side of the road. That makes the third . . . And always the same wound,
a horrible gash at the nape of the neck . . . It is almost like a
signature of the same hand.
But who can it be? . . .
[Picture: River scene]
* * * * *
[Picture: Robert spit-roasting a hen-pheasant]
_November_ 15_th_.
. . . This is the first time for many a day that I can put down a date in
my diary, and make out a little order in this bewilderment of monotonous
days. My whole existence is changed. The Hermitage no longer seems so
silent and sad; there are now long, low conversations by the ash-covered
fire with which we fill the chimney at night. The Robinson Crusoe of the
forest of Sénart has found his man Friday, and under the following
circumstances.
One evening last week, between eight and nine o’clock, while I was
roasting a fine hen-pheasant on a turnspit of my own invention, I heard
the report of a gun in the direction of Champrosay. This was so unusual
that I listened very attentively, ready to extinguish my fire and put out
the little glimmer which might betray me. Almost immediately, hurried
footsteps sounding heavy on the gravelled road, approached the Hermitage,
followed by barking of dogs and furious galloping. It gave me the idea
of a hunted man pursued by horsemen and chased by furious dogs.
Shivering, and seized by the living terror I felt drawing near, I half
opened my window. At that instant a man rushed across the moonlit
orchard, and ran towards the keeper’s house with an unerring certainty
that struck me. Apparently he was well acquainted with the place. He
had passed so rapidly that I could not distinguish his features; I only
saw a peasant’s blue smock all gathered up in the agitation of a wild
flight. He jumped through a shattered window into the Guillards’ house,
and disappeared in the darkness of the empty dwelling. Immediately
behind him a large white dog appeared at the entrance of the cloister.
Thrown out for a minute, he remained there, slowly wagging his tail and
sniffing, and then stretched himself out at full length in front of the
old gateway, baying in order to call the attention of the pursuers. I
knew the Prussians often had dogs with them, and I expected to see a
patrol of Uhlans . . . Odious animal! with what pleasure would I have
strangled it, if it had been within reach of my grasp. I already saw the
Hermitage invaded, searched, my retreat discovered; and I felt angry with
that unfortunate peasant for having sought refuge so near me, as if all
the forest were not large enough. How selfish fear makes us! . . .
[Picture: “At that instant a man rushed across the moonlit orchard.”]
Fortunately for me, the Prussians were probably not very numerous, and
the darkness and the unknown forest frightened them. I heard them call
in their dog, who kept up in front of the gate, the continual howl and
whimpering of an animal on the track. However, he at last went off, and
the sound of him bounding through the brushwood and over the dead leaves
died out in the distance. The silence that followed appalled me. A man
was there, opposite to me. Through the round opening of my attic window,
I tried to peer into the darkness. The keeper’s little house was still
silent and gloomy, with the black apertures of its dreary windows in the
white wall. I imagined the unhappy man hiding in a corner, benumbed with
cold and perhaps wounded. Should I leave him without help? . . . I did
not hesitate long . . . But just at the moment when I was gently opening
my door, it was violently pushed from the outside, and some one burst
into the room.
[Picture: Dog waiting at doorway] —Don’t be afraid, Mr. Robert. It is I
. . . It is Goudeloup . . .
It was the farmer of Champrosay, he whom I had seen with the rope round
his neck, ready to be swung up in his farmyard. I recognised him at once
in the firelight; and yet there was something different about him. Pale
and emaciated, his face hidden by an unkempt beard, his sharp glance and
tightened lips made a very different being of the well-to-do, cheerful
farmer of former days. With the end of his smock, he wiped the blood off
his hands.
—You are wounded, Goudeloup?
He laughed significantly.
—No—no . . . I have just been bleeding one of them on the road. Only
this time I had not a fair chance. While I was at work, some others came
up. Never mind! He will never get up again.
And he added, with a short, fierce laugh which showed his wolfish-looking
teeth:
—That makes the fifteenth that I have laid low in two months . . . I
think that is pretty well for one man alone, and with no other weapon but
this.
He drew forth from under his smock a pair of pruning-shears—those large
kind of scissors that gardeners use to cut rose-trees and shrubs. I had
a shudder of horror at the sight of the assassin’s tool, held by that
bloody hand; but I had been so long silent, and deprived of all
intercourse with human beings, that, the first feeling of repulsion
overcome, I made the unfortunate creature welcome to a place at my table.
There, in the comfortable atmosphere of the room, by the heat of the
faggots, at the smell of the pheasant, which was becoming brown before
the flame, his wild-beast expression seemed to soften. Accustomed to the
darkness of the long nights, he blinked his eyes a little while he
related his history to me in a quiet tone.
[Picture: Pruning shears] —You thought I was hanged, Mr. Robert; well, I
thought so myself. You must know that when the Uhlans arrived at the
farm, I first tried to defend myself, but they did not even give me time
to fire my second gun. No sooner was the first shot fired than the gates
were forced open, and thirty of these robbers threw themselves on to me.
They put the granary rope round my neck and up I went . . . For the
space of a moment, giddy at no longer feeling the ground under my feet, I
saw everything reeling around me: the farm, the sheds, the kennels, those
big red faces which laughed at the sight of me; and you also, whom I
caught sight of through the gap in the wall, looking as white as a ghost.
It seemed like a nightmare! . . . Suddenly, while I was struggling, the
idea flashed across my mind, I know not why, to make the Freemason’s
signal of distress. I learned that in my youth, when I belonged to the
lodge of the _Grand Orient_. Immediately the wretches loosened the rope,
and I found myself on the ground once more. It was their officer—a stout
man with black whiskers—who had me taken down only on account of my sign.
[Picture: Robert meeting Goudeloup]
“—You are a Freemason,” said he, in a low tone, and in excellent French.
“I am also one . . . and I would not refuse to help a brother who
appealed to me . . . Be off, and let me see you no more! . . .”
I left my own home hanging my head like a beggar. Only I did not go far,
you may believe. Hidden among the ruins of the bridge, living on raw
turnips and sloes, I was present at the pillage of my goods; the emptied
granaries, the pulley creaking all day long to lower the sacks, the wood
burning in the open yard in large fires, round which they drank my wine,
and my furniture and my flocks going of by degrees in every direction!
And when at last nothing remained, after setting fire to the house, they
went off, driving and whipping my last cow before them. That evening,
when I had been round my ruins, when, thinking of my children, I realised
that in my whole life long I should never make enough to restore my
property, even if I killed myself with work, I became mad with rage. The
very first Prussian I met on the road I sprang upon like a wild beast and
cut his throat with this . . .
From that moment I had but one idea—to hunt down the Prussians. I
remained in ambush night and day, attacking the stragglers, the
marauders, the despatch-bearers, the sentinels. All those I kill I carry
to the quarries or throw into the water. That is the tedious part.
Otherwise they are as gentle as lambs. You can do what you will with
them . . . However, the one this evening was more tough than the others,
and then that fiendish dog gave the alarm. And now I must remain quiet
for a time, and with your permission, Mr. Robert, I will remain a few
days with you . . .
While he was speaking, his countenance resumed the sinister expression
and peculiar intensity that these fearful night-watches had imparted to
it. What a terrible companion I am going to have! . . .
[Picture: Goudeloup hunting his prey]
* * * * *
[Picture: Prussian patrol]
_November_ 20_th_.
We have just spent a most dreadful week. During eight days, the Prussian
patrols have unceasingly passed backwards and forwards through the
forest. They skirted the walls of the Hermitage, and even entered the
enclosure, but the state of the keeper’s little house, left wide open and
abandoned; the ivy and brambles giving such a dilapidated appearance to
my own, protected us. My companion and myself carefully remained inside
the whole time, deadening our steps across the room, lowering our voices
by the hearth, and only making a small fire at night.
[Picture: Jug] This time, had we been discovered, it meant death, and I
felt rather annoyed with Goudeloup for having made me his accomplice by
coming to take refuge here. He understood my feelings, and offered
several times to go and seek another shelter; but I would not consent to
this. To show his gratitude for my hospitality, he renders me a lot of
little services. Very obliging, very clever in all the practical details
of life, about which I am so ignorant, he has taught me to make bread
that is eatable, real cider, and candles. It is a pleasure to see him
busy all day long, restricting his faculty for work and order, which he
formerly exercised on a wider scale in the management of his large
farmstead and seventy-five acres of land, and adapting himself to the
confined space of our only room. Gloomy and silent, moreover, and
sitting motionless for hours in the evening, his head buried in his
hands, like all inveterate workers with whom overwrought physical life
absorbs the moral being, I could not help sometimes smiling when I
noticed that, notwithstanding the tragical circumstances surrounding us,
he kept up his habit of prolonged meals and pauses between each mouthful.
Such as he is, the fellow interests me. He is the true peasant in all
his native brutality. His land, his goods, are far more precious to him
than his country or his family. He unconsciously utters the most
monstrous sentiments. If he is so bent on revenge, it is only because
the Prussians have burnt down his farm, and the horrors of the invasion
only rouse him when he thinks of his lost harvest, and his fields left
untilled and unsown.
[Picture: Goudeloup sitting despondent]
* * * * *
[Picture: Goudeloup’s derelict farm]
* * * * *
[Picture: Discussion with Goudeloup]
_November_ 22_nd_ . . .
We had a long conversation to-day. We were in the shed seated across a
ladder, and, in spite of the coldness of the damp air which came to us
from the forest all laden with the smell of moist wood and damp earth, we
felt as much pleasure in breathing it as two dormice coming forth from
their holes. Goudeloup was smoking a curiously-shaped pipe he has made
out of a snail’s shell, and he did so with an exaggerated appearance of
satisfaction and content not devoid of mischief. In spite of my longing
to smoke, I have already several times refused to use his tobacco, well
knowing how it has been procured, and always expecting to see some shreds
of the blue cloth of which the Prussian uniforms are made. As he caught
me sniffing the delightful fragrance of tobacco, which tantalised me, he
said, with that cunning smile of the peasant which puckers up their eyes,
leaving their lips thin and crafty:
—Well! come! you won’t smoke? . . .
MYSELF.
No, thank you. I have already told you I do not wish for any of your
tobacco.
GOUDELOUP.
Because I have taken it out of their pockets? Yet I had every right to
do so. They have robbed me enough, for me to be able to rob them also,
and a few handfuls of bad tobacco won’t pay for all my corn and oats . . .
MYSELF.
With this difference, that these people have given you your life, whereas
you . . .
GOUDELOUP.
Yes, it is true they have given me my life, but they have burnt down my
farm—my poor farm! I built it myself . . . and my beasts and my harvest,
fifteen acres of crops! It was all insured against hail, fire, and
lightning; but who would have thought that, so near Paris, with all the
taxes we pay to have good soldiers, I ought to have insured myself
against the Prussians? Now I have nothing left. Are not such
catastrophes worse than death? . . . Ah yes, the wretches; they gave me
my life! They gave it me to beg from door to door with my wife and
children. Don’t you see that when I think of all this, a furious passion
seizes me, and a thirst for blood, for . . .
[Picture: Goudeloup waiting and watching]
MYSELF.
What, you have not killed enough? . . .
GOUDELOUP.
No, not enough yet . . . I must even make a confession, Mr. Robert. You
are an easy-going man; you have received me kindly, and a chimney-corner
like yours is not to be despised in this weather. And yet, all the same,
there are moments when I am weary of being here. I want to escape, to
begin lying in wait by the roadside again. It is such fun waiting for
one of those thieves to pass; to watch for him, dog his footsteps, and
say to oneself, “Not yet . . .” and then, quick, you jump on him and
finish him . . . Another one who will not eat up my corn!
MYSELF.
You, whom I have known so quiet and gentle, how can you talk like that
without showing the least feeling?
GOUDELOUP.
One would think there was an evil spirit within me that the war has
called forth . . . But I must say that the first time it happened, I was
startled myself. It was that transport soldier I met the evening of my
misfortune. I struck with all my might at the uniform, hardly realising
there was a man inside it; then, when I felt that huge form give way and
the warm stream of blood inundate me, then I was afraid. But remembering
directly the torn and ripped-up sacks of flour lying in my yard, I again
became desperate.
MYSELF.
As you bear them such a grudge, why do you not try to get back into
Paris, or to rejoin the armies in the provinces? You could then fight
openly, and kill the Prussians without treachery in the battles.
GOUDELOUP.
Join the army, Mr. Robert? . . . But I am not a soldier! My parents
paid dearly enough to prevent my being one . . . I am a peasant, an
unhappy peasant, who revenges himself, and requires no one to help him.
[Picture: Goudeloup killing a Prussian]
While he spoke I saw reappear in him the wild beast I had admitted the
other evening. The mad glare seemed to return to his eyes. His lips
were compressed. His fingers convulsively sought a weapon . . .
[Picture: Unknown image]
* * * * *
[Picture: Goudeloup leaves]
_November_ 28_th_.
He is gone. I ought not to be astonished. The wretch was tired of
having nothing to kill. After promising to come sometimes at night and
knock at my door, he plunged into the shadows, less black than himself.
Well, brutal as he was, I regret him. Solitude brings with it, after a
time, a feeling of torpor, a numbness of the whole being, which is really
unwholesome. Words seem to start fresh thoughts. By dint of talking to
this peasant of patriotism and self-sacrifice, I have re-awakened in
myself all that I was desirous of inspiring in him. I feel quite
differently now. And then my recovery, the sensation of returning
strength, which increases from day to day . . . I long for action and
battle . . .
[Picture: Unknown image]
* * * * *
[Picture: The forest under snow]
_November_ 30_th_. _December_ 1_st_ _and_ 2_nd_.
It is bitterly cold. Through the dryness of the earth and atmosphere the
cannonading round Paris re-echoes still louder. I have never heard
anything to equal it. It must be a real battle. At moments I fancy the
sounds draw nearer, for I can make out the platoon-firing and the
horrible rending noise of the mitrailleuse. All around here there seems
a general commotion, as it were the rebounding sound of the battle. On
the road to Melun troops are continually moving. On the road to Corbeil
scared despatch-bearers gallop by furiously . . . What can be taking
place? . . . In spite of the cold, I go and wander about, seeking the
forest paths, where the cannonading is more distinctly heard . . .
At times I have a dream of Paris leaving its imprisoning ramparts, of the
French troops arriving here, of the forest of Sénart full of French
uniforms, and of I myself joining their ranks to drive out the Prussians
and reconquer France . . .
[Picture: Prussian lancer]
* * * * *
[Picture: Bavarian troops drilling]
_December_ 5_th_.
The incessant cannonading of the last few days has been succeeded by a
deathlike stillness. What is going on? I am fearfully anxious. If
Paris had sallied forth from her walls and were now marching on the
roads, the disbanded and repulsed Prussians would fill the country and
constantly change their bivouacs. But no. Ever since yesterday I have
scoured the twelve miles of forest which hem me in like a wall on all
sides; in vain I scrutinise the lanes around, they are as silent and
lonely as usual. Through the trees, in the distance, I saw near
Montgeron a company of Bavarians drilling in the open part of a wide
plain. Mournfully drawn up in line under the lowering and lurid sky,
they trod with resigned melancholy through the mud of this uncultivated
and barren land . . . Evidently Paris has not yet made a successful
sortie, but it has not capitulated either, for these soldiers presented
too pitiful an appearance to be conquerors.
Overhead, circling clouds of rooks fly by towards the great city, cawing
and alighting on the rising ground. Never had I seen so many, even in
the peaceful winter, when all France is sown with wheat. This year it is
another kind of seed which attracts them.
[Picture: Image of baron land]
* * * * *
[Picture: “—it was a balloon.”]
* * * * *
[Picture: Balloon overhead]
_December_ 6_th_.
Thank Heaven! Paris still holds out, and is likely to do so. I had a
delightful proof of this. This morning I was by the cloister well when I
heard quick firing in the direction of Draveil. Almost immediately a
peculiar sound, like the flapping of a sail at sea and the straining of
the stretched rigging, passed through the air above me. It was a
balloon, a fine yellow balloon, very apparent against the darkness of the
clouds. From where I stood it seemed to float over the tree-tops,
although in reality it was far above. I cannot describe how the slender
texture of this silken balloon, whose netting I could distinctly see,
stirred and filled me with enthusiasm. I remembered that above all this
conquered France, the soul of Paris still soared, a living strength more
powerful than all the Krupp cannons together, and I, a Parisian, felt
proud of it. I felt inclined to cry, to shout, to call out. I threw my
arms out towards the black, motionless specks at the edge of the car, two
human lives, tossed about by all the currents of heaven, far above the
rivers that may drown them, the precipices where they may be dashed to
pieces, and the Prussian armies, which must look from that height like
immense overrunning ant-heaps on the surface of the earth . . . A light
powdery line became visible under the balloon. I heard the sound of
scattered sand among the branches, and the vision was lost among the
clouds.
[Picture: Man looking up]
* * * * *
[Picture: A roadside cross]
_December_ 9_th_.
What am I doing here? I am really becoming ashamed of my useless life . . .
I had to bake some bread to-day, and could not summon up courage to
do it. All the little details in which I used to take pleasure, like
those egotists in disguise—recluses and hermits—I now find despicable. I
am completely cured, only an occasional pain on very cold days. My duty
is on the ramparts with the others . . . But how can I manage to rejoin
them? It appears that the investment is very close, and the sentinels
are placed within rifle-shot of each other. If I had only a companion,
some countryman who knows the roads well. My thoughts fly to Goudeloup.
I ought not to have allowed him to leave me. Who knows where he may be
now? Perhaps strung up to some roadside cross, or dead from cold at the
bottom of a quarry. However, the other evening, towards the Meillottes,
I heard a cry—nothing but a cry, but a terrible cry, long and despairing,
like a wail; and it flashed across me, “Goudeloup is there!” . . . Ah,
yes! that man is a murderer; but at any rate he acts; he satisfies
brutally the thirst for vengeance and justice which is in him. As for
me, I warm myself and sleep. Which of us two is the most contemptible?
[Picture: Body in the snow]
* * * * *
[Picture: Deserted street in Champrosay]
_December_ 10_th_.
Returned to Champrosay in bitter cold weather. The houses along the
roadside, with all their dark, empty windows, looked like sad and blind
beggars. I visited again the park, the summer-house at the waterside,
and the smiling portrait which inhabits it. The cold air had not dimmed
the peaceful face, nor the soft shades of the summer dress. Only the
glance seemed to me more stern and severe, as if it contained a reproach.
On the very threshold I understood I was no longer welcome. Cautiously I
closed the door again, and went down the frozen, moss-covered steps . . .
And all through the night the clear gaze of that fair Parisian
remorselessly haunted me.
[Picture: Robert investigating Champrosay house]
* * * * *
[Picture: “I found a pigeon.”]
* * * * *
[Picture: Across the rooftops]
_December_ 11_th_.
This morning, on going to take up the snares at the end of my garden, I
found a pigeon. It astonished me. Tame pigeons do not remain on
deserted roofs, and till now I had only caught wood-pigeons. This one
was really a tame pigeon, plump, with pink claws and back, and brown and
white wings. The wire had not maimed it; it was merely numbed with cold.
I brought it in to the fire, and there, as I held it in both hands—for,
like a tame creature, it made not the slightest struggle—I discovered
some printed numbers on one of its wings, 523, and lower down, _Société
de l’Espérance_. Then under the feathers I found a quill rather thicker
than the others, and rolled up, fastened to it, a tiny sheet of very thin
paper. I had caught a carrier-pigeon! Did it come from Paris or the
provinces? Was it the messenger of victory or defeat, good or bad news?
. . . For a long time I gazed at it with almost superstitious awe. Let
loose in the room, he quietly went about pecking between the tiles. By
degrees his feathers puffed out in the warmth and his strength returned.
Then I opened the window wide, and placed him on the sill. He remained
there a moment looking up at the sky, stretching out his neck, trying to
find his bearings. At last he rose straight into the air, and having
reached a certain height, white against the surrounding gloom, he sharply
turned towards Paris. Ah! if I could only take the same road . . .
[Picture: Bird]
* * * * *
[Picture: Preparations for travelling]
_December_ 15_th_.
It is all settled. We leave to-morrow. I say “we,” because Goudeloup
has returned. He came back yesterday in the dusk, more emaciated, more
terrible than before. The wretched man is now at his twenty-first! . . .
Nevertheless the thirst for blood is beginning to be satiated; moreover,
he is closely pursued, and the nightly ambush has become most difficult.
I therefore had little trouble in deciding him to attempt an expedition
to Paris with me. We shall start to-morrow in my boat, which is lying
out on the Seine, moored under the willows on the banks. It is
Goudeloup’s idea. He thinks that on a very dark night we shall be able
to get by to the _Port-à-l’Anglais_, and then, by creeping along the
towing-path, reach the first French barricade. We shall see . . . I
have prepared my revolver, some rugs, two or three loaves, and a large
flask of brandy.