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Bronson Tweed Publishing
The Garden of Swords
The Garden of Swords
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CONTENTS
Book I
MAN AND WIFE
CHAPTER
PAGE
I. Père Bonot reads the “Courrier” 1
II. At the Place Kleber 10
III. “A Looming Bastion” 25
IV. At the Châlet of the Niederwald 33
V. The Herald of the Storm 49
VI. The Last Day of July 56
VII. “Those Others” 67
VIII. Over the Hearts of France 83
IX. The Fugitive 90
X. Waiting 102
XI. The Hussars are at Gunstett 108
Book II
BATTLE
XII. The Blood-Red Day of Wörth 115
XIII. The Death Ride 131
XIV. Night 148
XV. A Bivouac of Dragoons 162
XVI. The Promise 166
XVII. The City of the Golden Mists 176
Pg viii
Book III
THE SIEGE
XVIII. The First Days 191
XIX. A Face at the Window 201
XX. The Beginning of the Terror 211
XXI. The Rue de l’Arc-en-Ciel 220
XXII. “La Pauvre” 239
XXIII. The Night of Truce 248
XXIV. An Ultimatum 260
XXV. Confession 268
XXVI. The Light in the Window 274
XXVII. Accusation 287
XXVIII. “If Strasburg Falls” 297
XXIX. The Letter 307
XXX. In the House of Laroche 313
XXXI. “There is Night in the Hills” 324
CHAPTER I
PÈRE BONOT READS THE “COURRIER”
Old Père Bonot, sunning himself before the doors of a café by the minster, held the Courrier du Bas-Rhin in his hand, and vouchsafed to Rosenbad, the brewer, and to Hummel, the vintner, such particulars of the forthcoming wedding as he found to be good. A glass of coffee stood at Père Bonot’s elbow; his blue spectacles rested high upon a forehead where no wrinkles sat; the smoke from his cigarette hung in little white clouds about his iron-grey hair. He sat before the great cathedral of Strasburg; but the paper and its words carried him away to a little village of the mountains where, forty years ago, he had knelt at the altar with Henriette at his side, and an old priest had blessed him, and he had gone out to the sunny vineyards, hand in hand with[2] his girl-wife to their home in a forest of the Vosges. There were tears in old Bonot’s eyes when he took up the Courrier again.
“Nevertheless, my friends,” said he, covering his retreat with a great show of folding the paper and setting his glasses, “nevertheless—her mother was a French woman! Marry the devil to a good girl—and, as the saying goes, there is no more devil. I remember Marie Douay—twenty, twenty-two years ago. I saw her at Görsdorf with Madame Hélène, a little brunette, always gay, always laughing; a bird to cage in Paris; a bird of the gardens and not of the mountains. When she married the Englishman, milord Hamilton, who had lived for two years in the Broglie here, was it for me to be surprised? Nom d’un gaillard, I was not surprised at all. The eagle to the mountains, the gold-breast to the cage. Certainly we were too sleepy for Marie Douay. She went to London with milord—et après—”
Book I
MAN AND WIFE
CHAPTER
PAGE
I. Père Bonot reads the “Courrier” 1
II. At the Place Kleber 10
III. “A Looming Bastion” 25
IV. At the Châlet of the Niederwald 33
V. The Herald of the Storm 49
VI. The Last Day of July 56
VII. “Those Others” 67
VIII. Over the Hearts of France 83
IX. The Fugitive 90
X. Waiting 102
XI. The Hussars are at Gunstett 108
Book II
BATTLE
XII. The Blood-Red Day of Wörth 115
XIII. The Death Ride 131
XIV. Night 148
XV. A Bivouac of Dragoons 162
XVI. The Promise 166
XVII. The City of the Golden Mists 176
Pg viii
Book III
THE SIEGE
XVIII. The First Days 191
XIX. A Face at the Window 201
XX. The Beginning of the Terror 211
XXI. The Rue de l’Arc-en-Ciel 220
XXII. “La Pauvre” 239
XXIII. The Night of Truce 248
XXIV. An Ultimatum 260
XXV. Confession 268
XXVI. The Light in the Window 274
XXVII. Accusation 287
XXVIII. “If Strasburg Falls” 297
XXIX. The Letter 307
XXX. In the House of Laroche 313
XXXI. “There is Night in the Hills” 324
CHAPTER I
PÈRE BONOT READS THE “COURRIER”
Old Père Bonot, sunning himself before the doors of a café by the minster, held the Courrier du Bas-Rhin in his hand, and vouchsafed to Rosenbad, the brewer, and to Hummel, the vintner, such particulars of the forthcoming wedding as he found to be good. A glass of coffee stood at Père Bonot’s elbow; his blue spectacles rested high upon a forehead where no wrinkles sat; the smoke from his cigarette hung in little white clouds about his iron-grey hair. He sat before the great cathedral of Strasburg; but the paper and its words carried him away to a little village of the mountains where, forty years ago, he had knelt at the altar with Henriette at his side, and an old priest had blessed him, and he had gone out to the sunny vineyards, hand in hand with[2] his girl-wife to their home in a forest of the Vosges. There were tears in old Bonot’s eyes when he took up the Courrier again.
“Nevertheless, my friends,” said he, covering his retreat with a great show of folding the paper and setting his glasses, “nevertheless—her mother was a French woman! Marry the devil to a good girl—and, as the saying goes, there is no more devil. I remember Marie Douay—twenty, twenty-two years ago. I saw her at Görsdorf with Madame Hélène, a little brunette, always gay, always laughing; a bird to cage in Paris; a bird of the gardens and not of the mountains. When she married the Englishman, milord Hamilton, who had lived for two years in the Broglie here, was it for me to be surprised? Nom d’un gaillard, I was not surprised at all. The eagle to the mountains, the gold-breast to the cage. Certainly we were too sleepy for Marie Douay. She went to London with milord—et après—”
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