Chapter IV: Part 4

"Who says so?" said Marner sharply. "Will they make me take her? I shall keep her till anybody shows they've a right to take her away from me. The mother's dead, and I reckon it's got no father. It's a lone thing, and I'm a lone thing. My money's gone--I don't know where, and this is come from I don't know where."

Godfrey returned to the Red House with a sense of relief and gladness, and Silas kept the child. There had been a softening of feeling to him in the village since the day of his robbery, and now an active sympathy was aroused amongst the women. The child was christened Hephzibah, after Marner's mother, and was called Eppie for short.

_IV--Eppie's Decision_

Eppie had come to link Silas Marner once more with the whole world. The disposition to hoard had utterly gone, and there was no longer any repulsion around to him.

As the child grew up, one person watched with keener, though more hidden, interest than any other the prosperous growth of Eppie under the weaver's care. The squire was dead, and Godfrey Cass was married to Nancy Lammeter. He had no child of his own save the one that knew him not. No Dunsey had ever turned up, and people had ceased to think of him.

Sixteen years had passed, and now Aaron Winthrop, a well-behaved young gardener, is wanting to marry Eppie, and Eppie is willing to have him "some time."

"'Everybody's married some time,' Aaron says," said Eppie. "But I told him that wasn't true, for I said look at father--he's never been married."

"No, child," said Silas, "your father was a lone man till you was sent to him."

"But you'll never be lone again, father," said Eppie tenderly. "That was what Aaron said--'I could never think o' taking you away from Master Marner, Eppie.' And I said, 'It 'ud be no use if you did, Aaron.' And he wants us all to live together, so as you needn't work a bit, father, only what's for your own pleasure, and he'd be as good as a son to you--that was what he said."

The proposal to separate Eppie from her foster-father came from Godfrey Cass.

When the old stone-pit by Marner's cottage went dry, owing to drainage operations, the skeleton of Dunstan Cass was found, wedged between two great stones. The watch and seals were recognised, and all the weaver's money was at the bottom of the pit. The shock of this discovery moved Godfrey to tell Nancy the secret of his earlier marriage.

"Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later," he said. "That woman Marner found dead in the snow--Eppie's mother--was my wife. Eppie is my child. I oughtn't to have left the child unowned. I oughtn't to have kept it from you."

"It's but little wrong to me, Godfrey," Nancy answered sadly. "You've made it up to me--you've been good to me for fifteen years. It'll be a different coming to us, now she's grown up."

They were childless, and it hadn't occurred to them as they approached Silas Marner's cottage that Godfrey's offer might be declined. At first Godfrey explained that he and his wife wanted to adopt Eppie in place of a daughter.

"Eppie, my child, speak," said old Marner faintly. "I won't stand in your way. Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass."

"Thank you, ma'am--thank you, sir," said Eppie dropping a curtsy; "but I can't leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than him."

Godfrey Cass was irritated at this obstacle.

"But I've a claim on you, Eppie," he returned. "It's my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my child, and provide for her. She's my own child. Her mother was my wife. I've a natural claim on her."

"Then, sir, why didn't you say so sixteen years ago, and claim her before I'd come to love her, i'stead o' coming to take her from me now, when you might as well take the heart out o' my body? When a man turns a blessing from his door, it falls to them as take it in. But let it be as you will. Speak to the child. I'll hinder nothing."

"Eppie, my dear," said Godfrey, looking at his daughter not without some embarrassment, "it'll always be our wish that you should show your love and gratitude to one who's been a father to you so many years; but we hope you'll come to love us as well, and though I haven't been what a father should ha' been to you all these years, I wish to do the utmost in my power for you now, and provide for you as my only child. And you'll have the best of mothers in my wife."

Eppie did not come forward and curtsy as she had done before, but she held Silas's hand in hers and grasped it firmly.

"Thank you, ma'am--thank you, sir, for your offers--they're very great and far above my wish. For I should have no delight in life any more if I was forced to go away from my father."

In vain Nancy expostulated mildly.

"I can't feel as I've got any father but one," said Eppie. "I've always thought of a little home where he'd sit i' the corner, and I should fend and do everything for him. I can't think o' no other home. I wasn't brought up to be a lady, and," she ended passionately, "I'm promised to marry a working man, as'll live with father and help me to take care of him."

Godfrey Cass and his wife went out.

A year later Eppie was married, and Mrs. Godfrey Cass provided the wedding dress, and Mr. Cass made some necessary alterations to suit Silas's larger family.

"Oh, father," said Eppie, when the bridal party returned from the church, "what a pretty home ours is! I think nobody could be happier than we are!"

* * * * *

The Mill on the Floss

In "The Mill on the Floss," published in 1860, George Eliot
went to her own early life for the chief characters in the
story, and in the relations of Tom and Maggie Tulliver we get
a picture of the youth of Mary Ann Evans and her brother
Isaac. Lord Lytton objected that Maggie was too passive in the
scene at Red Deeps, and that the tragedy of the flood was not
adequately prepared. To this criticism George Eliot answered,
"Now that the defect is suggested to me, if the book were
still in manuscript I should alter, or rather expand, that
scene at Red Deeps." She also admitted that there was "a want
of proportionate fulness" in the conclusion. But, with all its
faults, "The Mill on the Floss" deserves the reputation it has
won. The reception of the story at first was disappointing,
and we find the authoress telling her publisher that "she does
not want to see any newspaper articles." But the book made its
way, and prepared an ever-growing public for "Silas Marner."

_I.--The Tullivers of Dorlcote Mill_

"What I want, you know," said Mr. Tulliver, "what I want is to give Tom a good eddication--an eddication as'll be a bread to him. I mean to put him to a downright good school at midsummer. The two years at th' academy 'ud ha' done well enough if I'd meant to make a miller and farmer of him, but I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard. It 'ud be a help to me wi' these lawsuits, and arbitrations, and things. I wouldn't make a downright lawyer o' the lad--I should be sorry for him to be a raskill--but a sort of engineer, or a surveyor, or an auctioneer and vallyer, like Riley, or one o' them smartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay, only for a big watch-chain and a high stool. They're pretty nigh all one, and they're not far off being even wi' the law, I believe; for Riley looks Lawyer Wakem i' the face as hard as one cat looks another. _He's_ none frightened at him."

Mr. Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blonde, comely woman, nearly forty years old.

"Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know best. _I've_ no objections. But if Tom's to go to a new school, I should like him to go where I can wash him and mend him, else he might as well have calico as linen. And then, when the box is goin' backwards and forwards, I could send the lad a cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple."

"Well, well, we won't send him out o' reach o' the carrier's cart, if other things fit in," said Mr. Tulliver. "Riley's as likely a man as any to know o' some school; he's had schooling himself, an' goes about to all sorts o' places--arbitratin' and vallyin', and that."

So a day or two later Mr. Riley, the auctioneer, came to Dorlcote Mill, and stayed the night, the better that Mr. Tulliver, who was slow at coming to a point, might consult him on the all-important subject of his boy.

"You see, I want to put him to a new school at midsummer," said Mr. Tulliver, when the topic had been reached. "I want to send him to a downright good school, where they'll make a scholard of him. I don't mean Tom to be a miller an' farmer. I see no fun i' that. I shall give Tom an eddication and put him to a business as he may make a nest for himself, an' not want to push me out o' mine."

At the sound of her brother's name, Maggie, the second and only other child of the Tullivers, who was seated on a low stool close by the fire, with a large book open on her lap, looked up eagerly. Tom, it appeared, was supposed capable of turning his father out of doors. This was not to be borne, and Maggie jumped up from her stool, and going up between her father's knees, said, in a half-crying, half-indignant voice, "Father, Tom wouldn't be naughty to you ever; I know he wouldn't."

Mr. Tulliver's heart was touched.

"What! They mustn't say any harm o' Tom, eh?" he said, looking at Maggie with a twinkling eye. Then, in a lower voice, turning to Mr. Riley, "She understands what one's talking about so as never was. And you should hear her read--straight off, as if she knowed it all beforehand. But it's bad--it's bad. A woman's no business wi' being so clever; it'll turn to trouble, I doubt. It's a pity, but what she'd been the lad--she'd ha' been a match for the lawyers, she would."

Mr. Riley took a pinch of snuff before he said, "But your lad's not stupid, is he? I saw him, when I was here last, busy making fishing-tackle; he seemed quite up to it."

"Well, he isn't not to say stupid; he's got a notion o' things out o' door, an' a sort o' commonsense, as he'd lay hold o' things by the right handle. But he's slow with his tongue, you see, and reads but poorly, and can't abide the books, and spells all wrong, they tell me, an' as shy as can be wi' strangers. Now, what I want is to send him to a school where they'll make him a bit nimble with his tongue and his pen, to make a smart chap of him. I want my son to be even wi' these fellows as have got the start o' me with schooling."

The talk ended in Mr. Riley recommending a country parson named Stelling as a suitable tutor for Tom, and Mr. Tulliver decided that his son should go to Mr. Stelling at King's Lorton, fifteen miles from Dorlcote Mill.

_II.--School-Time_

Tom Tulliver's sufferings during the first quarter he was at King's Lorton, under the distinguished care of the Rev. Walter Stelling, were rather severe. It had been very difficult for him to reconcile himself to the idea that his school-time was to be prolonged, and that he was not to be brought up to his father's business, which he had always thought extremely pleasant, for it was nothing but riding about, giving orders, and going to market.

Mr. Stelling was not a harsh-tempered or unkind man--quite the contrary, but he thought Tom a stupid boy, and determined to develop his powers through Latin grammar and Euclid to the best of his ability.

As for Tom, he had no distinct idea how there came to be such a thing as Latin on this earth. It would have taken a long while to make it conceivable to him that there ever existed a people who bought and sold sheep and oxen, and transacted the everyday affairs of life through the medium of this language, or why he should be called upon to learn it, when its connection with those affairs had become entirely latent. He was of a very firm, not to say obstinate disposition, but there was no brute-like rebellion or recklessness in his nature; the human sensibilities predominated, and he was anxious to acquire Mr. Stelling's approbation by showing some quickness at his lessons, if he had known how to accomplish it.

In his secret heart Tom yearned to have Maggie with him, and, before the first dreary half-year was ended, Maggie actually came. Mrs. Stelling had given a general invitation for the little girl to come and stay with her brother; so when Mr. Tulliver drove over to King's Lorton late in October, Maggie came too, with the sense that she was taking a great journey, and beginning to see the world.

"Well, my lad," Mr. Tulliver said, "you look rarely! School agrees with you!"

"I don't think I _am_ well, father," said Tom; "I wish you'd ask Mr. Stelling not to let me do Euclid--it brings on the toothache, I think."

"Euclid, my lad--why, what's that?" said Mr. Tulliver.

"Oh, I don't know! It's definitions and axioms and triangles and things. It's a book I've got to learn in--there's no sense in it."

"Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver reprovingly. "You mustn't say so. You must learn what your master tells you. He knows what it's right for you to learn."

In the second term Mr. Stelling had a second pupil--Philip, the son of Lawyer Wakem, Mr. Tulliver's standing enemy.

Philip was a very old-looking boy, Tom thought. His spine had been deformed through an accident in infancy, and to Tom he was simply a humpback. He had a vague notion that the deformity of Wakem's son had some relation to the lawyer's rascality, of which he had so often heard his father talk with hot emphasis.

There was a natural antipathy of temperament between the two boys; for Tom was an excellent bovine lad, and Philip was sensitive, and suffered acute pain when the other blurted out offensive things.

Maggie, on her second visit to King's Lorton, pronounced Philip to be "a nice boy."

"He couldn't choose his father, you know," she said to Tom. "And I've read of very bad men who had good sons, as well as good parents who had bad children."

"Oh, he's a queer fellow," said Tom curtly, "and he's as sulky as can be with me because I told him his father was a rogue. And I'd a right to tell him so, for it was true--and he began it with calling me names."

An accident to Tom's foot brought the two boys nearer again, and also threw Philip and Maggie together.

"Maggie," said Philip one day, "if you had had a brother like me, do you think you should have loved him as well as Tom?"

"Oh, yes, better," she answered immediately. "No, not better; because I don't think I could love you better than Tom. But I should be so sorry--so sorry for you."

Philip coloured. He had meant to imply, would she love him as well in spite of his deformity, and yet when she alluded to it so plainly he winced under her pity. Maggie, young as she was, felt her mistake.

"But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and sing," she added quickly. "I wish you were my brother. I'm very fond of you."

"But you'll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie, and then you'll forget all about me, and not care for me any more."

"Oh, no, I shan't forget you, I'm sure." And Maggie put her arm round his neck, and kissed him quite earnestly.

_III.--The Downfall_

When Tom had turned sixteen, and Maggie, three years younger, was at boarding school, came the downfall of the Tullivers. A long and expensive law-suit concerning rights of water, brought by Mr. Tulliver, ended in defeat. Wakem was his opponent's lawyer.

Maggie broke the news to Tom. Not only would mill and lands and everything be lost, and nothing left, but their father had fallen off his horse, and knew nobody, and seemed to have lost his senses.

"They say Mr. Wakem has got a mortgage or something on the land, Tom," said Maggie, on their way home from King's Lorton. "It was the letter with that news in it that made father ill, they think."

"I believe that scoundrel's been planning all along to ruin my father," said Tom, leaping from the vaguest impressions to a definite conclusion. "I'll make him feel for it when I'm a man. Mind you never speak to Philip again!"

For more than two months Mr. Tulliver lay ill in his room, oblivious to all that was taking place around him. From time to time recognition came to him of his wife and family, but there was no remembrance of recent events.

The mill and land of the Tullivers were sold to Wakem the lawyer, and the bulk of their household goods were disposed of by public auction; but the Tullivers were not turned out of Dorlcote Mill. And, indeed, when Mr. Tulliver, known to be a man of proud honesty, was once more able to be up and about, it was proposed that he should remain and accept employment as manager of the mill for Mr. Wakem.

It was with difficulty that poor Tulliver could bring himself to accept the situation, but he saw the possibility, by much pinching, of saving money out of the thirty shillings a week salary promised by Wakem, and paying a second dividend to his creditors. The strongest influence of all was the love of the old premises where he had run about when he was a boy, just as Tom had done after him.

Tom, who had at once applied to his Uncle Deane, partner in a wealthy merchant's business, for work, and was now earning a pound a week, had protested against entertaining the proposition; he shouldn't like his father to be under Wakem; he thought it would look nothing but mean spirited.

But Mr. Tulliver had come to a decision. The first evening of his new life downstairs, he called his family round him, and began to speak, looking first at his wife.

"I've made up my mind, Bessy. I'll stop in the old place, and I'll serve under Wakem, and I'll serve him like an honest man; there's no Tulliver but what's honest, mind that, Tom. They'll have it to throw up against me as I paid a dividend--but it wasn't my fault--it was because there's raskills in the world. They've been too many for me, and I must give in. But I'll serve him as honest as if he was no raskill. I'm an honest man, though I shall never hold my head up no more! I'm a tree as is broke--a tree as is broke."

He paused, and looked on the ground. Then suddenly raising his head, he said, in a louder yet deeper tone, "But I won't forgive him! I know what they say--he never meant me any harm! I shouldn't ha' gone to law they say. But who made it so as there was no arbitrating and no justice to be got? It signifies nothing to him--I know that he's one o' them fine gentlemen as get money by doing business for poorer folks, and when he's made beggars of 'em he'll give 'em charity. I won't forgive him! I wish he might be punished with shame till his own son 'ud like to forget him. And you mind this, Tom--you never forgive him, neither, if you mean to be my son. Now write--write it i' the Bible!"

"Oh, father, what?" said Maggie. "It's wicked to curse and bear malice."

"It isn't wicked, I tell you," said her father, fiercely. "It's wicked as the raskills should prosper--it's the devil's doing. Do as I tell you, Tom! Write."

The big Bible was open at the beginning, where many family entries were put down.

"What am I to write, father?" said Tom, with gloomy submission.

"Write as your father, Edward Tulliver, took service under John Wakem, the man as had helped to ruin him, because I'd promised my wife to make her what amends I could, and because I wanted to die in th' old place where I was born, and my father was born. Put that i' the right words--you know how--and then write as I don't forgive Wakem for all that; and for all I'll serve him honest, I wish evil may befall him. Write that."

There was a dead silence as Tom's pen moved along the paper.

"Now let me hear what you've wrote," said Mr. Tulliver; and Tom read aloud, slowly.

"Now, write--write as you'll remember what Wakem's done to your father, and you'll make him and his feel it, if ever the day comes. And sign your name--Thomas Tulliver!"

"Oh, no, father, dear father!" said Maggie, trembling like a leaf. "You shouldn't make Tom write that!"

"Be quiet, Maggie!" said Tom, impatiently, "I shall write it!"

_IV.--In Death They Were Not Divided_

The Red Deeps was always a favourite place to Maggie to walk in. An old stone quarry, so long exhausted that both mounds and hollows were now clothed with brambles and trees, and with here and there a stretch of grass which a few sheep kept close nibbled. This was the Red Deeps, and it was here in June that Maggie once more met Philip Wakem, five years after their first meeting at Mr. Stelling's. He told her that she was much more beautiful than he had thought she would be, and assured her, in answer to the difficulties she raised as to their meeting, that there was no enmity in his father's mind.

And Maggie went home with an inward conflict already begun, and Philip went home to do nothing but remember and hope.

In the following April they met again, after Philip had been abroad.

And now he took her hand, and asked her the simple question, "_Do_ you love me?"

"I think I could hardly love anyone better; there is nothing but what I love you for," Maggie answered. But she pointed out how impossible even their friendship was, if it were discovered.

Philip, on his side, refused to give up hope, and before they parted that day she had kissed him.

Tom intervened before the next visit to the Red Deeps. He had heard that Philip Wakem had been seen there with his sister, and Maggie admitted, on his questioning her, that she had told Philip that she loved him.

"Now, then, Maggie," Tom said coldly, "there are but two courses for you to take. Either you vow solemnly to me, with your hand on father's Bible, that you will never have another meeting or speak another word in private to Philip Wakem, or you refuse and I tell my father everything!"

In vain Maggie pleaded. Tom was obdurate, and she repeated the words of renunciation.

But that was not enough for Tom Tulliver; he accompanied Maggie to Red Deeps, and in a voice of harsh scorn told Philip that he had been taking a mean, unmanly advantage.

"It was for my father's sake, Philip," said Maggie, imploringly. "Tom threatens to tell my father--and he couldn't bear it. I have promised, I have vowed solemnly, that we will not have any intercourse without my brother's knowledge."

"It is enough, Maggie. _I_ shall not change, but I wish you to hold yourself entirely free. But trust me--remember that I can never seek for anything but good to what belongs to you."

Tom only replied with angry contempt, and led Maggie away. All his sister's remonstrances he answered with cold obstinacy.

For his character in its strength was hard. Tom had laboured to one end in these years: to pay off his father's creditors, and regain Dorlcote Mill. By his industry, and by some successful private ventures in trade, the day came when the first of the objects was realised, and Mr. Tulliver lived to see himself free of debt.

But Mr. Tulliver's satisfaction was short-lived. Excited by the dinner given to celebrate the payment of his creditors, he met Mr. Wakem near the mill. From angry words it came to blows, and Tulliver fell on the lawyer furiously, only ceasing from attack when Maggie and Mrs. Tulliver appeared. Wakem went off without serious injury, but Tulliver only lived through the night; the excitement had killed him.

"You must take care of her, Tom," said the dying man, turning to his daughter. "You'll manage to pay for a brick grave, Tom, so as your mother and me can lie together? This world's...too many...honest man..."

At last there was total stillness, and poor Tulliver's dimly lighted soul had ceased to be vexed with the painful riddle of this world.

Tom and Maggie went downstairs together, and Maggie spoke. "Tom, forgive me; let us always love each other"--and they clung and wept together.

But they were not to be always united.

Tom lived in lodgings in the town, and was anxious to provide for his sister, but Maggie preferred to take up teaching in her old boarding- school. She met Philip Wakem again, and though Tom released her from her old promise, he could not regard Philip with any feelings of friendship.

It was when Tom had, by years of steady work, fulfilled his father's wishes and become once more master of Dorlcote Mill that Maggie returned--to be no more separated from her brother. She was staying in the town near the river on the night when the flood came, and the river rose beyond its banks. Her first thought, as the water entered the lower part of the house, was of the mill, where Tom was. There was no time to get assistance; she must go herself, and alone. Hastily she procured a boat, and at last reached the mill. The water was up to the first story, but still the mill stood firm.

"Tom, where are you? Here is Maggie!" she called out, in a loud, piercing voice. Tom opened the middle window, and got into the boat. Tom rowed with vigour, but a new danger was before them in the river.

"Get out of the current!" was shouted at them, but it could not be done at once. Huge fragments of machinery, swept off one of the wharves, blocked the stream in one wide mass, and the current swept the boat swiftly on to its doom.

"It is coming, Maggie!" Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice, loosing the oars and clasping her.

The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water, and brother and sister had gone down in an embrace never to be parted; living through again in one supreme moment the days when they had clasped their little hands in love.

"In their death they were not divided."

* * * * *

ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

Waterloo

Emile Erckmann was born at Phalsbourg, in Alsace, on May 20,
1822, and Alexandre Chatrian, at Soldatenthal, on December 18,
1826. Erckmann, the son of a bookseller, became a law student,
and was admitted to the Bar in 1858. But the law studies were
always uncongenial, and Erckmann meeting Chatrian as a fellow
student in the gymnasium at Phalsbourg, the two young men
decided to join forces in authorship. The Erckmann-Chatrian
partnership lasted from 1860 to 1885, and resulted in a
remarkable series of novels, short stories, plays, and operas.
"Waterloo" was published in 1865, and has enjoyed a wide
popularity in many languages. Like "The Conscript," its
predecessor, the charm of "Waterloo" consists largely in the
character of Joseph Bertha, the young clockmaker of
Phalsbourg, who tells the story. Bertha is a peaceful citizen
who hates war and has no taste for glory. Yet he is nothing of
a coward, and behaves like a man when he is forced to fight.
To the student of history, the light thrown on the rise and
fall of the Bourbon popularity in France, 1813-14, in this
novel, will always be of interest. Chatrian died in Paris on
September 4, 1890, and Erckmann at Luneville, on March 14,
1899.

_I.--Napoleon Returns_

Never was anything so joyous as the spring of 1814 Louis XVIII. was king, and the war was over. All except the old soldiers were content; and only when the nobles, who had fled at the Revolution, returned, and it was said that they were going to bring back all their old ideas, did M. Goulden express any dissatisfaction. There were great religious processions everywhere and expiatory services, and talk of rebuilding all the convents, and setting up the nobles again in their castles. But these things did not trouble me, because I was married to Catherine, and knew nothing about politics.

The treatment of the old soldiers enraged me. On the day of the religious procession at Phalsbourg, half a dozen old veterans, restored prisoners, were set upon in our town by that rascal Pinacle and the people of Baraques, and knocked about. Pinacle did this to curry favour with Louis XVIII., and M. Goulden warned us that if ruffians like Pinacle got the upper hand it would open people's eyes.

Sure enough, Pinacle received the cross of honour in the autumn when the Duc de Berry came to review the troops at Phalsbourg, and even Aunt Grédel, who was fond of abusing Napoleon and the Jacobins, and applauding the king and the clergy, thought this a shameful thing.

It really was scandalous the way titles and honours were given to worthless people who shouted for the king. Worse than this was the way Napoleon's old officers were treated. Men who had fought and bled for France for twenty years were now well-nigh starving, driven out of the army to make room for the king's favourites.

We read all this in the "Gazette," and Zébédé, who had come back alive and in time for my wedding, and was still in the army, would often come in and tell us of the growing indignation of the soldiers. The whole of that winter the indignation was spreading in the town at the sight of so many brave officers, the heroes of Marengo, Austerlitz, and Wagram, wandering forlornly about, starving on half-pay, and deprived of their posts.

How well I remember one day in January, 1815, two of these officers, pale and gaunt, coming into the workshop to sell a watch.

M. Goulden examined the watch with great care and said, "Do not be offended, gentlemen; I, too, served France under the Republic, and I know it must cut to the heart to be forced to sell something which recalls sacred memories."

"It was given me by Prince Eugène," said one of the officers, Commandant Margarot, a hussar.

"It is worth more than 1,000 francs," said M. Goulden, "and I cannot afford to buy it. But I will advance you 200 francs, and the watch shall remain here if you like, and shall be yours whenever you come to reclaim it."

The old hussar broke down at this, and though his comrade, Colonel Falconette, tried to restrain him, he poured forth thanks and bitter words against the government.

From that time it always seemed to me that things would end badly, and that the nobles had gone too far. The old commandant had said that the government behaved like Cossacks to the army, and this was horrible.

M. Goulden read the "Gazette" aloud to us every day, and both Catherine and I were pleased to find there were men in Paris maintaining the very things we thought ourselves.

All this time the clergy were going on with their processions, and sermons were being preached about the rebellion of 1790, the restitution of property to the landowners, and the re-establishment of convents, and the need for missionaries for the conversion of France. From such ideas what good could come?

It is no wonder that when a report came early in March that Napoleon had landed at Cannes and was marching on Paris we were all very agitated at Phalsbourg.

"It is plain," said M. Goulden, "that the emperor will reach Paris. The soldiers are for him; so are the peasantry, whose property is threatened; and so are the middle classes, provided he will make treaties of peace."

_II.--"Vive l'Empereur!"_

For some days, though all knew Napoleon had set foot in France, no one dared talk of it aloud. Only the looks of the half-pay officers betrayed their anxiety. If they had possessed horses and arms I am sure they would have set out to meet their emperor.

On March 8, Zébédé entered our house and said abruptly, "The two first batallions are starting."

"They are going to stop him?" said M. Goulden.

"Yes, they'll stop him, that is very likely," Zébédé answered, winking. At the foot of the stairs he drew me aside and whispered, "Look inside my cap, Joseph; all the soldiers have got it, too."

Sure enough it was the old tricolour cockade, which had been removed on the return of Louis XVIII.

At last the papers had to admit that Buonaparte had escaped from Elba. What a scene it was in the café the night the papers arrived! M. Goulden and I were hardly seated before the place was filled with people, and it was so close the windows had to be opened.

Commandant Margarot mounted on a table with other officers all around him, and began to read the "Gazette" aloud. It took a long time, the reading, and the people laughed and jeered at the passages that said the troops were faithful to the king, that Buonaparte was surrounded and would soon be taken, and that the illustrious Ney and the other marshals had hastened to place their swords at the service of the king. The commandant read on firmly in that distinct voice of his until he came to the order calling upon the French to seize Buonaparte and give him up dead or alive.

Then his whole face changed and his eyes glittered. He took the "Gazette" up and tore it into little pieces, and, drawing himself up, his long arms stretched out, cried, "Vive l'Empereur!" with all his might. Immediately all the half-pay officers took up the cry, and "Vive l'Empereur!" was repeated again by the very soldiers posted outside the town hall when they heard the shout.

The commandant was carried shoulder high round the café, and everyone was now calling out, "Vive l'Empereur!" I saw the tears in the eyes of the commandant, tears at hearing the name he loved best acclaimed once more.

As for me, I felt as if cold water was being forced down my back. "It's all over," I said to myself. "It's no good talking about peace."

But M. Goulden was more hopeful, and after we got home spoke cheerfully of the blessings of liberty and a good constitution.

Aunt Grédel did not take this view. She came to see us the morning after the scene in the café, when all the town was discussing the great news, and began at once, "So it seems the villain has run away from his island?"

Both M. Goulden and I were anxious to avoid a dispute, for Aunt Grédel was really angry, and she couldn't leave the subject.

M. Goulden admitted that he preferred Napoleon to the Bourbons, with their nobles and missionary priests, because the emperor was bound to respect the national property, whereas the later would have destroyed all that the Revolution had accomplished. "Still, I am now, and always shall be till death, for the Republic and the rights of man," M. Goulden concluded.

The old gentleman took his hat and went out to escape further argument, and Aunt Grédel turned to me and told me that M. Goulden was an old fool and always had been, and that I should have to go to Switzerland now, unless Buonaparte was taken before he reached Paris.

In the evening, however, when Aunt Grédel had gone, and we three were together, Catherine said quietly, "M. Goulden is right; he knows more about these things than my mother does, and we will always listen to his advice."

I thought to myself, "Yes, that's all very well; but it will be a horrible thing to have to put on one's knapsack again and be off. I would rather be in Switzerland than in Leipzig."

Each day now brought news of Napoleon's advance, from Grenoble to Lyons, from Lyons to Macon and Auxerre. There was no opposition anywhere to his progress, and the only question that troubled M. Goulden's mind was the attitude of Ney to the emperor. Could Ney, an old soldier of the Revolution, though he had kissed the hand of Louis XVIII., betray the country to please the king? The uneasiness disappeared when we learnt that Ney had followed the example of the army, the citizens, and of all who did not wish to go back to the customs and laws of twenty-five years earlier.

On March 21, just as it was getting dark, we knew that something decisive must have happened at Paris. The drums were calling to arms in the market-place, and a great crowd soon assembled.

The soldiers fell into their ranks, Commandant Gémeau, who had only just recovered from his wounds, drew his sword, and gave the order to form square.

M. Goulden and I got on a bench to listen; we knew that the fate of France depended on the message we were to hear.

"Present arms!" called out the commandant in the same clear voice which had bidden us at Lützen and Leipzig, "Close up your ranks!"

Then came the news we had been waiting for.

"Soldiers, his Majesty Louis XVIII. left Paris on March 20, and the Emperor Napoleon entered the capital the same day."

For a second there was a dead silence, and then the commandant spoke of the banner of France, the banner of Marengo, Austerlitz, and Jena, stained with our blood; and the old sergeant drew out the tattered tricolour flag from its case.

"I know no other flag!" cried the commandant, raising his sword. "Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur!"

What a shout there was of "Vive l'Empereur! Vive la France!" at this. The people and the soldiers embraced one another, and that night and for the next five or six days there was, if anything, even more rejoicing than there had been on the return of Louis XVIII. We still hoped for the continuance of peace, but who could say how long the peace would last?

Phalsbourg was ordered to put itself into a state of defence, a large workshop was set up at the arsenal for the repairing of arms, and engineers and artillerymen came over from Metz to make earthworks in the fortifications. It seemed to me that a large number of men would be required for all the guns and forts, and that my watchmaking days would soon be exchanged for active service. I began to think that, after all, religious processions were better than being sent to fight against people one knew nothing about.

_III.--On the Road to Waterloo_

Aunt Grédel had not been to see us for a month, and it was a great comfort to Catherine and me when one Sunday M. Goulden proposed that we should all three pay her a visit at Quatre Vents. As soon as she saw us, Aunt Grédel rushed to kiss her daughter, and called out, "You are a good man, M. Goulden, better a thousand times than I am. How glad I am to see you! It doesn't matter about being a Jacobin or anything else; the main thing is to have a good heart."

It was not until the afternoon that M. Goulden explained that he had known for some days that I should be called up to rejoin my old regiment, and that he had arranged with the commandant of artillery that I should be received at the arsenal as a workman. What relief this was to us, for I could not bear the thought of separation from Catherine. So from that day I went to work at the arsenal, and Aunt Grédel came to see us again as she had been accustomed to do.

It can be guessed with what spirit I worked at the arsenal, and how pleased I was when the commandant expressed satisfaction at my work. But I was not allowed to stop at Phalsbourg.

On May 23 the commandant told me that I must go to Metz with the 3rd battalion, to which I belonged. He assured me, however, that I should be kept at Metz in the workshops, and we all did our best to believe that I was fortunate in my destination. M. Goulden, however, warned me before I left that France was threatened by her enemies, that the allies would make no peace with the emperor, but were determined to set Louis XVIII. once more on the throne, and that now the question was not of invading other countries, but of defending our own.

Catherine was asleep when the morning came for my departure, and I was glad to escape the pain of saying "good-bye." At the barracks, Zébédé, who was now a sergeant, led me into the soldiers' room, and I put on my uniform. Then the battalion defiled through the gates, the soldiers at the outworks presented arms, and we were on the way to Waterloo.

It was useless to think of stopping in Metz. We arrived in that city of Jews and soldiers after five days' march, and were at once, after our night's rest, supplied with ammunition. I saw that my only chance of staying at the workshops of Metz would be after the campaign was over, for we were on the march the very next morning. Zébédé was not always with me now, and my closest comrade was Jean Buche, the son of a sledge-maker at Harberg, who had never eaten anything better than potatoes before he became a conscript. Buche turned in his feet in walking, but he never seemed to know the meaning of being tired, and in his own fashion was a wonderful pedestrian.

From Metz we marched through Thionville, Châtelet, Etain, Dannevoux, Yong, Vivier, and Cul-de-Sard. All our troops were pouring into Belgium--cavalry, infantry, and artillery--and though there were no signs of the enemy, it was reported that we were to attack the English. I thought as well English as Prussians, Austrians, or Russians, since we were to kill each other.

On the night of June 14 we bivouacked outside the village of Roly, and General Pécheux read a proclamation by the emperor, reminding us that this was the anniversary of Marengo, that the powers were in coalition against France, and that the hour had come for France to conquer or perish.

It is impossible to describe the enthusiasm at this message from the emperor; our courage was stronger, and the conscripts were even more anxious than the veterans for the fighting to begin.

We were up at daybreak next day and on the march, eager to get a sight of the Prussians, who had been repulsed from Charleroi by the emperor, we were told. At the village of Châtelet we halted, and heard the noise of firing away across the River Sambre, in the direction of Gilly. An old bald peasant told us that evening that the Prussians had men in the villages of Fleurus and Lambusart, that the English and Belgians were on the great Brussels road, and that the causeway through Quatre Bras and Ligny enabled the Prussians and English to communicate freely with each other. He also told us that the Prussians said insulting things of the French army, and were generally hated by the people. When I heard of the way the Prussians boasted, my blood boiled, and I said to myself, "There shall be no more compassion. Either they or we must be utterly destroyed."

I can recall with what splendour the sun rose next morning above a cornfield--it was the morning of the battle of Ligny. Zébédé and one or two comrades whom I had known in 1813 came and chattered while we lit our fires. We could see the Prussians before us, posting themselves behind hedges and walls, and preparing to defend the villages, and all the time we were kept roasting in the corn, waiting for the signal to attack. The emperor arrived, and held a short conference with the superior officers, and I saw him at close quarters before he rode off again to the village of Fleurus, already vacated by the Prussians.

And still we waited, though we knew the attack on St. Amand had begun.

At last came our turn to advance on Ligny. "Forward! Forward!" cried the officers. "Vive l'Empereur!" we shouted. The Prussian bullets whizzed like hail upon us, and then we could see or hear nothing till we were in the village.

No quarter was given that day; we fought in houses and gardens, in barns and lanes, with muskets and bayonets. Those who fell were lost. At one time fifteen of us were in possession of a barn, and the Prussians, for a time outnumbering us, drove us up a ladder. They fired up at our floor, and finally, when it seemed we were lost, and were all to be massacred we heard the shout of "Vive l'Empereur!" and the Prussians fled. Out of that fifteen only six were left alive, but Zébédé and Buche were among the survivors.

The battle still raged in the village streets, dead and dying were everywhere. Towards nightfall it was plain we were the victors; Ligny and St. Amand were in our hands, and the Prussians had moved away. On the plateau behind Ligny, where our cavalry had been at work, the slaughter had been terrible.

The dozen or so remaining of our company rested for a few hours that night in the ruins of a farmhouse, and next day came the roll-call of our battalion, and the sending off of the wounded. More than 360 of our men, including Commandant Gémeau and Captain Vidal, were disabled, and we were busy all day over the wounded.

It was wet and muddy that evening, and we were hungry and dispirited when we reached Quatre Bras, about eight o'clock. We were not allowed to halt here, but marched on to a village called Jemappes, and at midnight we settled down in a furrow to wait for morning.

The red coats of the English were visible before us when we awoke next morning; behind their lines was the village of Mont St. Jean, and they had also the farmhouses of La Haie-Sainte and Hougomont. At six o'clock I looked at their position, with Zébédé, Captain Florentin, and Buche, and it seemed to me it was a difficult task before us. It was Sunday, and I could hear the bells of villages, recalling Phalsbourg. But in a very little while we heard no more bells, for at half-past eight our battalion was on its way to the high road in front, and the battle of Waterloo had begun.

_IV.--The Hour of Disaster_

I have often heard veterans describe the order of battle given by the emperor. But all I remember of that terrible day is that we marched out with the bands playing, that we got to close quarters with the English, were repulsed, and were assisted by regiments of cuirassiers, that we carried La Haie-Sainte with terrible slaughter at Ney's command. Hougomont we could not carry. When we thought we were winning, the news was spread that Blücher, with 60,000 men, was advancing on our flank, and that unless Grouchy, with his 30,000, arrived in time to reinforce us the day might be lost.

All the world knows now that Grouchy did not arrive, that we threw ourselves again and again upon the English squares, and that at last, when regiment after regiment had tried in vain to break the enemy's line, the Old Guard were called up by the emperor. It was the last chance of retrieving the day, the grand stroke--and it failed.

The four battalions of the Guards, reduced from 3,000 to 1,200 men, were assailed by so fierce a fire that they were compelled to retire. They retired slowly, defending themselves with muskets and bayonets, but with their retirement, and the approach of night, the battle ended for us in the confusion of a rout. It was like a flood. We were surrounded on all sides when Blücher arrived. The Old Guard formed a square for the emperor and his officers, and the rest of us simply straggled away, back to France. The most awful thing of all was the beating of the drum of the Old Guard in that hour of disaster. It was like a fire-bell, the last appeal of a burning nation.

Buche was by my side in the retreat. Several times the Prussians attacked us. We heard that the emperor had departed for Paris, and we struggled on, only hoping to escape with our lives. At Charleroi the inhabitants shut the city gates in our face, and Buche shared in the general rage, and proposed to destroy the town. But I thought we had had enough massacres, and that it was not right we should be killing our own countrymen, and I persuaded Buche to come on with me.

In a few days we felt ourselves safe from pursuing Prussians, and at the village of Bouvigny I wrote a letter to Catherine, telling her I was safe. In this village some officers of our regiment, the 6th of the Line, found us, and we had to rejoin. Presently we saw all that was left of Grouchy's army corps in retreat, and a day or two later we heard of the emperor's abdication. On July 1, we reached Paris, and outside the city, near the village of Issy, we once more fell in with the Prussians; for two days we fought them with fury, and then some generals announced that peace had been made.

We believed that this truce was to give the enemy time to leave the country, and that otherwise France would rise, as it rose in '92, and drive them out.

Unhappily, we soon learnt that the Prussians and English were to occupy Paris, and that the remains of the French army were to be kept beyond the Loire. We all felt that we had been betrayed, and the old officers, pale with anger, wept in their misery. Paris in the hands of the Prussians! Besides, were we to go to the other side of the Loire at the command of Blücher?

Desertions began that very day, and I said to Buche, "Let us return to Phalsbourg and Harberg, and take up our work, and live like honest men." About fifty of us from Alsace-Lorraine were in the battalion, and we set off together on the road to Strasbourg.

On July 8 we heard that Louis XVIII. was to come back, and already the white banner of the Bourbons was being displayed in the villages.

In some places there were rascals who called us Buonapartists, and gendarmes who took us to the town hall and made us shout "Vive le Roi!" Buche and some of the old soldiers hated this; but what did it matter who was king, and what these fools wanted us to shout?

Our little company got smaller and smaller as men halted in their own villages, and when, on July 16, we reached Phalsbourg, Buche and I were alone.

Buche went on to break the news of my return, but I could not wait, and ran after him.

I heard people saying, "There's Joseph, Bertha," and in a moment I was in the house, and in Catherine's arms. Then I embraced M. Goulden, and an hour later Aunt Grédel arrived.

Jean Buche would not stay and dine with us, but hurried home to Harberg. I have often seen him since; and Zébédé, too, who remained in the army.

Many insulting things were said about us by the Pinacles, but I had happiness in my family circle, especially when Catherine presented me with a little Joseph.

I am an old man now, but M. Goulden always said the principles of freedom and liberty would triumph, and I have lived long enough to see his words come true.

* * * * *

OCTAVE FEUILLET

Romance of a Poor Young Man