I then visited my brother-in-law, the parson, who lived a few miles further on. He spoke of nothing but the excellent behavior of the soldiers that had been quartered on them. They went to church on Sundays and joined in the singing; and officers of high rank had been there, too. He seemed nervous, and did not dare to express his joy--either because he feared the maid-servant who was going in and out, or else because he disliked to lay bare his thoughts. It was only while walking in the woods that he unbosomed himself. I do not like to repeat what he related, as I preferred not to believe his story. He told me that the French government had received the assurance from the priesthood, that the South Germans would not take the field against France. I do not believe this, but it is the current opinion, and so I feel forced to repeat it. He also said that the beggars from the Catholic villages of the vicinity had, for some time past, ceased asking for alms. They had walked around boldly in his village, selecting the houses they intended to occupy as soon as the Protestants had been exterminated. Thus wickedly had religion been mixed up with this war. "The thought of Germany," said the parson, "always seemed to me like a silent, yea, a criminal dream. Now I see it realized in broad daylight. We are like the prodigal son of Scripture, but the truant in Alsace is this time not in fault, and it is that which makes his return to his home so painful. I have often thought that the father of the prodigal must have offended against his son, although the Scriptures do not say so, otherwise he would not have been thus afflicted." He was merely drawing a parallel, yet he made my heart beat with the thought of Ernst. The father of the prodigal son is also at fault. What had I been guilty of? When we returned from our walk, we were told that a French soldier, who had served his time, had called to see me; he had not given his name, and would return. Who can he be? I must wait to find out. But I met a man in the village whom I had forgotten. The advocate Offenheimer, Annette's brother, met me, and his first words were, "You are a great consolation to me. Come with me and give my son an escort." I now perceived that his only son had fallen, and that the father desired him to be buried in the Jewish cemetery here. As he divined my thoughts, he said, "It is true, I could not allow them to bury my son out there with the others; but it is, perhaps, well if there is some sign here of our having fairly and joyfully taken our part in the fight. Perhaps it will have a mollifying effect upon our new countrymen of the Jewish faith, who were particularly contumacious." I was astounded to find the man so placid. But, as if guessing my thoughts, he said he had no more strength for complaints and tears, and that a fact must at last be accepted.