Part 11 (1/2)
This time Jean did not see his uncle's profile; he saw his full face, and its expression was a little anxious.
”My boy, I did that purposely,” said M. Ulrich. ”When you questioned me, I told you what we were and what we are. And then I saw that I must not insist too much, because you would be full of grief. You see, grief is good for me; but for you, youth, it is better that you should start off like the horses which have not yet run a race, and only carry a very slight weight.”
The last house was pa.s.sed. They were in the country, between a stream strewn with many boulders, and a steep slope which joined the forest up above.
”Too late,” said Jean Oberle, holding out his hand and stopping, ”too late; you have said too much, Uncle Ulrich. I feel I belong to the older times, as you do. And so much the worse, as to-morrow I go up to the Schlucht. I shall see her--I shall say good day to our country of France!”
He laughed as he uttered these words. M. Ulrich shook his head once or twice to scold him, but without answering, and he went away into the mist.
CHAPTER VI
THE FRONTIER
The next day Jean started in the morning on foot to go to the cutting bought by the House of Oberle, which was situated on the crest of the mountains, enclosing the valley, to the left of the neck of the Schlucht, in the forest of Stosswihr. The way was long--the soil made slippery by a recent shower; besides, Jean lost several hours in going round a great rock he ought to have climbed.
The afternoon was well advanced when he came to a wood cabin at the place where the road ended: just the time to talk to the German foreman who directed, under the supervision of the forest administration, the felling and transport of the firs; and the young man, continuing his climb, pa.s.sed the workmen from the timber-yard coming down before the end of the day, to regain the valley. The sun, still splendid, was about to disappear on the other side of the Vosges. Jean was thinking with a beating heart of the frontier now quite near; however, he would not ask the way of the men who saluted him in pa.s.sing, for he prided himself on hiding his emotions, and his words might have betrayed him before this gang of woodcutters released from work, and curious at the meeting. He entered the cutting they had just left. Around him the pine-trees, branchless and despoiled of their bark, were lying on the slopes, which they seemed to light up by the whiteness of their trunks. They had rolled--and stopped--one could not see why. At other times they had made a barrier and placed themselves pell-mell like spilikins on a game board. In the high forest there only remained one workman, an old man dressed in dark clothes who, kneeling, tied up in his handkerchief, a store of mushrooms he had gathered. When he had finished tying the ends of the red stuff with his clumsy fingers he got up, pushed his woollen cap well on to his head, and began to descend, with long strides over the moss, his mouth open to the odour of the forests.
”Ah,” said Jean, ”one minute, my man.”
The man between two immense pine trunks, himself the colour of the bark, turned his head.
”Which is my nearest way to get to the neck of the Schlucht?”
”Go down by the waterfall, the way I go, and then turn up again. But do not go up there another two hundred yards, for then you go down into France; you will find paths which will lead you to the Schlucht. Good evening!”
”Good evening!”
The words rang out, soon lost in the vast silence. But one of them went on speaking to Jean Oberle's heart: ”You will go down into France.” He was in a hurry to see her, this mysterious France, which held such a large place in his dreams, in his life--she, who had destroyed the unity of his family because the older members, some of them at least, remained faithful to her charms. France, for whom so many Alsatians had died and for whom so many others were waiting and whom they were loving with that silent love which makes hearts sad.
So near him--she from whom he had been so jealously kept--she for whom Uncle Ulrich, M. Bastian, his mother, his grandfather Philippe, and thousands and thousands of others said a prayer every night!
In a few minutes he had reached the top and begun his descent on the other side. But the trees formed a thick curtain round him. And he began to run to find a road and a free s.p.a.ce to see France. He took pleasure in sliding down and letting himself almost fall, head foremost, seeking the desired opening. On this side of the mountain the sun was touching the earth; here and there the air was still warm; but the pines always made a wall.
”Halt!” cried a man, showing himself suddenly, and coming out from behind the trunk of a tree. Jean went on running some steps--carried away by the impetus. Then he came back to the customs official who had called to him. Then the man, who was a brigadier, young and squat, with defective eyes, a little wild, two locks of yellow hair framing the thick-set face--the real type of a man of the Vosges, looked at the young man and said:
”Why the devil did you run? I thought you were a smuggler.”
”I was trying to find a place to see a landscape in France....”
”Does that interest you? You are from the other side?”
”Yes.”
”Not a Prussian all the same?”
”No; an Alsatian.”
The man smiled slightly and said, ”That is better!”