into the narrow winding valley leading to Grande Fontaine. No suspicious glances followed the travellers, but witnesses of their passing increased. And this was serious. Although Jean was sitting with his back to the driver, partially hidden by the blinds and partially by the cloak which M. Ulrich had thrown over him, yet there was no doubt the uniform of the 9th Hussars had been seen by two gendarmes in the streets of Schirmeck, by workmen on the road, and by the douanier who was smoking and had continued to smoke his pipe so tranquilly, sitting under the trees on the left of the first bridge by which one entered Grande Fontaine.
Every moment M. Ulrich thought, "Now the alarm will be given! Perhaps it has been already, and one of the state's innumerable agents will come up, question us, and insist upon our following them whatever we may say."
He did not tell Jean of his anxiety, and the young man, excited by the spirit of adventure, was quite different to the Jean of yesterday.
In spite of the steepness and stoniness of the path by the mountain stream, the horses made good headway, and soon the houses of Grande Fontaine came into sight. The beech-wood of Donon, all velvety and golden and crowned with firs, rose in front of them. At 2.15 the carriage stopped in the middle of the village, in a kind of sloping square, where a spring of water flows into a huge stone trough. The travellers got out, for here the carriage road ended.
"Wait for us at the inn of Rémy Naeger," said M. Ulrich; "we will go for a walk, and return in an hour. Drink a bottle of Molsheim wine at my expense, and give the horse a double portion of oats."
M. Ulrich and Jean, leaving on the right the path which mounts to Donon, immediately took the path to the left, a narrow road with houses, gardens, and hedges on either side, which connects Grande Fontaine with the last village of the upper valley, that of the Minières.
They had scarcely gone two hundred yards when they caught sight of the keeper of Mathiskop coming out of his house, in his green uniform and Tyrolese hat, descending towards them. Seeing that the man would be obliged to pass them on the road M. Ulrich was afraid.
"There is a uniform, Jean, which I don't care to meet at present. Let us go by the forest."
The forest was on the left. They were the fir woods of Mathiskop, and farther on those of the Corbeille, thickly wooded slopes rising higher and higher, where a hiding-place would be easy to discover. Jean and his uncle jumped the hedge, crossed some yards of meadow, and entered the shadow of the fir wood. It was none too soon; the military authorities had given the alarm; warning had been telephoned to all the different posts to keep a look out for the deserter Oberlé. The keeper they had seen had not yet received the warning, and passed out of sight, but M. Ulrich, by means of his old field-glass of Jena days, could see that there was excitement in the usually quiet valley, where a number of douaniers and gendarmes could be seen hurrying about. They also hurried to the Mathiskop forest, and the chase commenced.
M. Ulrich and Jean were not captured, but they had been sighted; they were tracked from wood to wood for more than an hour, and were prevented from reaching the frontier, to do which they would have been compelled to cross the open valley. M. Ulrich had the happy idea of climbing to the top of a stack of wood and letting himself down into the opening between two stacks, Jean followed his example. This had been their salvation, the gendarmes beat about the wood for some time, and then made off in the direction of Glacimont.
Night was falling, and Jean slept. Banks of clouds rose before the wind, and hastened the darkness. A flight of crows crossed their hiding-place, brushing the tree tops. The flapping of their wings woke M. Ulrich from the reverie into which he had fallen while contemplating his nephew dressed in the uniform of a German soldier, lying stretched on Alsatian soil. He rose and gingerly climbed to the top of the stack.
"Well, uncle," asked Jean, waking up, "what do you see?"
"Nothing, no gendarme's helmet, no douanier's cap," whispered M. Ulrich. "I think they have lost the scent; but with such persons one cannot be sure."
"And the valley of the Minières?"
"Appears to be deserted, my friend. No one on the roads, no one in the fields. The keeper himself must have gone home to supper—there is smoke coming from his chimney. How do you feel, boy—valiant?"
"If we are pursued, you'll soon see."
"I don't think we shall be. But the hour has come, my boy."
He added after a short interval, whilst he pretended to listen: "Come up whilst we lay some plan of campaign."
"You see below the village of the Minières?" asked M. Ulrich, as Jean's head appeared above the branches and turned towards the west.
"Yes."
"In spite of the mist and the darkness, can you make out that on the other side the mountain is covered partly with fir- and partly with beech-trees?"
"I guess it."
"We are going to make a half circle to avoid the gardens and fields of the Minières, and when we are just opposite that spot, you will only have to descend two hundred yards and you will be in France."
Jean made no answer.
"That's the spot I marked out for you. See that you recognise it. Over there round Raon-sur-Plaine, the Germans have kept all the forests for themselves; the barren lands they have left to France. On the opposite side, facing us, there is an extensive strip of meadow land which is French territory. I even saw a deserted farmhouse, abandoned before the war, I suppose. I'll go first."
"Excuse me, I'll go first."
"No; I assure you, my boy, that the danger is equally great behind. I must be guide. I go first; we'll avoid the pathways, and I will lead you carefully to a point where you have only one thing to do: go straight ahead and cross a road, then a few yards of underwood, and beyond is French soil."
M. Ulrich embraced Jean silently and quickly; he did not wish to lose control of himself, when all depended on calmness.
"Come," he said.
They commenced the descent under cover of the tall fir-trees which commenced just there. The slope was strewn with obstacles, against which Jean or his uncle frequently stumbled, moss-covered stones, fallen and rotten trunks, broken branches, like claws stretched out in the darkness to bar the way. Every moment M. Ulrich stopped to listen and would frequently look round, to make sure that Jean's tall form was close behind him—it was too dark to see his face.
"They'll be checkmated, uncle," whispered Jean.
"Not too fast, my Jean; we are not yet safe."
Still under cover, the fugitives reached the meadows of the Minières, and began to ascend the mountain opposite, but without quitting cover.
When M. Ulrich reached the summit he stopped and sniffed the wind, which blew more freely through the young trees.
"Do you smell the air of France?" he murmured, in spite of the danger of talking.
A plain stretched in front of them, but was invisible; they could distinguish the trees, which seemed like stationary smoke below, and above were the scurrying clouds. M. Ulrich cautiously began the descent, listening eagerly. An owl flew by. They had to make their way a short distance through a prickly undergrowth which clung to their clothes.
Suddenly a voice in the forest called:
"Halt!"
M. Ulrich stooped, his hand on Jean's shoulder.
"Don't move," he whispered quickly. "I'll call them off, by turning towards the Minières. As soon as they follow me, get up, run off, cross the road and then the little coppice—it's a straight line in front of you. Adieu."
He rose up, took a few steps cautiously, and then made off quickly through the woods.
"Halt! Halt!"
A report rang out, and as the noise died away under the branches M. Ulrich's voice, already some distance off, called:
"Missed."
At the same moment Jean Oberlé made a rush for the frontier. Head lowered, seeing nothing, his elbows squared, his chest lashed by the branches, he ran with all his might. He passed within a few inches of a man lying in ambush. The branches were pushed aside, a whistle was blown, Jean redoubled his efforts. He reached the road unawares; another report rang out on the edge of the wood. Jean rolled over on the edge of the copse. Cries arose:
"Here he is! Here he is! Come."
Jean jumped up instantly and dived into the wood. He thought he had stumbled over a rut. He leapt into the copse. But his legs shook under him. He felt with anguish a growing faintness overcoming him. The cries of his pursuers rang in his ears, everything swam before his eyes. He came upon an open space, felt the fresh wind on his face and lost consciousness.
Late at night he came to his senses. A storm was raging over the forest; he saw that he was lying on a bed of green boughs, in an empty room of the disused farm, lit by a small lantern. A man was bending over him. Jean realised that it was a French keeper. His first sensation of fear was dissipated by the man's welcome smile.
"Were other shots fired?" he inquired.
"No, no others."
"So much the better; then Uncle Ulrich is safe—he accompanied me to the frontier. I was in the army, but I have come to be a soldier in our own land."
Jean saw that his tunic had been taken off and that there was blood on his shirt. It hurt him to breathe.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked.
"You were hit in the shoulder," said the man, who would have wept if he had not been too ashamed to do so. "It'll heal; fortunately, my comrade and I were making our rounds when you stumbled into the field. The doctor will be here at break of day—don't be alarmed, my comrade has gone to fetch him. Who are you?"
Half conscious, Jean Oberlé replied: "Alsace——" but he could scarcely speak.
Rain was falling heavily; it hammered upon roof and doors, upon the trees and rocks surrounding the house. The tops of the trees shook and twisted in the storm like seaweed tossed upon the bosom of the ocean. The murmur of a million voices rose in harmony over the mountains, and thundered upon the night.
The wounded man listened—in his weakened state what did he hear? He smiled:
"It is France," he murmured; "she sings to me," and he fell back with closed eyes awaiting the dawn.
Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury, England.