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.
"A true man to the last!" said Wolf. But he could not even press his friend"s hand in sympathy.
Then Vogt began to speak of the day of release. For him that would soon come. He knew that every word must cut his comrade to the heart, for poor Wolf had still to endure long years of martyrdom in prison; but he could not help it. He could not restrain himself from expressing the great joy that filled his breast. He counted the hours and the minutes as they pa.s.sed, and could scarcely sleep at night.
Vogt walked with uplifted head and bright eyes; he handled his spade with cheerful zeal, and pushed his heavily-loaded wheelbarrow energetically. Would he not be a free man in a few days?
But Wolf compressed his lips together, and the brighter the sunshine the darker grew the cloud on his brow. His cheeks had fallen in more and more, and at the slightest exertion the sweat poured down his thin face. He looked ready to break down, and his eyes glowed with a feverish light.
"I shall never last it out," he whispered to Vogt one morning. "I shall go all to pieces. I would rather break away altogether and escape."
"You are mad," said Vogt. "Do you not see the sentries? You would not be able to get a hundred yards away."
Wolf looked at him. The chance of escape out of this narrow circle was indeed small. But he stuck to his project, adding: "What does it matter if I am shot down? Would that not be better than going on in this way for three more long years?"
Of a sudden his plan appeared to him in a new light. If his flight were unsuccessful, if a sentry"s bullet put a stop to it, would he not equally have suffered for his opinions? Would not this b.l.o.o.d.y sacrifice to the cause of revolution win new adherents? And would that not be better in the end than if he got free and lived out a painful existence in some foreign country?
Though formerly he had longed to be free at any price, death now shone before him as a desirable goal. Better that than to be crippled merely.
Next day he whispered to Vogt, "Next time that the Jagers are on duty I shall try it."
Vogt shook his head emphatically with a gesture of protest. His comrade must have gone clean out of his wits. And why should Wolf want to make the attempt just when the Jagers were mounting guard, the troops that were most proficient in shooting? It looked as if he were courting death.
The kind-hearted fellow set it before himself to dissuade his comrade from his intention. It would never do to let such a brave man commit suicide in a fit of despair. But he must manage it soon; in five days he himself would be free, and before that Wolf must give him his promise to abstain from his folly. Unfortunately the Jagers would be mounting guard the very next day.
As he pushed his loaded wheelbarrow before him he sought to meet Wolf"s eyes; his comrade also had just filled his barrow. Vogt pa.s.sed close by him, and signed to Wolf to come with him. But Wolf purposely remained behind and shook his head, smiling.
Soon afterwards they were called in. The prisoners put away their tools and their barrows, and Vogt stood waiting in the half-dark shed till the others were ready.
Suddenly he felt his hand gripped, and Wolf whispered in his ear: "Farewell, comrade, and keep true!"
Next minute the tall lean man had glided past him, and others had crowded between; it was impossible to get near him again.
On their way back to the prison he again intercepted a glance from Wolf. His comrade looked cheerful and triumphant, like one who has shaken off a heavy burden, and sees his future lie clear before him.
The guard that came on duty next morning in the parade-ground wore the green Jager uniform. One of the sentries, a smart young fellow with a carefully waxed black moustache and quick eyes, had on his breast the mark of distinction for shooting. He was doing this duty evidently for the first time, and he looked the prisoners up and down with a curious glance, as if they were some queer sort of wild beast. Then he took up his position, and marched stiffly beside the procession as they left the gate.
A thin mist covered the broad expanse of the big ground, but the sun soon dispelled the damp vapour, and shone down warm and unclouded.
Vogt looked anxiously at Wolf. But his comrade seemed to have given up his intention; he was bending diligently over his work, and had not even taken his place in the outside rank of workers, but was digging busily among the others. At a little distance from the prisoners the sentries strolled up and down their beat.
Presently an orderly from head-quarters came riding by on a dark-brown horse, which he was making step high in a stately manner as if on parade.
The Jager with the black moustache held his gun negligently on his shoulder and looked on with an interested expression. It was very boring to be always watching the prisoners messing about in the dirt.
Suddenly a lean figure detached itself from the little group of workmen--it was Wolf. With long strides he fled behind the sentry in the direction of the forest. The Jager had not even remarked his flight, and it was only the cry of the sergeant that drew his attention.
Then he hastily took the gun from his shoulder, made ready to fire, and cried the first "Halt!"
Wolf ran on without stopping. Then something happened which decidedly bettered the chances of the fugitive: the mounted orderly felt called upon to give chase. He set his horse to a gallop and dashed after the escaping prisoner.