At early daybreak the repose of the mill was disturbed by the clamour
of angry voices. Father Merlier had gone and unlocked Françoise’s door.
She descended to the courtyard, pale and very calm, but when there,
could not repress a shudder upon being brought face to face with the
body of a Prussian soldier that lay on the ground beside the well,
stretched out upon a cloak.
Around the corpse soldiers were shouting and gesticulating angrily.
Several of them shook their fists threateningly in the direction of
the village. The officer had just sent a summons to Father Merlier to
appear before him in his capacity as mayor of the commune.
“Here is one of our men,” he said, in a voice that was almost
unintelligible from anger, “who was found murdered on the bank of the
stream. The murderer must be found, so that we may make a salutary
example of him, and I shall expect you to co-operate with us in finding
him.”
“Whatever you desire,” the miller replied, with his customary
impassiveness. “Only it will be no easy matter.”
The officer stooped down and drew aside the skirt of the cloak which
concealed the dead man’s face, disclosing as he did so a frightful
wound. The sentinel had been struck in the throat and the weapon had
not been withdrawn from the wound. It was a common kitchen-knife, with
a black handle.
“Look at that knife,” the officer said to Father Merlier. “Perhaps it
will assist us in our investigation.”
The old man had started violently, but recovered himself at once; not a
muscle of his face moved as he replied:
“Every one about here has knives like that. Like enough your man was
tired of fighting and did the business himself. Such things have
happened before now.”
“Be silent!” the officer shouted in a fury. “I don’t know what it is
that keeps me from setting fire to the four corners of your village.”
His anger fortunately kept him from noticing the great change that had
come over Françoise’s countenance. Her feelings had compelled her to
sit down upon the stone bench beside the well. Do what she would she
could not remove her eyes from the body that lay stretched upon the
ground, almost at her feet. He had been a tall, handsome young man in
life, very like Dominique in appearance, with blue eyes and yellow
hair. The resemblance went to her heart. She thought that perhaps the
dead man had left behind him in his German home some sweetheart who
would weep for his loss. And she recognised her knife in the dead man’s
throat. She had killed him.
The officer, meantime, was talking of visiting Rocreuse with some
terrible punishment, when two or three soldiers came running in. The
guard had just that moment ascertained the fact of Dominique’s escape.
The agitation caused by the tidings was extreme. The officer went
to inspect the locality, looked out through the still open window,
saw at once how the event had happened, and returned in a state of
exasperation.
Father Merlier appeared greatly vexed by Dominique’s flight. “The
idiot!” he murmured; “he has upset everything.”
Françoise heard him, and was in an agony of suffering. Her father,
moreover, had no suspicion of her complicity. He shook his head, saying
to her in an undertone:
“We are in a nice box, now!”
“It was that scoundrel! it was that scoundrel!” cried the officer. “He
has got away to the woods; but he must be found, or the village shall
stand the consequences.” And addressing himself to the miller: “Come,
you must know where he is hiding?”
Father Merlier laughed in his silent way, and pointed to the wide
stretch of wooded hills.
“How can you expect to find a man in that wilderness?” he asked.
“Oh! there are plenty of hiding-places that you are acquainted with. I
am going to give you ten men; you shall act as guide to them.”
“I am perfectly willing. But it will take a week to beat up all the
woods of the neighbourhood.”
The old man’s serenity enraged the officer; he saw, indeed, what a
ridiculous proceeding such a hunt would be. It was at that moment that
he caught sight of Françoise where she sat, pale and trembling, on her
bench. His attention was aroused by the girl’s anxious attitude. He was
silent for a moment, glancing suspiciously from father to daughter and
back again.
“Is not that man,” he at last coarsely asked the old man, “your
daughter’s lover?”
Father Merlier’s face became ashy pale, and he appeared for a moment
as if about to throw himself on the officer and throttle him. He
straightened himself up and made no reply. Françoise had hidden her
face in her hands.
“Yes, that is how it is,” the Prussian continued; “you or your daughter
have helped him to escape. You are his accomplices. For the last time,
will you surrender him?”
The miller did not answer. He had turned away and was looking at the
distant landscape with an air of indifference, just as if the officer
were talking to some other person. That put the finishing touch to the
latter’s wrath.
“Very well, then!” he declared, “you shall be shot in his stead.”
And again he ordered out the firing-party. Father Merlier was as
imperturbable as ever. He scarcely did so much as shrug his shoulders;
the whole drama appeared to him to be in very doubtful taste. He
probably believed that they would not take a man’s life in that
unceremonious manner. When the platoon was on the ground he gravely
said:
“So, then, you are in earnest? Very well, I am willing it should be so.
If you feel you must have a victim, it may as well be I as another.”
But Françoise arose, greatly troubled, stammering: “Have mercy, sir;
do not harm my father. Kill me instead of him. It was I who helped
Dominique to escape; I am the only guilty one.”
“Hold your tongue, my girl,” Father Merlier exclaimed. “Why do you tell
such a falsehood? She passed the night locked in her room, sir; I
assure you that she does not speak the truth.”
“I _am_ speaking the truth,” the girl eagerly replied. “I got down by
the window; I incited Dominique to fly. It is the truth, the whole
truth.”
The old man’s face was very white. He could read in her eyes that she
was not lying, and her story terrified him. Ah, those children! those
children! how they spoiled everything, with their hearts and their
feelings! Then he said angrily:
“She is crazy; do not listen to her. It is a lot of trash she is
telling you. Come, let us get through with this business.”
She persisted in her protestations; she kneeled, she raised her clasped
hands in supplication. The officer stood tranquilly by and watched the
harrowing scene.
“_Mon Dieu!_” he said at last, “I take your father because the other
has escaped me. Bring me back the other man, and your father shall
have his liberty.”
She looked at him for a moment with eyes dilated by the horror which
his proposal inspired in her.
“It is dreadful,” she murmured. “Where can I look for Dominique now? He
is gone; I know nothing beyond that.”
“Well, make your choice between them; him or your father.”
“Oh, my God! how can I choose? Even if I knew where to find Dominique
I could not choose. You are breaking my heart. I would rather die at
once. Yes, it would be more quickly ended thus. Kill me, I beseech you,
kill me----”
The officer finally became weary of this scene of despair and tears. He
cried:
“Enough of this! I wish to treat you kindly; I will give you two hours.
If your lover is not here within two hours, your father shall pay the
penalty that he has incurred.”
And he ordered Father Merlier away to the room that had served as a
prison for Dominique. The old man asked for tobacco, and began to
smoke. There was no trace of emotion to be descried on his impassive
face. Only when he was alone he wept two big tears that coursed slowly
down his cheeks. His poor, dear child, what a fearful trial she was
enduring!
Françoise remained in the courtyard. Prussian soldiers passed back and
forth, laughing. Some of them addressed her with coarse pleasantries
which she did not understand. Her gaze was bent upon the door through
which her father had disappeared, and with a slow movement she raised
her hand to her forehead, as if to keep it from bursting. The officer
turned sharply on his heel, and said to her:
“You have two hours. Try to make good use of them.”
She had two hours. The words kept buzzing, buzzing in her ears. Then
she went forth mechanically from the courtyard; she walked straight
ahead with no definite end. Where was she to go? what was she to do?
She did not even endeavour to arrive at any decision, for she felt
how utterly useless were her efforts. And yet she would have liked to
see Dominique; they could have come to some understanding together,
perhaps they might have hit on some plan to extricate them from their
difficulties. And so, amid the confusion of her whirling thoughts, she
took her way downward to the bank of the Morelle, which she crossed
below the dam by means of some stepping-stones which were there.
Proceeding onward, still involuntarily, she came to the first willow,
at the corner of the meadow, and stooping down, beheld a sight that
made her grow deathly pale--a pool of blood. It was the spot. And she
followed the track that Dominique had left in the tall grass; it was
evident that he had run, for the footsteps that crossed the meadow in a
diagonal line were separated from one another by wide intervals. Then,
beyond that point, she lost the trace, but thought she had discovered
it again in an adjoining field. It led her onward to the border of the
forest, where the trail came abruptly to an end.
Though conscious of the futility of the proceeding, Françoise
penetrated into the wood. It was a comfort to her to be alone. She sat
down for a moment, then, reflecting that time was passing, rose again
to her feet. How long was it since she left the mill? Five minutes,
or a half-hour? She had lost all idea of time. Perhaps Dominique had
sought concealment in a clearing that she knew of, where they had gone
together one afternoon and eaten hazelnuts. She directed her steps
toward the clearing; she searched it thoroughly. A blackbird flew out,
whistling his sweet and melancholy note; that was all. Then she thought
that he might have taken refuge in a hollow among the rocks where he
went sometimes with his gun, but the spot was untenanted. What use
was there in looking for him? She would never find him, and little
by little the desire to discover his hiding-place became a passionate
longing. She proceeded at a more rapid pace. The idea suddenly took
possession of her that he had climbed into a tree, and thenceforth she
went along with eyes raised aloft and called him by name every fifteen
or twenty steps, so that he might know she was near him. The cuckoos
answered her; a breath of air that rustled the leaves made her think
that he was there and was coming down to her. Once she even imagined
that she saw him; she stopped with a sense of suffocation, with a
desire to run away. What was she to say to him? Had she come there to
take him back with her and have him shot? Oh! no, she would not mention
those things; she would tell him that he must fly, that he must not
remain in the neighbourhood. Then she thought of her father awaiting
her return, and the reflection caused her most bitter anguish. She sank
upon the turf, weeping hot tears, crying aloud:
“My God! My God! why am I here!”
It was a mad thing for her to have come. And as if seized with sudden
panic, she ran hither and thither, she sought to make her way out of
the forest. Three times she lost her way, and had begun to think she
was never to see the mill again, when she came out into a meadow,
directly opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of the village
she stopped. Was she going to return alone?
She was standing there when she heard a voice calling her by name,
softly:
“Françoise! Françoise!”
And she beheld Dominique raising his head above the edge of a ditch.
Just God! she had found him.
Could it be, then, that Heaven willed his death? She suppressed a cry
that rose to her lips, and slipped into the ditch beside him.
“You were looking for me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied bewilderedly, scarce knowing what she was saying.
“Ah! what has happened?”
She stammered, with eyes downcast: “Why, nothing; I was anxious, I
wanted to see you.”
Thereupon, his fears alleviated, he went on to tell her how it was
that he had remained in the vicinity. He was alarmed for them. Those
rascally Prussians were not above wreaking their vengeance on women and
old men. All had ended well, however, and he added, laughing:
“The wedding will be put off for a week, that’s all.”
He became serious, however, upon noticing that her dejection did not
pass away.
“But what is the matter? You are concealing something from me.”
“No, I give you my word I am not. I am tired; I ran all the way here.”
He kissed her, saying it was imprudent for them both to talk there any
longer, and was about to climb out of the ditch in order to return to
the forest. She stopped him; she was trembling violently.
“Listen, Dominique; perhaps it will be as well for you to stay here,
after all. There is no one looking for you; you have nothing to fear.”
“Françoise, you are concealing something from me,” he said again.
Again she protested that she was concealing nothing. She only liked
to know that he was near her. And there were other reasons still
that she gave in stammering accents. Her manner was so strange that
no consideration could now have induced him to go away. He believed,
moreover, that the French would return presently. Troops had been seen
over toward Sauval.
“Ah! let them make haste; let them come as quickly as possible,” she
murmured fervently.
At that moment the clock of the church at Rocreuse struck eleven; the
strokes reached them, clear and distinct. She arose in terror; it was
two hours since she had left the mill.
“Listen,” she said, with feverish rapidity, “should we need you, I
will go up to my room and wave my handkerchief from the window.”
And she started off homeward on a run, while Dominique, greatly
disturbed in mind, stretched himself at length beside the ditch to
watch the mill. Just as she was about to enter the village Françoise
encountered an old beggar man, Father Bontemps, who knew every one and
everything in that part of the country. He saluted her; he had just
seen the miller, he said, surrounded by a crowd of Prussians; then,
making numerous signs of the Cross and mumbling some inarticulate
words, he went his way.
“The two hours are up,” the officer said when Françoise made her
appearance.
Father Merlier was there, seated on the bench beside the well. He was
smoking still. The young girl again proffered her supplication kneeling
before the officer and weeping. Her wish was to gain time. The hope
that she might yet behold the return of the French had been gaining
strength in her bosom, and amid her tears and sobs she thought she
could distinguish in the distance the cadenced tramp of an advancing
army. Oh! if they would but come and deliver them all from their
fearful trouble!
“Hear me, sir: grant us an hour, just one little hour. Surely you will
not refuse to grant us an hour!”
But the officer was inflexible. He even ordered two men to lay hold of
her and take her away, in order that they might proceed undisturbed
with the execution of the old man. Then a dreadful conflict took place
in Françoise’s heart. She could not allow her father to be murdered in
that manner; no, no, she would die in company with Dominique rather;
and she was just darting away in the direction of her room in order to
signal to her _fiancé_, when Dominique himself entered the courtyard.
The officer and his soldiers gave a great shout of triumph, but he, as
if there had been no soul there but Françoise, walked straight up to
her; he was perfectly calm, and his face wore a slight expression of
sternness.
“You did wrong,” he said. “Why did you not bring me back with you? Had
it not been for Father Bontemps I should have known nothing of all
this. Well, I am here, at all events.”