The Children of Alsace (Les Oberlés)
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"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.