Then Jean, blushing up to his ears, managed to get at the little paper
cornucopia, and held it out.
She began to eat the little bonbons, rolling them from one cheek to the
other where they made little round lumps. The two soldiers, seated
before her, gazed at her with emotion and delight.
Then she went to milk her cow, and once more gave them some milk on
coming back.
They thought of her all the week; several times they even spoke of her.
The next Sunday she sat down with them for a little longer talk; and
all three, seated side by side, their eyes lost in the distance,
clasping their knees with their hands, told the small doings, the
minute details of life in the villages where they had been born, while
over there the cow, seeing that the milkmaid had stopped on her way,
stretched out toward her its heavy head with its dripping nostrils, and
gave a long low to call her.
Soon the girl consented to eat a bit of bread with them and drink a
mouthful of wine. She often brought them plums in her pocket, for the
season of plums had come. Her presence sharpened the wits of the two
little Breton soldiers, and they chattered like two birds.
But, one Tuesday, Luc le Ganidec asked for leave--a thing which had
never happened before--and he did not return until ten o'clock at
night. Jean racked his brains uneasily for a reason for his comrade's
going out in this way.
The next Thursday Luc, having borrowed ten sous from his bedfellow,
again asked and obtained permission to leave the barracks for several
hours. When he set off with Jean on their Sunday walk his manner was
very queer, quite restless, and quite changed. Kerderen did not
understand, but he vaguely suspected something without divining what it
could be.
They did not say a word to one another until they reached their usual
halting-place, where, from their constant sitting in the same spot the
grass was quite worn away. They ate their breakfast slowly. Neither of
them felt hungry.
Before long the girl appeared. As on every Sunday, they watched her
coming. When she was quite near, Luc rose and made two steps forward.
She put her milk-pail on the ground and kissed him. She kissed him
passionately, throwing her arms about his neck, without noticing Jean,
without remembering that he was there, without even seeing him.
And he sat there desperate, poor Jean, so desperate that he did not
understand, his soul quite overwhelmed, his heart bursting, but not yet
understanding himself. Then the girl seated herself beside Luc, and
they began to chatter.
Jean did not look at them. He now divined why his comrade had gone out
twice during the week, and he felt within him a burning grief, a kind
of wound, that sense of rending which is caused by treason.
Luc and the girl went off together to change the position of the cow.
Jean followed them with his eyes. He saw them departing side by side.
The red breeches of his comrade made a bright spot on the road. It was
Luc who picked up the mallet and hammered down the stake to which they
tied the beast.
The girl stooped to milk her, while he stroked the cow's sharp spine
with a careless hand. Then they left the milk-pail on the grass, and
went deep into the wood.
Jean saw nothing but the wall of leaves where they had entered; and he
felt himself so troubled that if he had tried to rise he would
certainly have fallen. He sat motionless, stupefied by astonishment and
suffering, with an agony which was simple but deep. He wanted to cry,
to run away, to hide himself, never to see anybody any more.
Soon he saw them issuing from the thicket. They returned slowly,
holding each other's hands as in the villages do those who are
promised. It was Luc who carried the pail.
They kissed one another again before they separated, and the girl went
off after having thrown Jean a friendly "Good evening" and a smile
which was full of meaning. To-day she no longer thought of offering him
any milk.
The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless as usual, silent
and calm, their placid faces betraying nothing of all which troubled
their hearts. The sun fell on them. Sometimes the cow lowed, looking at
them from afar.
At their usual hour they rose to go back. Luc cut a switch. Jean
carried the empty bottle to return it to the wine-seller at Bezons.
Then they sallied out upon the bridge, and, as they did every Sunday,
stopped several minutes in the middle to watch the water flowing.
Jean leaned, leaned more and more, over the iron railing, as though he
saw in the current something which attracted him. Luc said: "Are you
trying to drink?" Just as he uttered the last word Jean's head
overbalanced his body, his legs described a circle in the air, and the
little blue and red soldier fell in a heap, struck the water, and
disappeared.
Luc, his tongue paralyzed with anguish, tried in vain to shout. Farther
down he saw something stir; then the head of his comrade rose to the
surface of the river and sank immediately. Farther still he again
perceived a hand, a single hand, which issued from the stream and then
disappear. That was all.
The bargemen who dragged the river did not find the body that day.
Luc set out alone for the barracks, going at a run, his soul filled
with despair. He told of the accident, with tears in his eyes, and a
husky voice, blowing his nose again and again: "He leaned over--he--he
leaned over--so far--so far that his head turned a somersault;
and--and--so he fell--he fell--"
Choked with emotion, he could say no more. If he had only known!