FOOTNOTES: (continued 2)

Catherine had resumed her former attitude; but her cheeks, just now as lifeless as a plaster mask, shook violently; her eye was again covered with a dreamy film. All the others listened; it might have been said that their existence hung upon her lips. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed, when the old woman slowly continued:

"They have crossed the enemy's lines. They are hastening to Lutzelbourg. I see them. Gaspard and Divès are in front, with Desmarets, Ulrich, Weber, and our friends from the city. They come! They come!"

She was silent anew; a long while yet she listened; but the vision was gone. Seconds succeeded to seconds, slow as centuries, when suddenly Hexe-Baizel began to say, in a sharp voice:

"She is mad! she has seen nothing. Marc, I know him. He is laughing finely at us. What is it to him if we perish? Provided he has his bottle of wine and chitterlings, and can smoke his pipe quietly in the chimney-corner, it's all the same to him. Ah! the wretch!"

Then all relapsed into silence, and the unfortunates, a moment revived by the hope of a near deliverance, fell back again into despair.

"It is a dream," thought they; "Hexe-Baizel is right; we are condemned to die of hunger."

In the meantime, night was come. When the moon rose behind the tall fir-trees, casting her pale rays on the sorrowful groups of the besieged, Hullin only was still watching, though burnt up with fever. He heard far, very far off in the gorges the voices of the German sentinels calling out "Wer dà! Wer dà!" the camp patrols going their rounds through the woods, the shrill neighing of the horses at picket, their stamping, and the shouts of their keepers. Towards midnight the brave man ended, however, by going to sleep like the rest. When he awoke, the village clock of Charmes was striking four. Hullin, at the sound of its distant vibrations, aroused himself from his stupor; he opened his eyelids, and as he was looking round, in a sort of bewildered manner, striving to recover his faculties, the dim light of a torch passed before his eyes; a fear came over him, and he said to himself:—"Am I going mad? The night is quite dark, and yet I see torches."

And yet the flame re-appeared; he regarded it more closely, then rose abruptly, pressing for a few seconds his hand against his contracted face. Then, hazarding another look, he saw distinctly a fire on the Giromani, on the other side of the Blanru; a fire which swept the heavens with its purple wing, and flickered among the shadows of the fir-trees on the snow. And, recollecting that this signal had been agreed on between himself and Piorette to announce an attack, he began to tremble from head to foot; cold drops of sweat stood on his face, and walking on tiptoe through the darkness, like a blind man, with outstretched hands, he stammered:

"Catherine! Louise! Jerôme!"

But no one replied to him, and after having groped about in this way, thinking he was walking, while in reality he was not taking a single step, the unhappy man fell back, exclaiming:

"My children! Catherine! They come! We are saved!"

Immediately there was heard a vague murmur; it seemed as if the dead were re-awakening. There was a burst of dry laughter; it was Hexe-Baizel, gone mad from suffering. Then Catherine exclaimed:

"Hullin! Hullin! Who spoke?"

Jean-Claude, recovered from his emotion, exclaimed, in a firmer tone:

"Jerôme, Catherine, Materne, and you all, are you dead? Do you not see that fire down there, on the side of the Blanru? It is Piorette, who is coming to our assistance."

And, at the very same moment, a loud explosion rolled through the gorges of the Jægerthâl with the sound of a tempest. The trumpet of the last judgment would not have produced more effect on the besieged; they suddenly awoke.

"It is Piorette! It is Marc!" was screeched by voices, broken, dry—voices of mere skeletons; "they come to save us!"

And all these poor wretches strove to rise; some sobbed; but they had no more tears. A second explosion brought them to their feet.

"Surely that is platoon firing," exclaimed Hullin; "our people fire also in platoons; we have soldiers of the line; hurrah for France!"

"Yes," replied Jerôme, "Dame Catherine was right; the Phalsbourgians are coming to our relief; they are descending the hills of the Sarre, and there is Piorette, now heading the attack on the Blanru."

In effect, the firing began to resound from both sides at once, towards the plateau of the Bois-des-Chênes and the towering heights of the Kilbéri.

Then the two leaders embraced each other; and as they walked on tiptoe through the thick darkness, trying to gain the edge of the rock, all of a sudden Materne's voice was heard, loudly exclaiming:

"Take care, my lads, the precipice is there!"

They stopped, looking down at their feet; but there was nothing to be seen; a gust of cold air coming up from the abyss alone warned you of the danger. All the mountain tops and the surrounding gorges were plunged in thick darkness. On the sides of the mountain opposite, the lights from the firing flashed like lightnings, illuminating now an old oak, the dark outline of a rock, now a cluster of furze bushes, and groups of men going and coming as in the midst of a fire. Two thousand feet below, in the depth of the gorges, were heard heavy sounds, the gallop of horses, confused clamours mingling with the word of command. At times the cry of the mountaineer hailing, that prolonged cry, echoing from one mountain top to the other, "He! oh! he!" rose to the topmost height of the Falkenstein like a sigh.

"It is Marc," said Hullin; "it is the voice of Marc."

"Yes, it is Marc who is bidding us keep up our courage," replied Jerôme.

All the others, crouching round them, with outstretched neck, and hands grasping the edge of the rock, strained their eyes to see. The firing continued with a vivacity which betrayed the fierceness of the battle, but it was impossible to see anything. Oh, what would they have given to take part in this supreme conflict, the unfortunates! With what ardour would they have thrown themselves into the fray! The dread of being again abandoned, of seeing at daylight their defenders in retreat, rendered them dumb with fear.

Meanwhile, day was beginning to dawn; the first pale glimmer of light was breaking over the dark tops of the mountains; some rays descended into the shadowy valleys; half-an-hour after they silvered the misty vapours of the abyss. Hullin, casting a look through these breaks in the clouds, was able at length to recognise the position. The Germans had lost the heights of the Valtin and the plateau of Bois-des-Chênes. They were now massed in the valley of Charmes, at the foot of the Falkenstein, a third part of the way up the side, to be out of the reach of their adversaries' fire. Opposite the rock, Piorette, master of Bois-des-Chênes, was ordering barricades to be thrown up on the side of Charmes. He was going hither and thither, the end of his pipe between his lips, his felt hat cocked on his ear, his carbine slung over his shoulder. The blue axes of the woodcutters glittered in the morning sun. To the left of the village, on the side of the Valtin, in the middle of the brushwood, Marc Divès, on a little black horse, with a long flowing tail, his long sword in his hand, was pointing to the ruins and the schlitte road. An officer of infantry, and some national guards in blue coats, were listening to him. Gaspard Lefévre, alone, in advance of this group, leaning on his gun, seemed thoughtful. It might be seen from his attitude that he was forming desperate resolutions for the moment of attack. In fine, quite on the summit of the hill, against the wood, two or three hundred men, ranged in line, with grounded arms, stood watching also.

The sight of this small number of defenders wrung the hearts of the besieged; so much the more that the Germans, seven or eight times superior in numbers, were beginning to form two columns of attack to regain the positions they had lost. Their general was sending horsemen in all directions carrying orders. Rows of bayonets were beginning to defile.

"It's all over!" said Hullin to Jerôme. "What can five or six hundred men do against four thousand in line of battle? The Phalsbourgians will return home, and say, 'We have done our duty!' And Piorette will be crushed."

All the others thought the same; but that which raised their despair to its height was to see all at once a long file of Cossacks debouch in the valley of Charmes at full gallop, and the fool Yégof at their head, galloping like the wind; his beard, the tail of his horse, his sheepskin, and his red hair all streaming in the wind. He looked at the rock, and brandished his lance above his head. At the bottom of the valley, he spurred straight up to where the major-general of the enemy's army stood. Arrived near him, he made some gestures indicating the other side of the plateau of Bois-des-Chênes.

"Ah! the wretch!" exclaimed Hullin. "See! he is telling him that Piorette has no barricades on that side of the mountain, and that it must be taken in the rear."

In effect a column immediately set itself on march in that direction, whilst another directed its movement towards the barricades to mask that of the first.

"Materne!" exclaimed Jean-Claude, "are there no means of sending a bullet after the fool?"

The old hunter shook his head. "No," said he, "it is impossible; he is out of reach."

At this moment, Catherine gave vent to a savage cry—a hawk's cry. "Let us crush them!—let us crush them as we did at the Blutfeld!"

And this old woman, a moment before so weak, rose and flung herself upon a mass of rock, which she lifted with her two hands; then, with her long scanty gray locks, her hooked nose drawn down to her compressed lips, lank cheeks, and bent back, she advanced with a firm step to the very edge of the abyss, and the rock cleft the air, tracing an immense curve.

A horrible noise was heard below. Splinters of fir-trees flew about in all directions, then an enormous stone was seen to rebound at a hundred paces with fresh impetus, roll down the steep descent, and, with a final bound, fall upon Yégof, and crush him at the very feet of the general of the enemy's forces. All this was accomplished in a few seconds.

Catherine, standing on the edge of the rock, laughed a laugh that sounded more like a rattle, and that seemed as if it would never come to an end.

And all the others, all those phantoms, as if inspired with a new life, threw themselves upon the crumbling ruins of the old burg, exclaiming—"Death! death! Let us crush them as at the Blutfeld!"

Never was a more horrible scene beheld. Those beings, at the very gates of the tomb, lean and squalid as skeletons, found fresh strength for carnage. They stumbled no more; they tottered no more. They lifted each one his stone, and ran to hurl it down the precipice; then returned to take another, without even looking at what was passing below.

Now figure to yourselves the stupor of the kaiserlicks at this deluge of ruins and rocks. They had all turned round at the first sound of the stones crashing down one after another over the shrubs and the clumps of trees, and at first they remained as if petrified; but raising their eyes still higher, and seeing other stones descending and descending still, and, above all that, spectres running hither and thither, lifting up their arms, emptying them, and beginning again; seeing their comrades crushed—rows of fifteen and twenty men overthrown at a single blow—an immense cry resounded from the valley of the Charmes, as far as the Falkenstein, and in spite of the voice of the leaders, in spite of the firing, which recommenced right and left, all the Germans fled in disorder to escape this horrible death.

When the rout was at its height, the general of the enemy's army had, however, succeeded in rallying a battalion, and effecting a quiet retreat towards the village. There was something in this man, calm in the midst of disaster, grand and dignified. From time to time he turned round to cast a gloomy look at the falling masses of rock which were making bloody gaps in his column.

Jean-Claude observed him; and in spite of the intoxication of triumph, in spite of the certainty of having escaped famine, the old soldier could not restrain a feeling of admiration.

"Look," said he to Jerôme, "he does as we did on returning from the Donon and the Grosmann: he remains to the last, and only yields step by step. Truly there are men of courage in every country."

Marc Divès and Piorette, witnesses of this stroke of fortune, came down through the fir-trees to endeavour to cut off the retreat of the enemy's general, but they could not succeed in their attempt. The battalion, reduced to half, formed a square behind the village of Charmes, and slowly re-ascended the valley of the Sarre, at times stopping, like a wounded wild boar who turns upon the pack, when the men of Piorette and those of Phalsbourg tried to press it too closely.

Thus ended the great battle of Falkenstein, known in the mountain under the name of the Battle of the Rocks.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The battle was hardly over, about eight o'clock, when Marc Divès, Gaspard, and about thirty mountaineers, with panniers of provisions, ascended the Falkenstein. What a spectacle awaited them up there! All the besieged, stretched on the ground, seemed dead. It was in vain to shake them, to shout in their ears, "Jean-Claude! Catherine! Jerôme!"—they answered not. Gaspard Lefévre, seeing his mother and Louise motionless and with clenched teeth, told Marc that if they did not recover he would blow out his brains with his gun. Marc replied that every one was free to do as he pleased, but that, for his part, he should not blow out his brains for Hexe-Baizel. At length, old Colon having deposited his pannier on a stone, Kasper Materne suddenly sniffed its contents, opened his eyes, and, seeing the provisions, began to clash his teeth like a fox on the chase.

Then they understood what was the meaning of that; and Marc Divès, going from one to the other, simply held his flask under their noses, which sufficed to bring them round. They wanted to swallow all at once; but Doctor Lorquin, in spite of his delirium, had still the good sense to warn Marc not to listen to them, and that the least over-feeding would kill them. So, for this reason, each one received nothing but a little bread, an egg, and a glass of wine, which singularly revived their moral courage. They then placed Catherine, Louise, and the others upon schlittes, and re-descended to the village.

As to painting now the enthusiasm and emotion of their friends when they saw them return, leaner than Lazarus rising from the grave, it is a thing impossible. They looked at each other, embraced; and at each fresh comer from Abreschwiller, from Dagsburg, from St. Quirin, or elsewhere, it was all gone over again.

Marc Divès was obliged to relate more than twenty times the story of his journey to Phalsbourg. The brave smuggler had not been much favoured by fortune. After having escaped by miracle from the bullets of the kaiserlicks, he had fallen, in the valley of Spartzprod, into the midst of a troop of Cossacks, who had stripped him of everything. He had been compelled to wander afterwards during two weeks round the Russian posts that encircled the town, braving the fire of the sentinels and risking twenty times to be arrested as a spy, before being able to penetrate into the place. To crown all, the governor, Meunier, alleging the weakness of the garrison, had at first refused all assistance; and it was only at the pressing solicitation of the citizens of the town that he at length consented to detach two companies.

The mountaineers, listening to this recital, admired the courage of Marc, his perseverance in the midst of dangers.

"Oh!" the big smuggler would good-humouredly reply to those who congratulated him, "I have only done my duty. Could I leave my comrades to perish? I knew well it was no easy matter. Those dogs of Cossacks are more cunning than Custom-house officers; they will scent you out like ravens. But no matter; we have outwitted them all the same."

When five or six days were passed, every one was afoot. Captain Vidal, of Phalsbourg, had left twenty-five men at the Falkenstein to guard the ammunition. Gaspard Lefévre was of the number. The young fellow came down every morning to the village. The Allies had all passed into Lorraine; no more was seen of them in Alsace, except round the strong places.

Soon news was brought of the victories of Champ Aubert and of Montmirail; but times of great misfortune were at hand. The Allies, in spite of the heroism of our army and the genius of the Emperor, entered Paris.

This was a terrible blow for Jean-Claude, Catherine, Materne, Jerôme, and all the mountaineers; but the recital of these events does not enter into our history; others have related them.

Peace made, in the spring they rebuilt the farm of Bois-des-Chênes. The woodcutters, sabôt-makers, masons, bargemen, and all the workmen of the country lent a hand.

About the same period, the army having been disbanded, Gaspard cut off his moustaches, and his marriage with Louise took place.

On that day all the combatants arrived from the Falkenstein and the Donon, and the farm received them with doors and windows wide open. Every one brought his presents to the bride and bridegroom—Jerôme, little shoes for Louise; Materne and his sons, a fine heathcock, the most amorous of birds, as everybody knows; Divès, packets of smuggled tobacco for Gaspard; and Doctor Lorquin, a parcel of fine linen.

There was open table kept even in the barns and outhouses. What was consumed in wine, bread, meat, tarts, and kougelhof, we cannot say; but what we know is, that Jean-Claude, who had been very gloomy and depressed since the entry of the Allies into Paris, brightened himself up on that day by singing the old air of his youth as gaily as when he set off, gun on shoulder, for Valmy, Jemmapes, and Fleurus. The echoes of the Falkenstein opposite repeated from afar this old patriotic song—the grandest, the most noble that man has ever heard under heaven. Catherine Lefévre beat time upon the table with the handle of her knife; and if it is true, as many say, that the dead come to listen when we speak of them, our brave fellows must have been satisfied, and the King of Diamonds have foamed in his red beard.

Towards midnight, Hullin rose, and addressing the newly-married couple, said to them:

"You will have brave children; I will dance them upon my knees; I will teach them my old song; and then I will go and rejoin my forefathers!"

So saying, he embraced Louise, and arm-in-arm with Marc Divès and Jerôme, he went down to his little cottage followed by all the wedding guests, singing in chorus the sublime song.

Never was there seen a more beautiful night; inumerable stars sparkled in the deep blue sky; there was a gentle rustling among the shrubs at the foot of the mountain beneath which so many brave men had been interred. Every one experienced by turns feelings of joy and of regret.

On the threshold of the modest dwelling there was shaking of hands and wishing good-night; and then all, some to the right, others to the left, returned to their villages.

"Good night, Materne, Jerôme, Divès, Piorette, good-night!" exclaimed Jean-Claude.

His old friends returned the salute, waving their hats, and they all said to themselves:

"There are still days when one is very happy to be in the world. Ah! if there were never either plagues, or wars, or famines—if men could agree together, love and help each other—if no unjust quarrels rose between them, the earth would be a real Paradise!"

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705 Condoned. 706 Gardenhurst. 707 Broken Toys.

By Mrs. WHITNEY.

710 Odd or Even?

By EMILIE CARLEN.

711 Twelve Months of Matrimony. 712 The Brilliant Marriage.

By WILLIAM CARLETON.

715 Squanders of Castle Squander.

By W.S. MAYO.

720 Never Again. 721 The Berber.

By Mrs. FORRESTER.

722 Olympus to Hades. 723 Fair Women.

By MARK LEMON.

725 Leyton Hall.

By Miss BURNEY.

726 Evelina.

By HONORE DE BALZAC.

728 Unrequited Affection.

By JANE PORTER.

732 The Scottish Chiefs.

By HANS C. ANDERSEN.

734 The Improvisatore.

By KATHARINE MACQUOID.

735 A Bad Beginning. 736 Wild as a Hawk. 737 Forgotten by the World. (2s. 6d. and 3s.)

By A. LAMARTINE.

741 Genevieve, and The Stonemason.

By GUSTAV FREYTAG.

744 Debit and Credit.

By Author of "ST. AUBYN OF ST. AUBYN'S."

745 Charlie Nugent. 746 St. Aubyn of St. Aubyn's.

By "WATERS."

747 The Heir at Law. 748 Romance of the Seas.

By EDGAR ALLAN POE.

749 Tales of Mystery, &c.

By HENRY J. BYRON.

750 Paid in Full.

By THOMAS MILLER.

754 Royston Gower.

By Mrs. S.C. HALL.

755 The Whiteboy.

By AUGUSTUS MAYHEW.

756 Faces for Fortunes.

By Lady CHATTERTON.

757 The Lost Bride.

By WILLIAM GILBERT.

758 Dr. Austin's Guests.

By VARIOUS AUTHORS.

759 Melincourt. T. Peacock. 761 Maretime. Bayle St. John. 762 Jacob Bendixen. C. Goldschmidt. 763 The Only Child. Lady Scott. 765 Image of his Father. Bros. Mayhew. 767 Bellal. A Popular Author. 768 Highland Lassies. E. Mackenzie. 769 Rose Douglas. S.W.R. 770 O.V.H. Wat Bradwood. 771 Esther's Sacrifice. Alice Perry. 772 Ladies of Bever Hollow. A. Manning. 773 Madeline. Julia Kavanagh. 774 Hazarene. Author of "Guy Livingstone." 776 First in the Field. 777 Lilian's Penance. Mrs. Houston. 778 Off the Line. Lady Thynne. 779 Queen of Herself. A. King. 780 A Fatal Error. J. Masterman. 781 Mainstone's Housekeeper. E. Meteyard. 782 Wild Hyacinth. Mrs. Randolph. 783 All for Greed. Baroness de Bury. 785 Kelverdale. Earl Desart. 786 Dark and Light Stories. M. Hope. 787 Chips from an Old Block. Author of "Charley Thornhill." 788 Leah, the Jewish Maiden. 789 Zana, the Gipsy. Miss Stevens. 790 Margaret. Sylvester Judd. 791 The Conspirators. A. de Vigny. 792 Chelsea Pensioners. Gleig. 793 A Lease for Lives. A. de Fonblanque. 794 The Backwoodsman. Sir E. Wraxall. 795 Almost a Quixote. Miss Levien. 796 Janetta, and Blythe Herndon. 797 Margaret's Ordeal. E. Juncker. 798 Philiberta. Thorpe Talbot.

LIBRARY EDITION OF THE BEST AUTHORS.

Crown 8vo, neat cloth gilt, price 3s. 6d. each.

1 The Pickwick Papers. By Charles Dickens. With Original Illustrations by A.B. Frost.

2 Nicholas Nickleby. By Chas. Dickens. With the Original Illustrations by "Phiz."

3 Virgin Soil. By Ivan Turgenieff.

4 Smoke. By Ivan Turgenieff.

5 Fathers and Sons. By Ivan Turgenieff.

6 Dimitri Roudine. By ditto.

7 Hector O'Halloran. By W.H. Maxwell. Illustrated by Leech.

8 Christopher Tadpole. By Albert Smith. Illustrated.

9 Charles O'Malley. By C. Lever. Plates by Phiz. Half-bd.