The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXI, Issue 20, 14 May 1903, Page 23

The Storyteller

• THE AFTERMATH OF WAR.

Antoine Verdeali, the cobbler of Angeldorf, sat smoking his long pipe at his cottage door. It was a pleasant evening in July and the streets of the httlu town WKio full of pvople eager to get a breath of cool air after the intolerable heat of the day. Some as they passed .saluted Verdeau ; but, as he either ignored thengreetings or simply nodded his head with gloomy indifference, no one felt encouraged to stop and talk with him. Between himself jind all the rest of Angeldorf there had long been a barrier of reser\e ; far what had he to do with tho foolish, chattering township, its petty interests, its miserably short, memory ? His only concern in the few years of life that remained to him was to think, to brood, to remember. Thirty years ago, and it seemed but yesterday ! Thirty years ; so long ? He felt he was getting old, and the fear froze at his heart lest the shadows should gather round him ere his o-reat dream was realised. Yes, it was thirty years since tho bombardment of Angeldorf. Verdeau, then in the prime of life, had been Bpared the barbarous spectacle. He was away at the time, far from wife and child, fighting for his beloved France with the army of the Loire. He leceLved Uio awful tidings, which had turned the whole current of his life, Irom the lips of a comrade during tho dark hours of bi\ ouac ; how his littlo Alphonse, then his only child, had been killed outright by a German shell ; and how another missile had struck and shattered the wall of tho new house which he had built with the hardearned sa%ings of his daily toil. As he thought of it all again — when was he not thinking of it ? — he became greatly agitated, and his eyer grew dim. It would drive him mad in time, this silent brooding. He must fly from his thoughts, if that were possible. Rising suddenly from his chair, ho put his pipe aside and hobbled down the garden path into the street. He tottered aa he walked , ho was getting more feeble every year. Adjoining tho cottage garden was a strip of land which he bad bought for building purposes many, many years ago. Jt lay neglected and full of rubbish, for the misfortunes which had o'^ertaken old Verdeau had paralysed most of his energies, dnerting those that remained into one channel, concentrating them upon ono great ideal — that of La Revanche ' At tho extreme end of this fallow land stood the house which he had built, intending it for Alphonse when he grew to be a man — the house which the Germans had made a target for their cruel shells. The old man paused, contemplating the .structure in silence. It was much larger than the cottage where he lived, having all the pretensions of a villa But signs of delapidation were everywhere , the windows were broken, the insido walls were" damp and mildewed and the moitar in places was crumbling away. The house was, as it had always boon, untenanted, and the ragged aperture at the top of the outer wall, where the shell had piercod, went unrepaired So it would remain as long as Antoine Verdeau bad his way. As he ga'/ed at the unsightly breach a look of bitterness came into his eyes : not tho bitterness which a man feels for a paiticular enemy, but the large hatied which one whose spiiit is unbroken by defeat might feel for a whole conquoi ing race. The gap should never be filled up Ho had sworn it. Ne\or, until Lo Revanche had come Till then it should remain, to remind Alsaco of her shame, France of her duty : a sign and a token, concrete, tangible, insistent ' Some fools in Angeldorf had many times advised him to repair the wall and put the house in order. Ah, they did not understand — those cravens ' It would bring in rent — something for Victorine's dowry, they said. But he had always spumed their miserly advice; — the German slaves ' Silently brooding, he retraced hi 5 ? steps through the growing dusk The light from a lamp insido glimmered through the diamond-shaped panes of the cottage window ; and on entering old Verdeau found the table laid for the evening meal A young woman, of twenty-five years or thereabouts, set tho old man's chair near tho table. Plump and well-formed, with fair hair and grayish blue eyes, and an even, pleasant expression of face, she might ha\e passed for a German maiden. So appearances can deceive : there was not a drop of Teutonic blood in her veins She was Antoine Verdeau's dauchter The old man rank into the chair listlessly and sipped his glass of cheap wine, while the girl repeated rapidly the more important items from her budget of town gossip. A thin smile played round her lather's lips aa she rattled on. 'So tha-t is what thov say ° he remaiked You gather gossip as the boos (rather honey. Victorine Indeed, you hear so nmichi, perhaps you can tell me if the new station master is appointed \et 9 ' ' Tho station master *> ' she echoed, in a tone of surprise ' Why, ho came neatly two months ago.' 'I hadn't hoard.' said Verdeau, wearily. ' Thoi o is little to interest me in Anpoldorf now But who is tho man ? An Alsatian, I hope ' From the eagerness of his look Victorine knew that she was on dangerous ground. ..■■■■■■■■«ii^nw

I think not, father,' she said. 'In fact '—his searching glance compelled the truth—' I—lI — 1 know 'tis not so. The new station master is Hen* Bauer.' A fierce expression leaped from the cobbler's lips. A German !' he cried, with supreme contempt, ' I thought as much.' ' But not a Prussian, father,' Victorine exclaimed. ' Herr Bauer is out of Bavaria.' 'lhe old patriot looked at her with contemptuous pity. 'If a lion had attacked you, girl,' he retorted, • would you ask what breed it was? Prussian or Bavaliciu, 'tis all the same. And how docs the township take this latest insult to France ? With its wonted ser\ility, 1 warrant, smiling back its thanks for every lash of Lhe German taskmaster ! ' • Herr Bauer seems to be popular in Angeldorf,' the girl ventured timidly. Her father shrugged his shoulders. ' You have seen him ? ' he asked. 'He has been at the Derniers once or twice/ she replied. ' Yes, 1 have met him there.' She rose quickly from her chair. 1 And of course you lik him, with the rest ? ' he returned, sarcastically. 'It would not be Victorine if she were not in the fashion ! ' The girl reddened. 'He seems to be an agreeable man,' she said ; ' but even if he were otherwise, I don't see how it can concern me, father,' she added naively. ' Pierre Michel should have had the Job,' testily cried, the old man. 'He is an Alsatian born and bred ; but there was no one in the place to speak a word for him. Angeldorf fears the oppressor too much for that. It has come to bohe-\e thot La Revanche is an idle cry — that she will ne\er come. But she will come,' he cried, with wild intensity, lifting his eyes and talking to tho ceiling rather than to Victorine ; ' she shall come.' 'So you have always said, father,' was the girl's response ; ' but how long the time seems ! ' ' Only to those who have lost hope and courage,' he replied, solemnly. ' Thanks to the good God, I have both still, Victorine. Though I am sometimes impatient, 1 feel in my heart that the hour is not yet ripe. But that hour will come, child, and with it the man— the new Napoleon, the saviour of France, the liberator of Alsaco. Oh, if my boy had only lived, this glorious mission might have been his ! ' Little Alphonse, whose death had first kindled and afterward kept alive the idea of La Revanche in the old pati lot's bosom, had become tho very genius of the great event, so long delayed, which would stanch the wounds of France and recover her lost provinces. It was the cobbler's fond hope that this bright boy, inheriting his father's zeal, would have acquired tho culture to shape its promptings. To Paris he would have in the flower of his manhood, no peevish railer at destiny, but tho \ictor over incredible obstacles. With convincing ioice he would ha\ c rendered articulate the vague aspirations of the people for re'tengo , and perhaps — such \\<is the fond parent's conceit — wotild even have headed the attack against the hereditary foe. The death of her brother, whom Victorine had never known, was the solo means by which she could obtain any conception of the central idea which dominated her father's mind. In all other respects La Revanche was unintelligible to her. Born a full fhe years after the war, she unconsciously accepted Herman ascendancy as part of tho established order of things ; a French Alsace was historically too remote to be passionately apprehended ' Why not let the matter rest ? ' she thought. Like her mother, who had died in giving her birth, she shrank fioni the idea of war between the nations. Of an eminently ]i\uticnl bent, she considered her father's preference tor cobbling shoes in penury instead of repairing the house which the shell had shattered a sad piece of infatuation To sum up the matter, there was little «uinj^sti\e of La Revanche about Victorine except her name, which contained, as it were, the promise of the fulfilment of her father's hopes. Immersed, as he so often was, in dreamy speculations, Antoino Verdeau was nevertheless keen enough to perceive that his daughter was no enthusiast. She had imbibed instead the lethargy of the township, and as a consequence he seldom spoke of his ideas to her. But that last blow to French pride — the appointment of a Gorman .station master in a town so near the frontier as- Angi'ldoi f — affected him so acutely that he was obliged to to Ik ' I saw Piorie Michel pass to-day,' ho said a few da^ s- Inter 'He should have had the post.' ' But is ho a more capable man than Herr Bauer ? r Vu tonne asked, somewhat needlessly, for she know Fieri c Lo be a hopeless ne'er-do-well. ' T7e is an Alsatian,' was the curt response. The reason was much too sentimental to appeal to \ lctonno, and she found herself, before she was well aw me ol it, blundering into an advocacy of the Bavarian's claims ' People say. father, that Herr Bauer is well up to his work,' she observed, with some warmth. 'He has been sergeant in the Eisenbnhn regiment, and has a good recoi d ' ' AMieie did you hear all this, girl *> ' Verdeau asked impatiently ' Ah, T see— you have met him again? ' Victorine a\oidod her father's ga'/e. ' Yes— last night — at the Bermers,' she replied, in a low voice. ' Why does he go there so much ? ' he inqiiired, fiercely ' ' And what does old Bernier menrt by encouraging him *> As* a lover for the fair Julie, penhaps Ha ' ha ! 'Tis glorious,' he shouted. ' The Deutschers have made their conquest complete. Wo give them our sons for their army, our daughters for their wives. They have conquered us body and soul ! '

At the conclusion of this outburst Victorine's cheeks were flaming red. ' What are you saying, father ? ' she cried. ' The new station master marry Julie Bernier ? Eugene marry her ! Never ! ' The intensity of her voice caused him to look up suddenly, and the telltale flush on her cheek, was revealed to him. Victorine had betrayed her secret— that secret which she had so jealously guarded for a wholo month. Antoine Verdeau sank back in his chair like one smitten with the palsy. ' Victorine ' ' he said. in a hoaise whisper, ' you yourself love this man— this Prussian ? ' She threw herself at his feet. ' Not Prussian,' she protested vehemently, ' but Bavarian. He is different from all other Germans, for he hates the Pruasiaus and admires France and her brave people.' Apparently ho did not hear this passionate protest, or even notice the distress which the sudden disclosure of her love had caused her. He simply looked down upon her sadly, reproachfully, as at some weak and unworthy object — such a look in his eyes as a schoolmaster might give a child who was unable to grasp a theme to him so simple. Then he left her to her tears, and slowly ascended the creaking staircase. When he reached his bedroom at the back of the cottage he threw open the window and looked out. Tho white radiance of the moon rendered all the more prominent objects of the landscape plainly visible. Ho could see the clearing in the forest which ran up to the borders of Angeldorf, and near by glistened one of the white stones marking the frontier line. Suddenly, as if by magic, his illusion fell away from him, and the bubble of his dream was burst. He realised for the first time since the war the mad futility of it all. The landmarks yonder set by the Germans — the forest clearing, the white stones — were fixed and immovable. La Re-vanche would never come. He had been a fool for cherishing his hopes so long. France cared nothing for her lost provinces. Her glory had departed ; she was supine and asleep. The occasional frontier troubles, the restiveness of a few Alsatians under the conqueror's iron decrees, Boulanger the charlatan, that overpraised alliance with Russia, the verses of Paul Deroulede, the stagy heroics of a few hot-headed Parisians — wheie did all these things lead ? Nowhere. The ideal was burned out, and these •were the miserable flickerings from its smouldering embers. He heard Victorine sobbing in tho next room, and a great pity surged at his heart. He had never tried to understand the girl. Leaving her to her own de\ices, he had hved with La Revanche, and cared for no one else Small wonder, then, that to escape his dreary society Victorine had thrown herself into the arms of the foe Before he fell asleep he had again become the Antoino Verdeau of the days before the war , the practical tradesman, intent upon affairs, eager to save and acquire, to benefit his family What had worked the miracle ? It may have been hia daughter's grief or tho strange, immutable look of the frontier stones in the cold moonlight. He could not tell. When he awoke he felt numbed and listless The dream which had fed his Aitality had departed There was a marked change in the girl ps well Hei vivacity was gone She no longer gathered gossip as the bees gather honey ; no longer lavishly retailed it Subdued and careworn, she went about her duties mechanically , and when her father would have spoken her tho mute appeal for silence in her eyes restrained him For a whole week, she remained indoors, and then one balmy summer even mar f-he went out of the cottage, leaving the old man still at his work. Sho letumed late, her eyes bearing traces of recent tears Then it was that Verdeau fo/und it within him to break the silence. 'You ha\e been to the Beniers', Victorine ° ' he said"! ' Yes.' He hesitated a moment, and then inquired, ' You have seen him again — the station master ? ' Yes,' she replied, in a level voice. 'He astod me to be his wife ' Her father showed no surprise ' You consented "> ' She caught her breath. ' No, I refused ' 'Ah ' ' he breathed heavily ' But why ° ' ' I gave no reason,' she replied, in the samo monotone ' But ' — her voice now faltered — ' I think he guessed. He says— he is coming to see you to-monow ' 'He shall have his answer,' said Veidoau quietly. 'You love him. Victorine 9 ' The unwonted tenderness in his voice caused lv r to look up suddenly. There was a new light in hei father's eyes, which showed him to be no longer the patriot busy with his dreams, no longer the recluse hugumg his burden of bitter memories, but tho man and the father eager to perceive and sympathise with the desires and weaknesses of a woman's heart. She threw herself at his feet and kissed his hands with passionate energy ' Father • ' was all sho could Bay through her tears When Eugene Bauer entered the < ottage the next day he found Antoine Verdeau different indeed from the descriptions ghen of him by the Angeldorf townsfolk He was courteously received, and encouraged to talk' on matters dear to his heart : the 'hills of his nati\e country the glories of Munich, it 5 ? art, its music, even its beer' He spoke with the fire and animation of the South German, and revealed no trace of Prussian stolidity. But when these impersonal matters were left

behind, and the main business of his mission called for attention, his fluency forsook him, and it was only when Victorine entered the room, that he summoned up courage to speak.

But it was not to talk about Bavaria I came here to-day,' he said, hesitatingly, ' for their is another matter which affects me much more deeply. The fact is, Monsieur Verdeau, Victorine and 1 are in love with each other, and — and — '

' And so would marry ?' said the old man. ' Ah, monsieur, when there are two willing parties to a contract, what right has a third to stand in the way ?' Victorine uttered a glad cry at. her lo\ei mplicd in a burst of fervor, ' You make me the happiest man in the world, Monsieur Verdeau. But lam not wholly selfish in my joy. I know what Victorine is to you and I shall not take her far away. Why,' he cried, reassuringly, ' from here to the cottage at the station 'tis little more than a stone throw,'

' She need not live so far away as that,' said the old man, qjuietly. 'There is the house yonder. You see, monsieur, Victorine does not go to her husband quite dowerless.'

Victorine stared at the old man in amazement. ' But' father, that house was never to be repaired until La Revanche had come ! '

Antome Verdeau shook his head. 'La Revanche is dead, child. She will never com© now. You see, monsieur "—he turned to the station master—' it was my dream once.'

He smiled sadly, but there were tears in his eyes. Tho younger man bowed his head in respectful silence. He was a soldier and patriot, too, and so understood. And thus it was that Angeldorf lost that insistent reminder of its shame, and once more the havoc wrought through the hatred of the nations was repaired by tho love of a man for a maid — ' Chambers' Journal.'