Placid and heavy on their placid, heavy horses, they slowly advanced
along the street. Of giant stature, they came on, revolver in hand, with
the self-reliance of brutal strength. Their red-edged caps made their
hard-featured faces still harder. It was a sight to strike Nature
herself with horror, and, hidden behind the muslin curtains, we sobbed
bitterly. The guests, huddled together in the dimly lighted room. Were
silently weeping; the women crossed themselves, and watched over their
children as if it were old Bogy's steps they heard. The men tugged
nervously at their moustaches, and shook their fists in the empty air.
Our gestures made the poor people uneasy.
"Heavens!" the women groaned, "don't show your face at the window!"
"Don't open the curtains!"
"Don't draw their attention to the house!"
"How frank they are," an old woman whimpered. "How splendid to be frank
like that! As to myself, I could not be so." I suppose she meant
courageous, but courage was not in question. We thought of nothing; we
felt nothing; we were only looking at the men. We were glaring with all
our eyes at a sight that crushed our souls. Grief left a huge void in
our hearts. The enemy was there, and it was all up with us! I think we
had suffered less if we had seen the Germans arrive in a town. A town is
always somewhat of a courtesan. It gives a hearty welcome and
hospitality to every one; it is daily a prey to strangers of ill repute.
If invasion beats against its walls, if a hostile army crosses its
streets--one human flood succeeding so many others--the town scowls at
the foe, and then loses all memory of him. But there in a small village,
hidden in a fold of the French ground, in a tiny hamlet which a hostile
mind never chose for a shelter, the presence of the invaders seems to
profane the very grass; and ever after the poor little place will remain
an unhallowed spot, which bloodshed and years will not purify again.
After the horsemen had passed, there rolled along cannon and
powder-carts, whose rumbling set our teeth on edge.
"Grandmother, look there!" cried out Colette.
On a powder-cart, looking very unhappy, sat the small dog we had met in
the meadow.
So the Germans had traversed Morny; they had followed close upon us.
At last there came an end to the procession. The street was empty. No
one uttered a word, and we ran away to cry to our hearts' content.
House, yard, barns were all crowded with people. I took refuge in the
garden. Nature seemed covered with an ashen veil, the very sun was
obscured. Had the radiant morning really begotten this sad noon? Like a
wounded animal looking for a dark shelter, I fled to the orchard, and
crouching down in a corner close to the wall I wept most bitterly,
without knowing why. Some one called me; I had to go back to life, or
rather a life, unknown, unsuspected, in which all was changed. The
Prussians were advancing through France.
On arriving at the house I met only with grief-stricken features and
swollen eyes. We had no mind to eat. Only a few refugees, already
indifferent, and the dogs did not lose their appetite. But standing at
the dining-room windows we saw a sight worth seeing. The Prussians had
taken possession of the village, and were looking for what they might
lay their hands upon. They seemed to think little Mme. Laineux' shop
had been created for their own special use, and they set about
plundering it according to rule. They went up, three steps at a time,
got among the groceries, made their choice, and came back, their arms
filled with bottles and bags. In short, they carried away all that was
eatable and drinkable in the house. They went up and down without
interruption like two rows of ants busy stripping a sack of flour, one
row full, the other empty. The grocer's wife, a small woman, dark and
pale with large black eyes, stood by, unable to withstand the
plunderers. She locked the door. The first soldier who encountered that
obstacle went to the window, broke a square, turned the door-handle, and
muttering threats reopened the door.
With a look of despair, Mme. Laineux went and fetched an officer who was
eating upstairs.
"Come and see what your men are doing."
The officer came, looked round, and declared:
"C'est la kerre, Matame!"
And he went back to his lunch.
The shop cleared out, the men made farther search into the house, and
discovered a small store-room, which they emptied with equal activity.
For the pleasure of the thing, they cut stockings to transform them into
socks, and spilled ink on petticoats and blouses. The last comers took
the trap from the coach-house, the horse out of his stable, put the
horse in the trap, and drove off with a light heart.
A bitter disenchantment filled our tired hearts. Nothing would have
astonished us. In the afternoon two soldiers entered the farm, but at
the sight of the yard crowded with men and dogs, withdrew. Broken down
with weariness, we went early to bed. A ladder about twenty feet high
led to a square opening through which we climbed into the hay-loft.
There every one of us made a hole in the hay and buried herself in it.
Now, in theory, hay offers a soft and sweet-smelling couch. The reality
is slightly different. You may find comfort in this bed if you are
wrapped up in cloaks and shawls to keep out the cold of the night, but
the odour of the hay will make you sneeze, you will soon feel stiff in
your legs, and hard blades of grass will prick your ankles and your
neck.
Despite minor annoyances, my companions were very soon slumbering. For
my part I could not sleep. I was feverish and ... my golden waistband
played tricks and got into my ribs. The slanting light of the moon gave
an added pallor to the faces of the four sleeping girls, whose presence
on their bed of hay, beneath the beams of the loft which spiders had
covered with their grey lace, was astonishing enough. It seemed as
though the four heads had been put there for a whim, and the bodies laid
down somewhere else. I fell into a doze. I saw hundreds of Prussians
pass before my eyes, laden with goods, and carrying away the very
houses. Then there came a multitude of galloping horses, which all
vanished from my sight, and I was asleep.
The next day an impudent sunbeam woke us up by caressing our eyelids. In
the barn below the refugees were bustling about noisily. The first
moment after awaking was cruel; we had, as Stendhal says, "to learn our
misery afresh." One after the other, like fowls getting out of the
henhouse, we went down our long ladder, and ran off to wash and to hear
the latest news.
That day also was a day of tears.
The villagers, frightened to death, had not dared to unlock their doors,
and we heard only in the morning that a French convoy had been taken by
surprise and captured by the Germans at Neuville, no more than two miles
from Chevregny.
Then a scout--a fact completely unconnected with the former--had been
killed by the enemy at a cross-way, near Mme. Laroye's house. We went to
see the place, where the two white roads cross each other; large
reddish spots still marked the ground. Kneeling down, we kissed this
blood which cried for revenge, and from our inmost soul we besought
Heaven that France should be victorious over her enemy, so that her
heart's blood might not be shed in vain.
Some peasants, who had witnessed the scene, gave us an account of it. In
great numbers the Germans came down the road. All of a sudden, two
French scouts appeared on the outskirts of the wood, saw the enemy,
fired at them, and then turned back. One of them was lucky enough to get
under cover, but the other, severely wounded, was unhorsed, and fell
down. Stretched by the wayside he made an attempt to get up, but his
adversaries rushed upon him, and in a confused scuffle beat him to death
with the butt-ends of their guns, and rode away at full gallop.
The victim was to be buried that very morning, and as we wished to be
present at the funeral, no time could be lost. When we arrived at the
churchyard two men were already digging a narrow grave. The body,
wrapped in a white sheet, was lying on a stretcher. There was no coffin.
Soldiers should lie in the soil for which they have died. The red spot
beneath his head grew larger little by little, and the blood that
trickled down made a dazzling rill in the white sand. We approached him
with a shrinking heart. With pious hands the grave-digger lifted up the
sheet to show us the face of the dead man. An aquiline nose and a firm
chin were still distinguishable. The rest of the features were clotted
with blood and shapeless. Nearly choked with sobs, we could not help
wondering from which wound the blood had flowed, when suddenly the truth
flashed upon us, at a gesture of the old grave-digger, who pointed at
what were, but the day before, the boy's eyes. His eyes! oh, you
cowards! villains! They had not only beaten him to death, they had put
his eyes out! He was defending himself like a brave soldier. He was
alone against twenty, and they had murdered him. There on the white
road, in the sunshine, they had committed their crime; the shades of
night had fallen upon him before he descended to the tomb.
Oh, vengeance! vengeance! We wept, we cried, and nothing could comfort
us. We wept over the gallant soldier of France, who fell so near us; we
wept over all the dead and wounded, and above all we wept--oh,
narrowness of the human heart!--over the one soldier we loved, whose
uncertain fate tortured our hearts. Oh, my Posy, my treasure, my love,
my pride, have you not asked for a dangerous mission? Have you received
your death-wound, outnumbered in some lonely corner? Have they...? the
terrifying thought! ... oh, his eyes! ... his eyes!... It was beyond
endurance. Crushed with grief, I fell senseless. When I came to myself
the priest had said the usual prayers, and was gone. My companions stood
up, shedding silent tears. The two villagers gloomily filled the grave,
and the earth fell with a hollow sound on the poor body. One of the men
broke off in the middle of his work, and told us of the scout's death.
What he said confirmed what we had already heard. "Curse them!" he cried
out, and, with a gesture of rage, seized his spade, and began again to
fill the grave.
But we had not done with emotion yet.
"Do you know that the Germans took three hundred prisoners yesterday?"
some one asked us. "You will see them pass on the road."
The churchyard is terraced to the street, which runs down a steep hill,
and thence already we caught sight of a few horsemen, closely followed
by soldiers on foot. They were French. At the sight of the enemy, our
grief, all of a sudden, turned to wrath and madness. Here they were in
our own country, the very same we saw yesterday, no doubt. They were
those perhaps who had blinded and killed the scout, and they were
taking our brothers to captivity. Oh, for the power to strike, to kill
those men! To hurl down upon them some of those big stones, half
loosened by time! We shuddered at the mere sight of them, a bantering,
conceited, happy mob. The faces of Yvonne and Antoinette, standing among
the crosses, were wet with tears and convulsed with rage. Hatred was so
clearly visible in their eyes that the faces of the Germans grew hard
and stiffened as if they had been given a slap in the face. They pass,
they are gone, and now the prisoners are coming. They seemed to have
made up their minds to accept the situation. They were hot, and talked
among themselves in a low voice. The officers drove in a jolting car,
motionless and spent. We could not see them very well, but we could
distinguish the stripes on the Captain's sleeve, and then the cart
disappeared from sight at a winding of the road. The way was open; we
went home, and when we were alone, Genevieve and I fell into each
other's arms, and without saying a word wept again inconsolably. Towards
the close of the day the garden tempted us. It is a dear old garden,
full of shade and of old-fashioned, sweet-smelling flowers. It is about
four yards above the level of the street, and if you sit on the wall, as
large as an easy-chair, you can see all that goes on in the street
below. Like souls in agony, we dragged ourselves along the alleys edged
with box, doleful and weary. From the wall we observed the four points
of the compass. Not a Prussian in sight. So we began to talk to little
Mme. Laineux, who looked out of her window just over the way. Close to
her stood a young girl about fifteen years of age, whose head, framed in
a handkerchief tied under the chin, was the most exquisite ever seen.
Raphael might have drawn her fine features, her clear eyes. Even her
hands browned by the sun were pretty; even her waist was elegant in
spite of an unbecoming frock. O France, you are rich in all treasures,
and that sweet little maid is not the least of them! The grocer's wife
confided her sorrows to us in a bitter tone. Two old men passing by
stopped in the street to condole with her; then a third person, shabbily
dressed, joined in the talk, and from the very first proved interesting.
He was a soldier, escaped from the yesterday's fight, and he told us his
adventure in detail.
"Tuesday," he said, "we slept in Arden, a small place we had reached at
five o'clock in the evening. The horses were not tired, and we might
have marched on. At least, we ought to have been up at three, instead of
which we set out again at six o'clock, and were not bidden to make
haste. We did not know that the enemy was treading in our steps. About
nine we approached this place, quite easy in our minds, when we heard
the people cry: 'The Prussians!... To the right-about! Quick! Quick!'
Convoys like us are not looked upon as fighting men, do you see; we
ought to be a few miles behind the front. We were but scantily armed;
some of us had a revolver and no bullets, the others bullets and no
revolver. What could we do against the cannon, which peppered us from
the top of the hill? We were ordered back.
"The drivers made what speed they could, when, just at the turn of the
road, one of the carts managed to tumble down; those that followed at
full speed were thrown down upon it, and thus made a barricade, which
held up all the rest. The guns fired without ceasing. Our Captain came
up: 'Nothing to do, my lads; we are caught. Be quick, get a white flag.'
We looked for a white flag.... There was none. At length a white
handkerchief was hoisted on a stick. And then a troop of horsemen
cantered down upon us. 'Lay yourselves in the ditch,' we heard. The
horses pawed our backs, and I assure you the Prussians did nothing to
hold them back. I will show you."
And the man, taking off his jacket, bared his bruised and swollen back.
"Still lying in the ditch, I noticed close to me the opening of a
gutter-stone stopped up with mud and grass. I tried to pull it out; it
gave way. I got into the narrow passage, and cried out to my companion:
'There is room but for one.'
"'It is one safe and sound,' he answered, and stopped up the opening of
the pipe again.
"For twenty-six hours I lay in there, with the Germans overhead. Never
in my life did I think of my wife and children as I did then! About
eleven o'clock, when all the noise had ceased, I ventured out of my
hole. People who were working hard by took me in, dressed my wound, and
gave me civilian clothes. I hope to escape to the woods and join the
French army again."
And so saying the man went away. We called him back to slip some
biscuits and chocolate into his hand. With a smile he pointed to his
full pockets, and said, "I am well stored, you see. I will share with
the others." Alas, he was not alone! The convoy amounted to 800
soldiers. About 15 had been killed, 350 taken prisoners, and the rest
were hidden in the woods. The boldest or the luckiest might reach the
French lines. The others would probably wander about, like wild beasts
who hide themselves, would suffer cold and hunger, and then after
weeks or months of this wretched life they would be caught and sent
to Germany ... unless they were shot.
Our thoughts were mournful as death when at nightfall we climbed a
second time to the hay-loft. We could not sleep, our anxiety was too
great. Were the Germans still gaining ground? Would they sweep onward,
like a cloud of insects, towards Paris, whose splendour and renown
dazzled and attracted them invincibly? Oh, may they burn their wings
there and be carbonised to the last one! The next day we went to see the
place of the skirmish. The fields on both sides of the road were all
covered over with things the soldiers had thrown away. In some places
the grass was heaped with knapsacks, papers, clothes, and arms. We
tramped on; the road wound its way through meadows and woods, and then
got into a funnel-shaped valley. Here had been the thickest of the
fight. The cavalry came up from behind; there were the guns on the rocks
to the right and left. Alas, the convoy had really been caught in a
trap! The three carts still stood in the middle of the road, and the
meadows were thickly strewn with soldiers' things, papers, and discarded
arms. Colette discovered a beautiful sword hidden in a bush; she
quickly put it back again, that presently she might come and fetch it.
It would be so much gained. A passer-by gave us some other details.
There was a body here, another there. It was to be feared that a few
more dead soldiers were hidden in the wood. On our way back we picked up
all the letters, books, and papers which we found, hoping we might later
on forward them to the soldiers' families, and at the same time tell
them news of the unfortunate convoy. We passed through Neuville, and
there we saw the ammunition captured the day before, heaped up in a
yard. Another Cerberus, adorned with a spiked helmet, watched over
mountains of bullets and boxes of cartridges. There was seven million
francs' worth, said the peasants.
Returning to the village, sunk in despondency, we heard the sound of a
drum, and we arrived just in time to listen to the proclamation which
the rural constable read aloud:
"Arms and clothes, belonging to French soldiers, must be gathered up,
and brought without delay to the Mayor's house.... By order of the
German authorities," said the reader, a small hunchbacked man.
And tears rolled down his cheeks.
At Mme. Laroye's we found a change for the better. The refugees had set
out homewards, and the friends from Laon, by taking leave, enabled us
to live once more after the fashion of civilised people. With pleasure
we stretched our limbs, which three nights had stiffened and tired out,
in a comfortable bed.
From that time Fate proved merciful, and for a few days spared us new
troubles and violent emotions. Of course tears always trembled on our
eyelids, if some incident happened to revive our wounds; but after so
many mental pangs the surrounding peace was a solace to our minds. Life
sprang up anew in our hearts, and with life, spirits. Many a time--was
it a reaction?--we burst out laughing, broke into mad, inextinguishable
laughter. Liza more than once set us in a roar. Liza is Mme. Laroye's
maid,--a maid who has land of her own, who possesses a mile away a
house, a horse, a dog, and, in ordinary times, a husband. But, as the
times we live in are by no means ordinary, Zidore--for he is called
Zidore--had joined the army, to make war against the King of Prussia.
Was Mme. Laroye alone? Liza would discharge with assiduous attention the
duties of her place. Had Mme. Laroye friends or relations to entertain?
Liza went home again, and reappeared only to give herself up to her
menial duties. Liza is a tall woman, clumsily built, with a funny
Hun-like face. Her small eyes, her high cheekbones, prove that a drop of
Asiatic blood runs in her veins. Have I not hinted, in a former chapter,
that Attila may have sent a reconnoitring party down here? But if Liza
has inherited her strong frame and her snub nose from her ancestors, the
Huns, to whom does she owe her restlessness and her pusillanimity? No
doubt to her great-grandmother, the Frankish woman, who had to submit to
the wild Asiatic. For Liza was not brave; Liza did not dare face the
Prussians. From Laon, Morny, and other places, people fled to Chevregny.
It was then an additional reason for Liza's fellow-villagers to run away
farther too. The women had made up their minds to go. As soon as the
enemy was descried from afar, Liza's horse--Mouton--and Mme. Laroye's
horse--Gentil--would be put to, and both fiery steeds--as fiery as their
names--would take their mistresses to a safe place.
But, alas! man proposes.... A cry arose: "The Prussians!" Liza heard it,
snatched up a big loaf in bewilderment, and went full gallop towards the
forest with her dog at her heels. After her galloped a troop of her
companions just as bewildered. They went down the road, struck across
the country, cleared the hedges, and plunged into the forest. In the
heart of the wood they stopped, blessing their star which had led them
to this wild and safe spot. At that very moment they became speechless.
The report of a cannon resounded in the air, then a second one, and a
full volley followed. The poor wretches had thrown themselves headlong
into the valley, where the convoy struggled against its foes, and the
grape-shot fell upon them without mercy. The harmless troop, however,
lifted up its suppliant arms towards Heaven, which did not see them at
all, for the foliage was too thick, and muttered hollow prayers to some
sylvan divinity which heard them not, for the cannon was too loud. Then
they ran away and cowered under the bushes. Shells bespattered them
facetiously with moss and earth. They crouched in a hut that happened to
be there. A malignant cannon-ball carried off a corner of the roof. They
stuck close to the trunk of a tree. Merely to tease them bullets tore
off its leaves and its branches, which rained gently down upon their
heads. The unfortunate fugitives, at last gloomily resigned, sat in a
circle, and waited for the end in the calm of despair. Then all sounds
ceased. They opened one eye, then the other, stretched themselves, got
up, counted themselves, and discovered with the greatest amazement they
had lost neither one hair, save those which they had torn in terror, nor
one button, save those which panting fear had burst from their corsage.
These refugees of the forest had no thought of leaving their precious
shelter. They ate the provisions which in their prudence they had
brought with them, and Liza's big loaf proved a great success. They
spent the night in the hut, and slept with one eye open, raising their
unquiet heads whenever they heard the tramping of a Prussian horse on
the road. In the morning nothing was to be heard. I do not know who was
courageous enough to poke her nose first out of the wood; I expect it
was the dog. At last, however, our villagers plucked up their courage,
and with common accord went back to their native hamlet. Mme. Laroye did
not receive Liza exactly with open arms, but with that gentle irony of
which she has the secret:
"Well, well, Liza, I understand. 'The old lady is too slow,' you
thought, 'she will disturb us. She had better stay at home.' And so you
scampered off."
Liza protested, and we laughed, and Colette pointed the moral of the
adventure.
"It is very funny, Liza's story. But don't you think it is just like
ours?"
The Prussians had forced open most of the houses, and had anticipated
the taxes which they hoped to levy. Fowls, pigeons, geese without
number, and even plump pigs were absent. At Liza's house the ravishers
had shown a certain modesty. A sack of flour, a few pigeons, one or two
ducks only had disappeared. But the intruders had turned the room
topsy-turvy. Did they look for treasure? And, by a sad whim, they had
seized upon two photographs, whose red plush frames were the ornament of
the mantelpiece--Liza in the garb of a nun, and Zidore in a soldier's
uniform. For what purpose had they torn up these precious pictures?
"And Zidore had it taken the first day I saw him!" So the enemy had
destroyed the fond keepsake of a happy day!
Really, the age we lived in was hard, and the Prussians heartless! All
the world was so firmly convinced of this that everybody stayed indoors
as much as possible and ventured reluctantly out of the village, for
fear of dangerous encounters. No one was bold enough to risk horse and
cart on the road, since the first soldier that came might requisition
both. Happy indeed was the owner who was not compelled to turn back and
drive the Prussian to a far-off place. Thus it happened that many a
villager, who, having gone out with team and horse for a few hours,
came back home on foot and alone three or four days later. From this
you may see that communication was not easy, even between places at no
great distance from one another. An old lady, seeing the Germans arrive
in Chevregny, died of the sudden shock, and for several days it was
impossible to send the sad tidings to her son, who was no farther off
than Laon. Indeed, we knew not what was happening in the neighbourhood,
still less at Morny. "The country is overrun with Prussians," we were
told.
So the emotion was great when it was rumoured that flour ran short in
Chevregny, for Chevregny fed two other hamlets and a great many
refugees. Every morning the baker's shop was carried by storm. Every
morning the housewives had to wait their turn for an hour to get a loaf.
It was a heart-rending sight to see how the baker toiled; his wife did
not know which way to turn; his boy knew not what to be at. At this rate
the flour sacks would melt away like snow in an April sun. We had to
find other sacks, or famine would break out in the village. One morning,
then, Liza announced: "My horse is required to go and fetch flour at
Pont-Avers."
In the country the word "requisition" does not exist. You are
"required"--that is all. Mouton, then, was required to go and fetch
provender. Very well. He could not tempt the greed of the Germans, being
well stricken in years, and somewhat lame.
"But who will drive Mouton?" asked Mme. Laroye.
"Well, I don't know, perhaps me," said Liza.
"You don't say so, Liza," her mistress cried out. "There are men enough
left in the village to do that. Now a woman has to stay at home, that is
her right place."
In the afternoon Liza came back, and said in a triumphant tone:
"The blacksmith is driving to Pont-Avers. I have told them it was not a
woman's job."
The good creature was delighted with her saying, and repeated over and
over again:
"I told them so ... it is not a woman's job."
Alas, how many things women had to take charge of which were not
"women's jobs"! How courageous and hard-working they were, the women of
the villages! The men had gone to the war, and left the harvest
ungathered. "The work must be done," said the women, and, without a
moment's rest, they bent in toil to the earth. We, too, did our share.
Perched upon steep ladders or hazardous trees, we picked thousands of
small blue plums, which Liza crammed into big-bellied casks. After
mysterious treatment the fruit was expected to turn into an exquisite
brandy, pronounced by the well-skilled old gossips a cure for every ill.
Better than that, we shut up with our own hands Mme. Laroye's
hiding-place. For who would have believed it? Her house was not in
order! She had buried a cash-box full of golden coins in her garden, but
we thought she had better remove a great many other things just as
valuable as money. Besides, she had a hiding-place. It was not a
fanciful hiding-place like ours, but a serious hiding-place, contrived
by a workman, a past-master in digging and masonry. The cellar opens
into the arched entrance of the house. In a corner of this cellar is a
trap-door which, lifted up, leads to a break-neck flight of steps hewn
out in the rock. At the foot of the steps is a smaller cellar, which is
the hiding-place. We took down the other silver, linen, fine old shawls,
at which we gazed with envious eyes, and then the wine.
"Not all the wine, dear cousin, not all. They will never believe you
have no wine at all."
When the trap-door was closed, we carried down with great trouble a few
barrowfuls of earth, which a skilful hand raked over properly. Then we
stamped upon it, swept the cellar, scattered grey dust over the fresh
earth, and put old boxes and tubs in the corner. Shrewder than a
Prussian would he be who saw anything here! Alas, it was a beast who
brought our fine work to nothing! In the course of time we heard that
Uhlans on their way through Chevregny put horses into the cellar. The
horses, as they are wont to, pawed and scratched the ground.
"It sounds hollow!" cried the Prussians.
"It sounds wine!" they went on, in a fit of inspiration, and then
discovered they had been cheated.
I do not know what became of the other objects, but I know perfectly
well the way Mme. Laroye's wine went.
In spite of these interesting occupations, we were bored. And yet we had
discovered in Bouconville, three miles off, a well-stored shop which
supplied us with cotton, wool, and stuffs to give work to our idle
fingers. In spite of Mme. Valaine's anxiety, we went, two or three
together, and brought back in triumph what was wanting. But we never
ventured into the wood, and on our homeward journeys we cast sidelong
glances at the "sand-pit," whose green shade always allured us. Such is
the name of a few acres of wood, belonging to my mother-in-law, where I
hope some day to install my household gods. There a brooklet murmurs,
and hard by shall be my house, with a willow charming and majestic, an
ash lofty and elegant to give me shade. There I shall live happy on milk
and honey--goats and bees will be mine--with my husband and the children
which I trust God will grant me. We shall be once more in Arcady.
Thus I mused on my way home, when suddenly some German troops appeared
on the horizon to dispel my dream of Arcady, and sent me home in haste
to the shelter of the farm.
I have said we were bored. Life was chiefly unbearable for want of news.
What was going on? For two days we had heard an echo of the guns. Was
there a battle? The first Germans we had seen had told us with a sneer:
"Parisse, Parisse, within dree tays we are in Parisse!"
Had the progress of the haughty boors been stayed? Hope trembled at the
bottom of our hearts; hope, which dared not grow, and which we dared not
avow.
Ten times a day we left our needlework or our book to run to the garden.
We listened. A kind of rumbling was all we heard. Was it to the east,
the north, or the south? Was it a singing in our ears or was it
cannon-shots?
"What if we placed our ears to the ground?"
And so we lay on the grass like so many dead bodies, and concentrated
our whole souls in listening.
"There certainly is a rambling." This conviction filled our hearts with
joy and anxiety, and the whole day long we fidgeted about the house.
Besides, we could not stay for ever in Chevregny. We had to make up our
minds.
"Since the Germans are here, there, and everywhere," I said, "we had
better go back home, where at least we are comfortable and at ease."
In Chevregny, to be sure, comfort is unknown. For instance, cleanliness
does not hold a large place in the people's life, though we had
transformed the bakehouse into a very decent bathroom. Every evening
Pierrot was washed at the pump, and pretended to throw the water which
deluged him to the bright and passionless moon.
As long as the weather kept warm it was pleasant enough, but all the
same home would be better. But before taking so long a journey, we
thought it well to think over it at leisure. A word from M. Lonet
settled the matter. "There is no danger," he wrote; "some one ought to
come back; the house might be occupied."
If one of us went, then we would all go. Union is strength. Boldly we
had come to Chevregny by night, nine in number, including the dogs.
Nine in number we would go home by day. We had spent a week in
Chevregny.
On Tuesday we had Gentil put to. Liza huddled our luggage into the cart,
helped Mme. Valaine and Pierrot up, and sat on the box. In a few feeling
words, one and all took leave of our kind cousin, and we followed on
foot.
We walked on without hardihood, casting suspicious glances before and
behind. The mere shadow of a helmet would have put us to flight.
Besides, the horse might be requisitioned, and Liza left us at Bievres,
and drove home as fast as she could. In Bruyeres we met with a big dog
almost as alarming as a Prussian. Percinet is fond of fighting, and he
cannot bear the sight of his kindred alive. Two days before he had
satisfied this thirst for blood by killing two dogs. At the entrance of
Morny we passed three riders on the road, dressed in green, booted and
spurred, with their helmets on. We did not think them mere gendarmes, as
we heard afterwards they were. They contented themselves with gazing at
the dusty, weary group that went by. At length we got home. Dear little
house! it had not altered! Its white walls were still there; so was its
grey roof. The Virginia creepers shook their branches like arms to wish
us a hearty welcome. We threw the gate open. The dogs rushed into the
stable at a cheerful bound.
Leaving the luggage in the lobby, we dropped into the dining-room
chairs, and gave a deep sigh of satisfaction.