"It is ready, Master Jean-Claude." Then, looking into the kitchen,
"Grédel! Grédel! bring Hullin's parcel."
A little woman appeared, and put down on the table a roll of
sheepskins. Jean-Claude passed his stick through it, and lifted it
over his shoulder.
"What, you are going to leave us so soon?"
"Yes, Wittmann. The days are short, and the roads difficult through
the forests after six o'clock. I must get back early."
"Then a safe journey to you, Master Jean-Claude."
Hullin left, and crossed the square, turning away his face from the
convoy, which still remained before the church.
The innkeeper from his window watched him hurrying away, and thought to
himself, "How white he looked on entering; he could hardly keep
upright. It is queer that such a sturdy man, and an old soldier too,
should not have energy enough for a cat. As for me, I would see fifty
regiments go by on those carts without minding it any more than I did
my first pipe."
CHAPTER IV
MADAME LEFÈVRE
While Hullin was learning the disaster of our armies, and was walking
slowly, his head bent, and an anxious expression on his face, toward
the village of Charmes, everything went on as usual at the farm of
Bois-de-Chênes. No one thought of Yégof's wonderful stories, or of the
war: old Duchêne led his oxen to their drinking-place, the herdsman
Robin turned over their litter; Annette and Jeanne skimmed their
curdled milk. Only Catherine Lefèvre was silent and gloomy--thinking
of days gone by--all the while superintending with an impassible face
the occupations of her domestics. She was too old and too serious to
forget from one day to another what had so much troubled her. When
night came on, after the evening's repast, she entered the great room,
where her servants could hear her drawing the large register-book from
the closet and putting it on the table, to sum up her accounts, as she
was in the habit of doing.
They soon began to load the cart with corn, vegetables, and poultry:
for the next day there was a market at Sarrebourg, and Duchêne had to
start early.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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