One month later to a day, on the eve of the fête of Saint Louis,
Rocreuse was in a state of alarm and dismay. The Prussians had beaten
the Emperor, and were advancing on the village by forced marches. For
a week past people passing along the road had brought tidings of the
enemy: “They are at Lormières, they are at Nouvelles;” and by dint of
hearing so many stories of the rapidity of their advance, Rocreuse woke
up every morning in the full expectation of seeing them swarming down
out of Gagny wood. They did not come, however, and that only served
to make the affright the greater. They would certainly fall upon the
village in the night-time, and put every soul to the sword.
There had been an alarm the night before, a little before daybreak.
The inhabitants had been aroused by a great noise of men tramping upon
the road. The women were already throwing themselves upon their knees
and making the sign of the cross, when some one, to whom it happily
occurred to peep through a half-opened window, caught sight of red
trousers. It was a French detachment. The captain had forthwith asked
for the mayor, and, after a long conversation with Father Merlier, had
remained at the mill.
The sun shone bright and clear that morning, giving promise of a warm
day. There was a golden light floating over the woodland, while in
the low grounds white mists were rising from the meadows. The pretty
village, so neat and trim, awoke in the cool dawning, and the country,
with its streams and its fountains, was as gracious as a freshly
plucked bouquet. But the beauty of the day brought gladness to the face
of no one; the villagers had watched the captain, and seen him circle
round and round the old mill; examine the adjacent houses, then pass
to the other bank of the Morelle, and from thence scan the country
with a field-glass; Father Merlier, who accompanied him, appeared
to be giving explanations. After that the captain had posted some of
his men behind walls, behind trees, or in hollows. The main body of
the detachment had encamped in the courtyard of the mill. So there
was going to be a fight, then? And when Father Merlier returned, they
questioned him. He spoke no word, but slowly and sorrowfully nodded his
head. Yes, there was going to be a fight.
Françoise and Dominique were there in the courtyard, watching him. He
finally took his pipe from his lips and gave utterance to these few
words:
“Ah! my poor children, I shall not be able to marry you to-day!”
Dominique, with lips tight set and an angry frown upon his forehead,
raised himself on tiptoe from time to time and stood with eyes bent on
Gagny wood, as if he would have been glad to see the Prussians appear
and end the suspense they were in. Françoise, whose face was grave and
very pale, was constantly passing back and forth, supplying the needs
of the soldiers. They were preparing their soup in a corner of the
courtyard, joking and chaffing one another while awaiting their meal.
The captain appeared to be highly pleased. He had visited the chambers
and the great hall of the mill that looked out on the stream. Now,
seated beside the well, he was conversing with Father Merlier.
“You have a regular fortress here,” he was saying. “We shall have no
trouble in holding it until evening. The bandits are late; they ought
to be here by this time.”
The miller looked very grave. He saw his beloved mill going up in
flame and smoke, but uttered no word of remonstrance or complaint,
considering that it would be useless. He only opened his mouth to say:
“You ought to take steps to hide the boat; there is a hole behind the
wheel fitted to hold it. Perhaps you may find it of use to you.”
The captain gave an order to one of his men. This captain was a tall,
fine-looking man of about forty, with an agreeable expression of
countenance. The sight of Dominique and Françoise seemed to afford
him much pleasure; he watched them as if he had forgotten all about
the approaching conflict. He followed Françoise with his eyes as she
moved about the courtyard, and his manner showed clearly enough that he
thought her charming. Then, turning to Dominique:
“You are not with the army, I see, my boy?” he abruptly asked.
“I am a foreigner,” the young man replied.
The captain did not seem particularly pleased with the answer; he
winked his eyes and smiled. Françoise was doubtless a more agreeable
companion than a musket would have been. Dominique, noticing his smile,
made haste to add:
“I am a foreigner, but I can lodge a rifle-bullet in an apple at five
hundred yards. See, there’s my rifle, behind you.”
“You may find use for it,” the captain dryly answered.
Françoise had drawn near; she was trembling a little, and Dominique,
regardless of the bystanders, took and held firmly clasped in his own
the two hands that she held forth to him, as if committing herself to
his protection. The captain smiled again, but said nothing more. He
remained seated, his sword between his legs, his eyes fixed on space,
apparently lost in dreamy reverie.
It was ten o’clock. The heat was already oppressive. A deep silence
prevailed. The soldiers had sat down in the shade of the sheds in
the courtyard and begun to eat their soup. Not a sound came from the
village, where the inhabitants had all barricaded their houses, doors
and windows. A dog, abandoned by his master, howled mournfully upon the
road. From the woods and the near-by meadows, that lay fainting in the
heat, came a long-drawn, whispering, soughing sound, produced by the
union of what wandering breaths of air there were. A cuckoo called.
Then the silence became deeper still.
And all at once, upon that lazy, sleepy air, a shot rang out. The
captain rose quickly to his feet, the soldiers left their half-emptied
plates. In a few seconds all were at their posts; the mill was occupied
from top to bottom. And yet the captain, who had gone out through the
gate, saw nothing; to right and left the road stretched away, desolate
and blindingly white in the fierce sunshine. A second report was heard,
and still nothing to be seen, not even so much as a shadow; but just
as he was turning to re-enter he chanced to look over toward Gagny and
there beheld a little puff of smoke floating away on the tranquil air,
like thistle-down. The deep peace of the forest was apparently unbroken.
“The rascals have occupied the wood,” the officer murmured. “They know
we are here.”
Then the firing went on, and became more and more continuous, between
the French soldiers posted about the mill and the Prussians concealed
among the trees. The bullets whistled over the Morelle without doing
any mischief on either side. The firing was irregular; every bush
seemed to have its marksman, and nothing was to be seen save those
bluish smoke wreaths that hung for a moment on the wind before they
vanished. It lasted thus for nearly two hours. The officer hummed a
tune with a careless air. Françoise and Dominique, who had remained
in the courtyard, raised themselves to look out over a low wall. They
were more particularly interested in a little soldier who had his post
on the bank of the Morelle, behind the hull of an old boat; he would
lie face downward on the ground, watch his chance, deliver his fire,
then slip back into a ditch a few steps in his rear to reload, and his
movements were so comical, he displayed such cunning and activity, that
it was difficult for any one watching him to refrain from smiling. He
must have caught sight of a Prussian, for he rose quickly and brought
his piece to the shoulder, but before he could discharge it he uttered
a loud cry, whirled completely around in his tracks and fell backward
into the ditch, where for an instant his legs moved convulsively, just
as the claws of a fowl do when it is beheaded. The little soldier had
received a bullet directly through his heart. It was the first casualty
of the day. Françoise instinctively seized Dominique’s hand and held it
tight in a convulsive grasp.
“Come away from there,” said the captain. “The bullets reach us here.”
As if to confirm his words a slight, sharp sound was heard up in the
old elm, and the end of a branch came to the ground, turning over and
over as it fell, but the two young people never stirred, riveted to the
spot as they were by the interest of the spectacle. On the edge of the
wood a Prussian had suddenly emerged from behind a tree, as an actor
comes upon the stage from the wings, beating the air with his arms and
falling over upon its back. And beyond that there was no movement; the
two dead men appeared to be sleeping in the bright sunshine; there was
not a soul to be seen in the fields on which the heat lay heavy. Even
the sharp rattle of the musketry had ceased. Only the Morelle kept on
whispering to itself with its low, musical murmur.
Father Merlier looked at the captain with an astonished air, as if to
inquire whether that were the end of it.
“Here comes their attack,” the officer murmured. “Look out for
yourself! Don’t stand there!”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a terrible discharge of
musketry ensued. The great elm was riddled, its leaves came eddying
down as thick as snowflakes. Fortunately the Prussians had aimed too
high. Dominique dragged, almost carried Françoise from the spot, while
Father Merlier followed them, shouting:
“Get into the small cellar, the walls are thicker there.”
But they paid no attention to him; they made their way to the main
hall, where ten or a dozen soldiers were silently waiting, watching
events outside through the chinks of the closed shutters. The captain
was left alone in the courtyard, where he sheltered himself behind the
low wall, while the furious fire was maintained uninterruptedly. The
soldiers whom he had posted outside only yielded their ground inch
by inch; they came crawling in, however, one after another, as the
enemy dislodged them from their positions. Their instructions were to
gain all the time they could, taking care not to show themselves, in
order that the Prussians might remain in ignorance of the force they
had opposed to them. Another hour passed, and as a sergeant came in,
reporting that there were now only two or three men left outside, the
officer took his watch from his pocket, murmuring:
“Half-past two. Come, we must hold out for four hours yet.”
He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be tightly secured, and
everything was made ready for an energetic defence. The Prussians were
on the other side of the Morelle, consequently there was no reason
to fear an assault at the moment. There was a bridge, indeed, a mile
and a quarter away, but they were probably unaware of its existence,
and it was hardly to be supposed that they would attempt to cross the
stream by fording. The officer, therefore, simply caused the road to
be watched; the attack, when it came, was to be looked for from the
direction of the fields.
The firing had ceased again. The mill appeared to lie there in the
sunlight, void of all life. Not a shutter was open, not a sound came
from within. Gradually, however, the Prussians began to show themselves
at the edge of Gagny wood. Heads were protruded here and there; they
seemed to be mustering up their courage. Several of the soldiers
within the mill brought up their pieces to an aim, but the captain
shouted:
“No, no; not yet; wait. Let them come nearer.”
They displayed a great deal of prudence in their advance, looking at
the mill with a distrustful air; they seemed hardly to know what to
make of the old structure, so lifeless and gloomy, with its curtain of
ivy. Still they kept on advancing. When there were fifty of them or so
in the open, directly opposite, the officer uttered one word:
“Now!”
A crashing, tearing discharge burst from the position, succeeded by an
irregular, dropping fire. Françoise, trembling violently, involuntarily
raised her hands to her ears. Dominique, from his position behind the
soldiers, peered out upon the field, and when the smoke drifted away a
little, counted three Prussians extended on their backs in the middle
of the meadow. The others had sought shelter among the willows and the
poplars. And then commenced the siege.
For more than an hour the mill was riddled with bullets; they beat and
rattled on its old walls like hail. The noise they made was plainly
audible as they struck the stonework, were flattened, and fell back
into the water; they buried themselves in the woodwork with a dull
thud. Occasionally a creaking sound would announce that the wheel had
been hit. Within the building the soldiers husbanded their ammunition,
firing only when they could see something to aim at. The captain kept
consulting his watch every few minutes, and as a ball split one of the
shutters in halves and then lodged in the ceiling:
“Four o’clock,” he murmured. “We shall never be able to hold the
position.”
The old mill, in truth, was gradually going to pieces beneath that
terrific fire. A shutter that had been perforated again and again,
until it looked like a piece of lace, fell off its hinges into the
water, and had to be replaced by a mattress. Every moment, almost,
Father Merlier exposed himself to the fire in order to take account
of the damage sustained by his poor wheel, every wound of which was
like a bullet in his own heart. Its period of usefulness was ended
this time for certain; he would never be able to patch it up again.
Dominique had besought Françoise to retire to a place of safety, but
she was determined to remain with him; she had taken a seat behind a
great oaken clothes-press, which afforded her protection. A ball struck
the press, however, the sides of which gave out a dull, hollow sound,
whereupon Dominique stationed himself in front of Françoise. He had as
yet taken no part in the firing, although he had his rifle in his hand;
the soldiers occupied the whole breadth of the windows, so that he
could not get near them. At every discharge the floor trembled.
“Look out! look out!” the captain suddenly shouted.
He had just descried a dark mass emerging from the wood. As soon as
they gained the open they set up a telling platoon fire. It struck
the mill like a tornado. Another shutter parted company, and the
bullets came whistling in through the yawning aperture. Two soldiers
rolled upon the floor; one lay where he fell and never moved a limb;
his comrades pushed him up against the wall because he was in their
way. The other writhed and twisted, beseeching some one to end his
agony, but no one had ears for the poor wretch; the bullets were still
pouring in, and every one was looking out for himself and searching for
a loophole whence he might answer the enemy’s fire. A third soldier
was wounded; that one said not a word, but with staring, haggard eyes
sank down beneath a table. Françoise, horror-stricken by the dreadful
spectacle of the dead and dying men, mechanically pushed away her chair
and seated herself on the floor, against the wall; it seemed to her
that she would be smaller there and less exposed. In the meantime men
had gone and secured all the mattresses in the house; the opening of
the window was partially closed again. The hall was filled with débris
of every description, broken weapons, dislocated furniture.
“Five o’clock,” said the captain. “Stand fast, boys. They are going to
make an attempt to pass the stream.”
Just then Françoise gave a shriek. A bullet had struck the floor, and,
rebounding, grazed her forehead on the ricochet. A few drops of blood
appeared. Dominique looked at her, then went to the window and fired
his first shot, and from that time kept on firing uninterruptedly.
He kept on loading and discharging his piece mechanically, paying
no attention to what was passing at his side, only pausing from
time to time to cast a look at Françoise. He did not fire hurriedly
or at random, moreover, but took deliberate aim. As the captain
had predicted, the Prussians were skirting the belt of poplars and
attempting the passage of the Morelle, but each time that one of
them showed himself he fell with one of Dominique’s bullets in his
brain. The captain, who was watching the performance, was amazed; he
complimented the young man, telling him that he would like to have many
more marksmen of his skill. Dominique did not hear a word he said. A
ball struck him in the shoulder, another raised a contusion on his arm.
And still he kept on firing.
There were two more deaths. The mattresses were torn to shreds and no
longer availed to stop the windows. The last volley that was poured in
seemed as if it would carry away the mill bodily, so fierce it was. The
position was no longer tenable. Still, the officer kept repeating:
“Stand fast. Another half-hour yet.”
He was counting the minutes, one by one, now. He had promised his
commanders that he would hold the enemy there until nightfall, and he
would not budge a hair’s-breadth before the moment that he had fixed
on for his withdrawal. He maintained his pleasant air of good-humour,
smiling at Françoise by way of reassuring her. He had picked up the
musket of one of the dead soldiers and was firing away with the rest.
There were but four soldiers left in the room. The Prussians were
showing themselves _en masse_ on the other bank of the Morelle, and it
was evident that they might now pass the stream at any moment. A few
moments more elapsed; the captain was as determined as ever, and would
not give the order to retreat, when a sergeant came running into the
room, saying:
“They are on the road; they are going to take us in rear.”
The Prussians must have discovered the bridge. The captain drew out his
watch again.
“Five minutes more,” he said. “They won’t be here within five minutes.”
Then exactly at six o’clock he at last withdrew his men through a
little postern that opened on a narrow lane, whence they threw
themselves into the ditch, and in that way reached the forest of
Sauval. The captain took leave of Father Merlier with much politeness,
apologising profusely for the trouble he had caused. He even added:
“Try to keep them occupied for a while. We shall return.”
While this was occurring Dominique had remained alone in the hall. He
was still firing away, hearing nothing, conscious of nothing; his sole
thought was to defend Françoise. The soldiers were all gone, and he had
not the remotest idea of the fact; he aimed and brought down his man
at every shot. All at once there was a great tumult. The Prussians had
entered the courtyard from the rear. He fired his last shot, and they
fell upon him with his weapon still smoking in his hand.
It required four men to hold him; the rest of them swarmed about him,
vociferating like madmen in their horrible dialect. Françoise rushed
forward to intercede with her prayers. They were on the point of
killing him on the spot, but an officer came in and made them turn the
prisoner over to him. After exchanging a few words in German with his
men he turned to Dominique and said to him roughly, in very good French:
“You will be shot in two hours from now.”