The Son of Monte-Cristo

by Jules Lermina

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE VILLAGE.

  On the 1st of January, 1814, it was known that foreign forces hadinvaded France. It was a terrible surprise when fugitives passed throughthe villages crying, "Save yourselves, while there is yet time!"

  Mothers wept for their sons, wives for their husbands, sisters for theirbrothers!

  The winter was a severe one. The Vosges mountains and the villages inthe valleys were alike wrapped in snow.

  The inn which our readers already know at Leigoutte, presented a mostpicturesque appearance. The snow had been so heavy for several days thatthe woodcutters had not been up the mountains to bring down the wood,but this morning they had determined to make an attempt, and hadgathered before the inn with their long light sledges on theirshoulders. They seemed to be waiting for some one. "Can Simon be sick?"asked one of these men, finally.

  "Not he!" answered another. "He is at the school-room with the children,and he never knows when to leave them."

  "Oh! that is very well," grumbled a third, "but I think we had bettergo in and get a glass of wine, than wait here all this time."

  "Have a little patience, friend; if Simon teaches our children, it isthat they may be better off than their fathers, and not like them becompelled to die with cold and fatigue some day among the mountains!"

  "Well said, friend, well said!" called out a full rich voice.

  Every one turned. The door of the school-room was open, and he who hadspoken was standing with arms outspread to prevent the children fromrushing out too hastily on the slippery ice.

  "Not so quick, children," he cried. "You can't fly over the snow likelapwings."

  A boy of about ten repeated these words to the smaller children.

  "That is right, Jacques," said Simon, "begin early, for you may havethis school some day yourself!"

  "Good morning, Master Simon," said one of the woodcutters, taking offhis hat, "we were just saying that we should like something warm beforewe started."

  "And you are right. I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. I wasjust telling the children about a battle of the Republic at Valmy."

  "Take my arm, sir," cried one of the woodcutters. "That wooden leg ofyours is not very safe on the ice."

  "Am I not here?" asked Jacques, in a vexed voice, "can I not look outfor my father?"

  Simon laughed.

  "But why," he asked, "have you not asked for wine at the inn?"

  "Because we heard that the little girl was ill, sir--"

  "Oh! it is nothing of any consequence--there she is, as rosy and smilingas ever."

  When Simon's voice was heard, the inn awoke from its silence. A womanappeared on the threshold holding in her arms a pretty little creatureabout six years old.

  The mother was a simple peasant woman, wearing a peasant's dress. Shebegan to fill glasses for these woodcutters, who addressed her with acordial good morning.

  At this moment the door was hastily opened, and a man appeared on thethreshold. The woodcutters uttered a cry of surprise. The man was asoldier, who leaned against the wall and did not speak.

  Simon hurried forward. "You are welcome, comrade," he exclaimed.

  The man turned pale, and but for Simon's support, he would have fallenon the floor.

  "Francoise, a chair!" cried the innkeeper.

  The soldier had his head wrapped in a blue handkerchief, and drops ofblood were upon his cheek. His uniform was in rags, and a linen bandagewas wrapped around one leg.

  The men looked on with terrified respect while Simon tried to make himdrink a glass of wine, and signed to Jacques to take off the soldier'sshoes, now covered with snow.

  The soldier uttered a deep sigh of relief. He was a peasant of aboutforty, although his moustache was gray. His features bore the traces ofsuffering and privations.

  "Some brandy!" he gasped.

  Little Francinette carried the glass to him. He drank it, looking thewhile at the child with admiration and sad envy. Then taking her on hisknee, he looked around him at the honest faces, and said:

  "My name is Michel--Michel Charmoze. There are thirty of us down on theroad, all wounded, in a big wagon. The horses have fallen, one is dead,and we have come for help."

  The woodcutters looked from one to the other in amazement.

  "What!" cried the soldier, "do you know nothing in this land of snow? Ihave been fighting three months on the Rhine. The Emperor has desertedus. All is over!"

  The peasants listened in a stupefied sort of way. Only the vaguestrumors had as yet reached the peasants that Napoleon's star had begun topale. Simon knew it, but he had held his peace.

  "Where are the wounded?" he asked, quietly.

  "A quarter of a league down the road."

  "My friends," said Simon, "we have no horses, but your arms are strong.You must save these Frenchmen!"

  "We are ready!" shouted twenty voices.

  "Father, may I go, too?" asked Jacques, eagerly.

  "Yes," said Simon, kindly. "You may go, and take some brandy with you."

  The woodcutters took also shovels, sticks and ropes.

  "When they come back," said Simon to his wife, "you must have a goodmeal ready. Carry straw into the school-room, tear up your old sheetsinto bandages, and send to Wisembach for the doctor."

  "But the child--what am I to do with her?" asked Francoise, timidly.

  "Oh! I will look out for her," cried the soldier. "I had a little girlof my own, but since I have been away, both mother and child have died!"

  Simon and Michel were alone for a few moments. The little girl still saton the soldier's knee, gravely enlarging one of the holes in his uniformwith her busy little fingers.

  "Then the invaders are in France?" said Simon.

  "They are, indeed, but they won't stay long--be sure of that!"

  "What army is it that is advancing in this direction?" asked Simon.

  "Schwartzemberg's, with Russians, Prussians and Austrians."

  "How far off are they?"

  "Not more than ten leagues. We were nearly overtaken by them. They wouldnot have got thus far had we not been betrayed by everybody. Those dogsof Royalists have felt no shame to be seen with these enemies ofFrance!"

  Simon started.

  "Do you mean," he asked sternly, "that the emigres have dared----"

  "Yes, they have dared to do just that!" and Michel swore a frightfuloath. "I believe that there are Frenchmen who would lead these savageson, to roast and kill their own mothers!"

  Simon had become deadly pale.

  "Yes," continued the soldier. "Let me tell you about this wound." And hetore off the handkerchief around his head. His eyes at that moment fellon Simon's wooden leg, which he had not before seen. "Ah! you are one ofus, then?" exclaimed Michel.

  Simon nodded. "Go on with your story, my friend," he said.

  "Well, we had just crossed the Rhine, and were getting on famously whenwe saw the detachment that had attacked us. I knew by their caps thatthey were Russians. We sheltered ourselves behind a wall, and then welet fly. I tell you, that was a fight! In front of me was a tall fellowwho fought like the very devil. I pricked him with a bayonet, and heopened his arms wide and yelled--good Lord! I hear that yell now--'I amkilled! Here! help for Talizac!' He shot at me the same moment. Now,friend, was not that a French name? But what is the matter with you?"

  Simon had dropped into a chair. He was as white as a sheet, and his eyeswere fixed on vacancy.

  The soldier looked at him for a moment. "Come!" he said, "give meanother glass, and we will drink to our country!"

  At this moment Francoise came in hurriedly.

  "Simon!" she cried, "the peasants are coming here from every direction.They say that the foreigners are coming this way, and they bid us fly!"

  Simon went to the door. Francoise had spoken the truth. On all the roadsand on all the mountain paths crowds were seen of men, women andchildren.

  If the rout of an army is terrible, that of a people is infinitely moreso. This
flight from home and fireside is sad beyond expression. Thesepeasants were running, carrying on their shoulders all that they heldmost precious. Their houses had been searched, for these peasants hadserved in the rising of '92, and they probably had arms. An old man wasshot for concealing a pistol. At another place brutes had insulted thewomen, and burned the cottages deserted by the fugitives. This was theday that Napoleon Bonaparte had replied to the _corps legislatif_, whosupplicated him to return to the people their lost liberty: "France is aman!--I am that man--with my will, my fame, and my power!"

  The woodcutters now returned, dragging the huge wagon they had dug outof the snow-drifts. Simon rapidly explained to several peasants thepreparations he had made, and under his instructions they hastened toremove the wounded from the wagon. It was a terrible sight--eleven outof the twenty-eight were dead. But in fifteen minutes the living werelying on the fresh straw spread in the school-room, and Simon and hiswife were going from one to another of these poor sufferers, alleviatingtheir sufferings as far as possible. Suddenly a great noise was heardwithout, followed by the most profound silence. Simon started.

  "What was that!" he asked, quickly.

  The door opened, and Michel appeared.

  "The Cossacks!" he cried. "Come, Master Simon, come!"

  Simon obeyed, signing to his wife to take his place. He went outside,and beheld some twenty men mounted on thin but vigorous-looking horses.The men were of medium height, bearded like goats and ugly as monkeys.They wore loose robes fastened into the waists with red scarfs. On theirheads were high cylindrical caps. Some wore over their shoulders cloaksof bear skins. Their high saddles formed boxes in which they could packaway their booty. They looked down on the crowd with small, twinklingeyes set far in under bushy brows and low foreheads. At their head wasan officer in the Austrian uniform.

  The crowd fled to the further end of the open space, and the womenclasped their crying children to their breasts. Simon walked directlytoward the officer.

  "Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked, politely but firmly.

  The officer did not seem to hear him--he was looking intently at theinn. Simon repeated his question, this time in German. The Austrian thenconcluded to look at him.

  "Is this village Leigoutte?" he asked. "And is that your inn?" And thesoldier pointed to the inn.

  "What business is that of yours?" asked Simon, who by this time hadbecome excessively angry.

  "Give my men something to drink."

  Simon clenched his hands as he replied:

  "I never give anything to the enemies of my country!"

  The Cossacks understood him and uttered a groan.

  "We shall take it by force, then!" said the officer, spurring his horsetoward Simon, but the latter pulled out a pistol and pointed it at theAustrian.

  "One step further!" he shouted, "and I will blow out your brains!"

  The Austrian pulled up his steed, and saying a few words to his men,they turned their horses and departed.

  "We shall see you again!" shouted the Austrian, over his shoulder.

  The peasants uttered a shout of joy, but Simon was very thoughtful.

  "Why," said he, to himself, "should there be a reconnoissance expresslyfor this village?"

  The men now crowded around Simon.

  "You frightened them well!" they said. "How ugly they are!" Theylaughed, and seemed to think all danger was past.

  Simon and Michel exchanged a look, then the former raised his hand tocommand silence.

  "My friends," he said, "they will return, and bring many more with them.Those among you who are not afraid to fight, may remain with me. But wemust see at once about a place of safety for the women and children. Itwill be easy for twenty or thirty of us to keep these invaders fromcoming to this point again, for we know each mountain path. We havearms, for I long since concealed one hundred guns in my house, andthese mountains--the ramparts of France, shall become inaccessiblecitadels. The enemy will approach in a compact column; we must send outscouts who will keep us informed. It is too late to-day for the attackto take place. Two of you will go to the neighboring villages and givethe alarm. We will meet to-morrow at the Iron Cross. And remember,children, that in '92, as to-day, the invaders threatened France, andyour fathers drove them out. May the children of those men be worthy ofthem!"

  "But about the women and children?" asked Michel.

  "They must be hidden in the farm-houses up the mountains. The woundedare protected by the code of war. Courage, then, and shout with me Vivela France!"

  These words aroused immense enthusiasm for a few minutes.

  Simon felt a hand on his; it was Francoise, with her little girl in herarms, and Jacques at her side.

  "We shall not leave you, Simon," said his wife. "But I wish to speak toyou a moment."

  Simon looked at her in surprise. Then turning to Michel, "You willcomplete the arrangements. Jacques will show you where the arms arestored."

  "Rely on us, Simon!" shouted the peasants. "We will do our duty!"