The Great Invasion of 1813-14; or, After Leipzig Being a story of the entry of the allied forces into Alsace and Lorraine, and their march upon Paris after the Battle of Leipzig, called the Battle of the Kings and Nations

If you would like to know the story of the Great Invasion of 1814, just as it was told me by the old huntsman, Frantz du Hengst, you must come with me to the village of Charmes, in that province of France called the Vosges. About thirty little houses, with stuccoed fronts, and their roofs covered with dark green moss, are dotted along the borders of the Sarre; you can see their gables round which the ivy creeps and the honeysuckle twines--the honeysuckle withered now, for winter is near--the beehives closed with wisps of straw, the little gardens, the wooden palings, the hedge-rows that divide them from each other. To the left, on a high mountain, stand the ruins of the ancient castle of Falkenstein, destroyed two hundred years ago by the Swedes. It is now nothing but a heap of ruins, over-run with brambles and weeds. The approach to it is by an old, worn pathway, called a _schlitte_[1] road, of which you can catch a glimpse through the fir-trees. To the right, on the hillside, is seen the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, a large building, with granaries, stables, and outhouses, the flat roof weighted with huge stones to resist the keen north wind. Cows are grazing on the common, and a few goats are climbing the steep rocks.

All is calm and silent.

Some children, in drawers made of a sort of gray cloth, their heads and feet bare, are warming themselves round their little fires on the outskirts of the wood. If you watch the light blue columns of smoke as they disperse in the air, or hang motionless in white and gray clouds over the valley, you will discover behind these clouds the barren tops of the Grosmann and the Donon.

How, you must know that the last house of the village, whose square front is pierced by two glazed casements, and whose low door opens on to the muddy street, belonged in 1813 to Jean-Claude Hullin, an old volunteer of '92, but at that time a shoemaker in the village of Charmes, and held in high esteem among the simple mountaineers. Hullin was a short, stout, thick-set man, with gray eyes, thick lips, a short nose, with a strongly-marked division at the end, and thick, grayish eyebrows. He was a jovial, good-natured fellow, and didn't know how to refuse anything to his daughter, Louise, a child whom he had rescued from a troop of those wretched _heimatshlos_--half-tinkers, half-blacksmiths[2]--who travel from village to village, soldering saucepans, melting spoons, and mending broken crockery. He looked upon her as his own daughter, and had completely forgotten that she was not of his blood.

Besides Louise, the worthy man had other objects of affection. He loved, above all, his cousin, the old mistress of the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, Catherine Lefévre, and her son, Gaspard, drawn in that year's conscription, a handsome young fellow, betrothed to Louise, and whose return at the end of the campaign was anxiously expected by all the family.

Hullin always dwelt proudly on the memory of his campaigns of Sambro-et-Meuse, of Italy, and Egypt. Sometimes of an evening, when his day's work was done, he would set off to the great saw-works at Valtin, formed of the trunks of trees still covered with their bark, and which you can perceive down below there at the bottom of the gorge. There, seated in the midst of the woodcutters, charcoal-burners, and schlitteurs,[3] opposite the great fire made of sawdust and shavings, and whilst the heavy wheel went for ever round, amid the never-ceasing thunder of the mill-dam and the constant grinding of the saw, with his elbow on his knee, and pipe in mouth, he would talk to them of Hoche, of Kleber, and finally, of General Bonaparte, whom he had seen a hundred times, and whose spare figure, piercing eyes, and eagle glance he could paint to the very life.

Such was Jean-Claude Hullin.

He was a man of the old Gallic stock, loving extraordinary adventures and hair-breadth 'scapes, but sticking to work from a principle of duty, from year's end to year's end.

As for Louise, that waif snatched from the travelling tinkers, she had a slender, lithe figure, long delicate hands, eyes of so deep and tender a blue that they went straight to the very bottom of your soul, a complexion like snow, hair of a light straw colour, soft and fine as silk, shoulders a little rounded like those of a kneeling maid at prayer. Her innocent smile, her pensive brow, in short, her whole presence reminded you of the old _lied_[4] of the minnesinger,[5] Erhart, where he says, "I have beheld a ray of light; my eyes are still dazzled with its brightness. Was it the moon's beam through the foliage? Was it Aurora's smile in the depth of the woods? No; it was the beautiful Edith, my love, who passed. I have seen her, and my eyes are still dazzled."

Louise dearly loved the fields, gardens, and flowers. In spring, the first note of the lark caused her to shed tears of tender pleasure. She delighted to watch the first opening of the blue-bells and sweet-scented May that blossomed on the hillside; and eagerly awaited the return of the swallows to build their snug little nests under the eaves. She was still the child of a wandering race, only a little less wild; but Hullin made excuses for everything; he understood her nature, and would sometimes say, with a smile:

"My poor Louise, if we had nothing to live on but what you bring us--your pretty handfuls of wild flowers--we should be starved to death in three days."

Upon which she would throw her arms round his neck, and smile upon him so sweetly that he would set contentedly to work again, saying:

"Ah! What business have I to scold her? She's quite right; she loves the sun and the green fields, poor child. Gaspard must work for two; he'll have happiness enough for four. I don't pity him, not I. There's plenty of women to work, and it does not improve their looks: but women who love and are kind to you--what a chance to meet with one--what a chance!"

Thus reasoned the worthy man, and days, weeks, and months went by in the near prospect of Gaspard's return.

Gaspard's mother, widow Lefévre, a woman of marvellous industry and energy, shared Hullin's ideas on the subject of Louise. "I," she would say, "only want a daughter who will love us; I don't want her to meddle with my housekeeping. Only let her make herself happy! You'll not disagree with me, will you, Louise?"

And then the two would fall to kissing and hugging each other!

But still Gaspard did not return, and for the last two months no news had been heard of him.

Now on a certain day, towards the middle of the month of December, 1813, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, Hullin, squatted on his bench, was busily engaged in finishing off a pair of iron-bound sabots for the wood-cutter, Rochart. Louise had just placed a little earthen pipkin on the brazen stove, the fire in which was crackling and roaring with a plaintive sound, while the old clock marked the seconds with its monotonous tick. Outside, all along the street, were to be seen pools of water covered with a thin white coating of ice, showing that winter was near at hand. At intervals was heard the sound of thick sabots on the hard ground, and then a felt hat, a hood, or a white cap would go by, and all would be still again, the silence only broken by the gentle hum of Louise's spinning-wheel, and the singing of the marmite on the stove. This had lasted for about two hours, when Hullin, happening to cast a glance through the little glazed window-panes, suddenly left off working, and remained staring with his eyes wide open as if struck by an unusual sight.

In fact, at the turning of the street, just opposite the inn of the "Three Pigeons," there was seen coming, in the midst of a troop of urchins, whistling, hooting, leaping, and yelling--"The King of Diamonds! the King of Diamonds!"--there was seen coming, I say, the strangest figure it is possible to imagine. Just picture to yourself a man with red hair and beard, a grave face, sullen eye, straight nose, his eyebrows joined in the middle of his forehead, a circlet of tin on his head; a long-haired, iron-gray sheepskin floating from his back, the two fore-paws of which formed the fastening around his neck; a number of little copper crosses hanging like charms on his breast; his legs encased in a sort of drawers made of gray cloth, fastened above the ankle, and his feet bare. An enormous raven, his coal-black wings relieved by a few feathers of dazzling whiteness, was perched upon his shoulder. At first sight of him, and his stately presence, you would have thought him one of those ancient Merovingian kings depicted in the paintings of Montbéliard; he held in his left hand a short thick stick, cut in the form of a sceptre, and with his right hand he made fantastic gestures, raising his finger to heaven, and seeming to address his suite.

Every door flew open as he passed--curious faces were pressed against every window-pane. Some old women, from the outer steps of the doors, called to the madman, who did not deign to turn aside his head; others came down into the street, and tried to bar his way, but he, with head erect and raised eyebrow, with a gesture and a word, forced them to stand aside.

"See," said Hullin, "here is Yégof. I did not expect to see him again this winter. It is not his usual custom. What the devil can bring him back in such weather as this?"

And Louise, laying down her distaff, ran hastily out to look at the "King of Diamonds." The arrival of the fool Yégof at the beginning of winter was quite an event; some were delighted at it, hoping to keep him and make him tell stories of his fortune and glories, by the inn firesides; others, and especially the women, felt a sort of uneasiness, for madmen, as everybody knows, have dealings with the world of spirits; they know the past and the future, and are inspired by God; the only thing is to be able to understand them, their words having always two meanings--one common, for vulgar people, the other deep, for refined and cultivated minds.

And this fool besides, had, above all others, really extraordinary and sublime ideas. No one knew either where he came from, where he went, or what he wanted; for Yégof wandered about the country like a troubled spirit; he would talk of races now extinct, and claimed to be himself Emperor of Austrasia, Polynesia, and other places. Large volumes might have been written about his castles, his palaces, and his strongholds; he knew the numbers, situation, and architecture of them all, and celebrated their grandeur, beauty, and riches with a simple and modest air. He would speak of his stables, his hunting exploits, the officers of his crown, his ministers, his counsellors, the superintendents of his provinces; he never mistook their names or their rank, but he complained bitterly of having been dethroned by the accursed race, and the old midwife, Sapience Coquelin, every time she heard him groaning over this subject, would shed a shower of tears, as would many others too. Then he, pointing with his finger to heaven, would exclaim: