Chapter 913: A Quiet Village
March 11th.
The outskirts of Vienna.
A warm spring breeze drifted through Trenheim Village, bowing the tender green stalks of grass in unison, like a mother’s hand gently stroking a child’s head. Everything felt remarkably tranquil and lazy.
In the small estate on the northwest side of the village, a marble fountain emitted a soft, rhythmic rustling sound.
Beside the pool, Mrs. Schérer sat beneath a short maple tree. Golden sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, dancing across the pages of the popular novel she held in her hands.
Her eyes scanned the French words, but she did not smile at the unfolding plot. Instead, a faint trace of fatigue lingered between her brows.
The Springer spaniel curled at Mrs. Schérer’s feet suddenly stood up. It wagged its tail vigorously at a tall, thin young man of about sixteen or seventeen with pale gray eyes who was just entering the courtyard.
"Mother, Mrs. Fink mentioned that you sent the servants to sow oats with the serfs?" The young man unbuckled his sword, tossed it to the waiting butler, and irritably loosened his cravat. He complained loudly, "Once we return to Vienna, everyone will treat this as a joke..."
"Hush—" Mrs. Schérer set her novel down and raised a hand to silence him. "Lukas, mind your manners."
"By the way, Mrs. Colombier is coming this afternoon to discuss your military service. You’ll need to help me arrange the drawing room later. Those chairs are quite heavy; I'll need your strong arms."
The young man curled his lip in protest. "I’m going riding later. Those are tasks for the maids."
Mrs. Schérer’s voice sharpened slightly. "Lukas, do not be willful. You know we are short-handed lately."
In truth, she hated having her son perform menial tasks beneath his station.
However, the Emperor had conscripted a large number of her family’s serfs for the battlefield, leaving the fields neglected.
With spring sowing in full swing, she had no choice but to order the household servants to help in the fields, or this year’s harvest would be disastrously impacted.
Her husband needed money to maintain their necessary dignity in Vienna, and expenses were mounting everywhere. If they didn't have the funds to grease the palms of the gentlemen on the military commission, Lukas might very well be drafted into the Imperial Guard.
If the harvest failed, this household would soon collapse.
Lukas grumbled, "I just hope David returns soon. The rewards the Emperor gives him will surely be enough to hire dozens of serfs. Then all these troubles would vanish."
David was his elder brother, a cavalry lieutenant in the Royal German Legion.
Mrs. Schérer recalled the letter her eldest son had sent the previous week, and the worry on her face softened slightly.
The letter claimed that the Emperor’s army in Northern Italy numbered over a hundred thousand, while the French had fewer than sixty thousand. The French had even been forced to abandon Trento.
She didn't know where Trento was, but she assumed Marshal Alvinczy would soon return in triumph.
Her David would come home with him.
Lukas stepped forward and tugged at her arm.
"Mother, when are we going back to Vienna? I really can’t stand staying in this wretched place any longer. No balls, no salons—good God!"
Mrs. Schérer sighed. The last time the French had approached Vienna, the fear had driven her whole family to flee to Trenheim Village.
At that time, the influx of refugees had caused local property prices to surge by forty or fifty percent. Fortunately, her family already owned this small estate in the village.
She thought of their former neighbor, Demann. His family had been forced to cram into a dilapidated farmhouse.
Although the French army had withdrawn more than two weeks ago, people were still haunted by lingering fear, preferring to wait and see how the situation developed.
She stroked her son’s sun-drenched hair. "Wait for your brother to return. Then we will all go back to Vienna together."
She sighed again. "I heard that Baron Trapp’s family fled to Pressburg. I hope this doesn't affect your engagement to Miss Alissa..."
As Mrs. Schérer was speaking, she suddenly heard the distant clanging of bells. She stood up abruptly, looking toward the village church with a sudden surge of tension.
Normally, such a tolling signaled that something significant had happened.
Lukas shouted excitedly, "Ah! It must be Marshal Alvinczy defeating those damned Frenchmen! I’ll go see!"
However, before he could reach the courtyard gate, Joslin, the family servant, came sprinting in. Drenched in sweat, he collided with the young master, sending him stumbling.
The servant didn't even seem to notice. He gestured wildly at Mrs. Schérer, gasping for breath.
"Ma... Madam! They’re saying Marshal Alvinczy was defeated by the French! Tens of thousands are dead, and tens of thousands more have been taken prisoner! Some are saying..."
Lukas grabbed the servant by the collar, his eyes wide. "What did you say? That’s impossible! You’re lying!"
Though her face was deathly pale, Mrs. Schérer maintained her composure. "Lukas, calm down! Joslin, what else did you hear?"
The servant swallowed hard, looking extremely agitated.
"They say Na... Na-whatever-his-name-is, that Frenchman, is leading a hundred thousand troops toward Vienna. It’s over! Everything is over!"
Mrs. Schérer interrupted him. "Stop shouting. It will be fine. Mantua is still very far from Vienna. The Marshals will surely find a way to stop the French."
She paused, then looked at her younger son. "Lukas, go prepare. We are leaving for Pressburg tomorrow morning."
Just then, the voice of the parish priest drifted in from outside the estate.
"Please inform Mrs. Schérer that the military commission has sent the casualty list. Please send someone to the square in front of the church..."
Indeed, it was this casualty list that had revealed the situation at the front to the villagers.
Mrs. Schérer didn't hear the priest’s following words. The book in her hand fell to the ground with a dull thud. She turned and rushed into the house.
Moments later, she emerged having hastily thrown on a coat and clutching her hat. She stared fixedly toward the church.
"Lukas, I... I’m going to see..."
The young man immediately followed her.
Since the family driver was away helping with the sowing, they walked for nearly half an hour along the village’s uneven paths before reaching the parish church.
The place was already crowded. People stood with their heads hanging low, and the sharp, piercing wails of grieving women periodically drifted from the bell tower.
A few priests were offering perfunctory comfort—there were simply too many people in need of it, and it was difficult to repeat the same words with genuine emotion dozens of times.
Joslin pushed through the crowd, clearing a path for Mrs. Schérer and her son to reach the base of the bell tower.
Several officers stood before several large wooden boards, pushing back those who leaned in too close. On the boards were posted over a dozen sheets of paper, each filled with names.
The names of the fallen.
At this moment, whether one was a serf, a free farmer, or a noble lord, there was no distinction—
They were all merely names on a page.
Well, there was one slight difference.
On the page listing the nobility, a beautiful decorative border framed the names.
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