CHAPTER IX. A LETTER FROM PIERRE. "Kind messages that pass from land to land; One touch of fire, and all the rest is mystery!" LONGFELLOW. ONE bright afternoon, about a week after the eventful 4th September, while Madame Laforce had gone out to purchase provisions, and Louis was, as usual, occupied with his military duties, Josephine was seated near the window, sadly and silently working-the only other occupant of the room being her grandmother, who was knitting in that regular mechanical way which is peculiar to old people. Josephine was naturally thinking of Pierre. Was he a prisoner in some German town? or was he buried among a heap of slain comrades on one of the battle-fields around Sedan? or had he escaped? Some had, she knew, for General Vinoy had only arrived at Paris, the day before yesterday, with a corps which had successfully retreated from that scene of disaster. But of Pierre she had heard nothing, so he could not be among them. She was immersed in such thoughts as these, when there was a knock at the door; she hastened to it, and the postman stood before her in his green uniform, with his well-arranged tray of letters and newspapers. "Mdlle. Laforce, is it not? Well, here is a letter for youunpaid-forty centimes, if you please, mademoiselle." Josephine snatched it from his hands. Yes! it was Pierre's writing; the letters were badly formed, the ink very pale, and the letter rather dirty. "A letter from Pierre, grandmother!" she exclaimed. "Thank God! thank God, he still lives!" -and she clasped her hands and raised her eyes to heaven. "Forty centimes, if you please, mademoiselle," repeated the postman, who was accustomed to such scenes, and had been quite forgotten by Josephine in her happiness. "Here's half a franc," she said, handing it to him; "never mind the change." She was so anxious to be alone and able to read the letter in peace. As soon as he had gone and the door was shut, she tore it open; it was not easy to read, for it was so badly written and on such a dirty piece of half-torn and crumpled paper. She read it aloud very slowly to her grandmother. It was as follows: "DEAR JOSEPHINE,-Thank God, I am still alive. I could not write to you before, though I wished to do so every day. I cannot describe to you all I have endured and suffered. It has been nothing but misery and defeat everywhere. First I was at Chalons; then we marched hither and thither, we knew not where, till we were half dead with fatigue, and our clothes and boots were quite worn out. We often passed the night in the rain, without any covering. We fought the Prussians very bravely, but we were always outnumbered, and had to retreat. Alas! war is very terrible. I never thought I should witness such scenes as I have done during the last weeks. Well, then we came to Sedan. It is a fortified town, surrounded by hills ; here the Emperor was, and here the Prussians came upon us from all sides. We were beaten everywhere, because we were betrayed and had so few troops. The Emperor and all his army had to surrender, and are gone as prisoners to Germany. I escaped, God be praised! with several of my comrades; we had been in the thickest of the fray and had fought like lions. I saw so many of my friends cut down and shot by my side. Oh! I shed many tears—I could not help it. I was slightly wounded in the arm. It was evening; we crept among some trees, and in the night we got away in the darkness. Some of my comrades went over to Belgium, but I would not. I wished to fight again for France, and kept among the woods, of which there are many in that neighbourhood. I knew that if I was captured by the Prussians I should probably be shot, so I was very cautious. My wound, though slight, gave me great pain; but whenever I ventured to enter a village, the people were kind to me and gave me food-if they had any to give—so I wandered on till I knew I was quite out of reach of the Prussians, and went and joined the first French regiment I could find. I am now at Troyes, but where I shall go next, who can tell? Our army is disorganized. I belong to a company made up of fugitives. As my wound has been neglected, I shall not be fit for much service for some days. Alas! alas! Oh! that I could have reached Paris to be among the defenders of our beautiful capital during the siege! Then, Josephine, I could have seen you every day, but now I am troubled enough about you. You will have much suffering, I fear, during the siege, and we shall hear nothing more of each other for a long, long time, for no letters will get in or out of the city; and my poor father at Dinan, he will take it to heart so much, all these reverses of our army. And how he must have grieved, not having heard from me all this time! He will think I am killed, or a prisoner in Germany. I have written to him now, and hope he will be comforted. God bless you, Josephine, and your mother and Louis! May He protect you all during the siege! You won't expect to hear from me again, but pray for us poor soldiers every day, and for success to the arms of our unhappy country. Farewell, dear Josephine! From your affectionate "PIERRE." This letter was indeed a great relief to Josephine's mind. When, some time after, her mother and Louis came home, they saw at once, from her bright eyes and cheerful expression of countenance, that some happy circumstance must have occurred during their absence. They heartily shared her joy when they read the letter. It was quite an event in that little household, and nothing else was talked about for some days. "He is a brave fellow, that Pierre," said Louis; "you may well be proud of him, Josephine. But he won't like our Republic, I can tell you, any more than grandmother does." "Nor than I do either, Louis," said Josephine. "As for me," said Louis, "I begin to agree with Camille that this Republic is all sham. What we want, he says, is the Commune." "And the guillotine too, I suppose?" said his mother. "Well, no, I don't want that, and I hardly think Camille would go so far," said Louis, rather abashed. "Alas "Alas!" said the grandmother, shaking her head. for France! Shall I live to see all the horrors of 1792 over again? I fear it, when I see how our young men forsake their religion and deny their God! How vicious, how corrupt, are all orders of society! There is no discipline in our army, no obedience to the Government, no principle of authority anywhere recognized! You know, Louis, I am not Imperialist; I am for our lawful king, the descendant of St. Louis, Henri V. But why was the Empire upset the other day because the Emperor was unfortunate? Do such things take place in other countries? Are monarchs dethroned by their subjects when they suffer a defeat? No; it is only we fickle, degraded, irreligious people, who make ourselves a laughing-stock to the world by our revolutions, who act thus. I mourn for my country, I grieve for my people, capable of so much that is good; the noblest, bravest nation in the world, led astray by false teachers and unprincipled demagogues, such as your Rochefort and Flourens, and a hundred other rascals." The old grandmother spoke with an energy and vigour such as latterly she had rarely shown; and Louis, who possessed that admirable virtue of respect for age—a distinctive and pleasing characteristic of the French people, happily not yet extinct- did not reply. They talked of Pierre and his prospects, political topics being dropped for the rest of the evening. Josephine now mingled thanksgivings with her prayers when she worshipped at St. Sulpice. She had become quite cheerful again; she no longer looked forward gloomily to the approaching siege. Might not Pierre be among the brave troops of the grand army which was to come from the south and west, as everybody said, to raise the siege, and deliver Paris? |