Part 58 (1/2)

Then the villagers put their heads together. Possibly the old turnpike-keeper was really ill. The more curious among the neighbours left the warm parlour of the inn, and tramped along the high-road in the biting east wind. They knocked at the door of the turnpike-keeper's little house, and tapped on the window shutters. Nothing could be heard but the sighing of the wind; and at last they turned away homewards.

But next morning the milk-pitcher was still absent, and there was no smoke from the chimney. The village-elder was then informed. He ordered out the gendarme, and sent a locksmith to force the door. Half the village went after them and crowded round the turnpike-keeper's cottage, so that the gendarme had some trouble in keeping the women and children at a distance.

The village-elder banged on the door with his fist and rattled the handle. ”Herr Vogt!” he cried, ”Herr Vogt! open the door!” And again: ”Herr Vogt! turnpike-keeper! open the door!” Then the gendarme, an old comrade in arms of the turnpike-keeper, called loudly; ”August! open the door! or let us know if you are ill!”

All was silent. The shutters were closed; the whole house seemed asleep.

Only the lowing of the cows sounded from their stable, and the rattling of their chains, as if they had heard the cries that could not awaken their old master.

Then the village-elder turned to the locksmith: ”We must break the door open.”

The lock was soon forced, but the door would only open an inch or two; an iron bar had been fixed across it, but that was soon lifted.

A couple of young men were posted at the door to keep out the crowd, which thronged around the house in silent breathless curiosity.

The two officials stepped into the pa.s.sage. The gendarme pushed the kitchen-door open; the room was cold as ice. On the hearth a handful of broken sticks had been placed, and the match-box lay beside them ready for kindling the fire.

The front room was darkened by the closed shutters, and a close smell as from a vault met them when the door was opened. There sat the turnpike-keeper at the table dead. His head had fallen forward; the body sat stiff and stark in the narrow arm-chair, and his hand, which had evidently been supporting his chin, was still raised, stiffened by the paralysis of death and by the icy cold. Papers of various kinds were spread out before the dead man: account-books, and gilt-edged testimonials dating from the turnpike-keeper's time in the army. Beside these were cardboard boxes filled with money, each neatly labelled: ”Money for milk,” ”Money for corn,” ”Money for cattle.” The old man had evidently taken them out of a cash-box which stood open before him, and at the bottom of which lay his medals and cross of honour.

The gendarme laid his hand on the shoulder of the dead man and said: ”You were just looking at your cross again, old comrade, were you, and then you fell asleep?”

The two men put the money and the papers back into the cash-box, which the village-elder placed in a cupboard that stood open. This he locked, and took possession of the key.

”There is something else,” cried the gendarme suddenly; and he pointed to a folded paper lying on a little table by the door.

”My last will and testament. To be opened immediately,” was written on the doc.u.ment in the rather shaky but distinct handwriting of the turnpike-keeper. The ”immediately” was underlined three times.

Well, the injunction was plain enough; and the two officials did not hesitate to comply with it. They had the legal right to do so, and besides they were extremely curious.

The paper was not even sealed up. It contained nothing at all extraordinary. Old Vogt desired in case of his death that the crippled neighbour who had sometimes helped him to look after the place should keep everything in order until his son returned from his military service. He was to have the money obtained from the sale of the milk as a reward for his trouble. Then the will continued: ”Everything I have belongs, of course, to my dear son Franz. The expenses of my burying are to be defrayed from the money contained in the box labelled 'funeral money.' I wish to have a very simple funeral, and desire particularly that my son shall only be informed of my death after the ceremony is over, in case it should happen before February 3rd next year.”

”We shook our heads over that,” said the village-elder to Franz. ”It seemed so funny that he should have fixed upon a date.” He coughed and went on in an embarra.s.sed way. ”Now of course we know that your father did not want us to hear of your--misfortune, at least as long as he was still above ground. Well, well, it has not been so bad after all, according to what your captain told me.”

The superintendent of the prison cut him short rather nervously: ”That has nothing to do with the case, sir, has it?”

Thereupon the peasant proceeded with his narrative. After they had left the dead man, of course the first thing was to see to the cows. The pigs had eaten all the straw in their sty and the poultry had rushed like mad things upon the grain that was given them.

Everything was in order, and he, the village-elder, would see to it that it was kept so. Besides, old Wackwitz was an honest, stupid sort of fellow; he was quite to be trusted.

For the funeral, of course, everything had been arranged according to the dead man's desire. But the old sergeant was not buried without having the three salutes fired over his grave. And the lord of the manor, in his uniform, with two old warriors of 1870-71, headed the procession of mourners.

Franz Vogt sat on the bench in his dark cell and wept hot tears for his father's death. The poor fellow had indeed grounds for lamenting his fate. Death had taken from him first his friend and then his father.

Was he always to be lonely?

During the frosty days of winter Vogt had hardly set eyes upon his regimental comrade Wolf. But now a few days of damp weather brought the severe frost prematurely to an end. There was a sudden change one night at the end of January, and next morning the smiling sun beamed down from a clear blue sky upon the surprised, drowsy earth.

The military prisoners at once began their daily work again upon the big parade-ground. The snow had to be removed before it could melt and settle in pools upon the ground they had so carefully levelled. In the grey morning twilight, therefore, a little troop of prisoners, with old cloaks over their prison clothes, were set to work as usual, surrounded by the armed sentries.

For Vogt and Wolf it was a meeting after a long separation. The peasant recounted the particulars of his father's death; not without a certain pride in the unusual circ.u.mstances under which the old man had met his end in self-appointed loneliness.