CHAPTER XIV

Nana suddenly disappeared. It was a fresh plunge, an escapade, a flight

into barbarous regions. Before her departure she had treated herself to

a new sensation: she had held a sale and had made a clean sweep of

everything—house, furniture, jewelry, nay, even dresses and linen.

Prices were cited—the five days’ sale produced more than six hundred

thousand francs. For the last time Paris had seen her in a fairy piece.

It was called Melusine, and it played at the Theatre de la Gaîté, which

the penniless Bordenave had taken out of sheer audacity. Here she again

found herself in company with Prullière and Fontan. Her part was simply

spectacular, but it was the great attraction of the piece, consisting,

as it did, of three POSES PLASTIQUES, each of which represented the

same dumb and puissant fairy. Then one fine morning amid his grand

success, when Bordenave, who was mad after advertisement, kept firing

the Parisian imagination with colossal posters, it became known that

she must have started for Cairo the previous day. She had simply had a

few words with her manager. Something had been said which did not

please her; the whole thing was the caprice of a woman who is too rich

to let herself be annoyed. Besides, she had indulged an old

infatuation, for she had long meditated visiting the Turks.

Months passed—she began to be forgotten. When her name was mentioned

among the ladies and gentlemen, the strangest stories were told, and

everybody gave the most contradictory and at the same time prodigious

information. She had made a conquest of the viceroy; she was reigning,

in the recesses of a palace, over two hundred slaves whose heads she

now and then cut off for the sake of a little amusement. No, not at

all! She had ruined herself with a great big nigger! A filthy passion

this, which had left her wallowing without a chemise to her back in the

crapulous debauchery of Cairo. A fortnight later much astonishment was

produced when someone swore to having met her in Russia. A legend began

to be formed: she was the mistress of a prince, and her diamonds were

mentioned. All the women were soon acquainted with them from the

current descriptions, but nobody could cite the precise source of all

this information. There were finger rings, earrings, bracelets, a

REVIERE of phenomenal width, a queenly diadem surmounted by a central

brilliant the size of one’s thumb. In the retirement of those faraway

countries she began to gleam forth as mysteriously as a gem-laden idol.

People now mentioned her without laughing, for they were full of

meditative respect for this fortune acquired among the barbarians.

One evening in July toward eight o’clock, Lucy, while getting out of

her carriage in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, noticed Caroline

Hequet, who had come out on foot to order something at a neighboring

tradesman’s. Lucy called her and at once burst out with:

“Have you dined? Are you disengaged? Oh, then come with me, my dear.

Nana’s back.”

The other got in at once, and Lucy continued:

“And you know, my dear, she may be dead while we’re gossiping.”

“Dead! What an idea!” cried Caroline in stupefaction. “And where is

she? And what’s it of?”

“At the Grand Hotel, of smallpox. Oh, it’s a long story!”

Lucy had bidden her coachman drive fast, and while the horses trotted

rapidly along the Rue Royale and the boulevards, she told what had

happened to Nana in jerky, breathless sentences.

“You can’t imagine it. Nana plumps down out of Russia. I don’t know

why—some dispute with her prince. She leaves her traps at the station;

she lands at her aunt’s—you remember the old thing. Well, and then she

finds her baby dying of smallpox. The baby dies next day, and she has a

row with the aunt about some money she ought to have sent, of which the

other one has never seen a sou. Seems the child died of that: in fact,

it was neglected and badly cared for. Very well; Nana slopes, goes to a

hotel, then meets Mignon just as she was thinking of her traps. She has

all sorts of queer feelings, shivers, wants to be sick, and Mignon

takes her back to her place and promises to look after her affairs.

Isn’t it odd, eh? Doesn’t it all happen pat? But this is the best part

of the story: Rose finds out about Nana’s illness and gets indignant at

the idea of her being alone in furnished apartments. So she rushes off,

crying, to look after her. You remember how they used to detest one

another—like regular furies! Well then, my dear, Rose has had Nana

transported to the Grand Hotel, so that she should, at any rate, die in

a smart place, and now she’s already passed three nights there and is

free to die of it after. It’s Labordette who told me all about it.

Accordingly I wanted to see for myself—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Caroline in great excitement “We’ll go up to

her.”

They had arrived at their destination. On the boulevard the coachman

had had to rein in his horses amid a block of carriages and people on

foot. During the day the Corps Legislatif had voted for war, and now a

crowd was streaming down all the streets, flowing along all the

pavements, invading the middle of the roadway. Beyond the Madeleine the

sun had set behind a blood-red cloud, which cast a reflection as of a

great fire and set the lofty windows flaming. Twilight was falling, and

the hour was oppressively melancholy, for now the avenues were

darkening away into the distance but were not as yet dotted over by the

bright sparks of the gas lamps. And among the marching crowds distant

voices swelled and grew ever louder, and eyes gleamed from pale faces,

while a great spreading wind of anguish and stupor set every head

whirling.

“Here’s Mignon,” said Lucy. “He’ll give us news.”

Mignon was standing under the vast porch of the Grand Hotel. He looked

nervous and was gazing at the crowd. After Lucy’s first few questions

he grew impatient and cried out:

“How should I know? These last two days I haven’t been able to tear

Rose away from up there. It’s getting stupid, when all’s said, for her

to be risking her life like that! She’ll be charming if she gets over

it, with holes in her face! It’ll suit us to a tee!”

The idea that Rose might lose her beauty was exasperating him. He was

giving up Nana in the most downright fashion, and he could not in the

least understand these stupid feminine devotions. But Fauchery was

crossing the boulevard, and he, too, came up anxiously and asked for

news. The two men egged each other on. They addressed one another

familiarly in these days.

“Always the same business, my sonny,” declared Mignon. “You ought to go

upstairs; you would force her to follow you.”

“Come now, you’re kind, you are!” said the journalist. “Why don’t you

go upstairs yourself?”

Then as Lucy began asking for Nana’s number, they besought her to make

Rose come down; otherwise they would end by getting angry.

Nevertheless, Lucy and Caroline did not go up at once. They had caught

sight of Fontan strolling about with his hands in his pockets and

greatly amused by the quaint expressions of the mob. When he became

aware that Nana was lying ill upstairs he affected sentiment and

remarked:

“The poor girl! I’ll go and shake her by the hand. What’s the matter

with her, eh?”

“Smallpox,” replied Mignon.

The actor had already taken a step or two in the direction of the

court, but he came back and simply murmured with a shiver:

“Oh, damn it!”

The smallpox was no joke. Fontan had been near having it when he was

five years old, while Mignon gave them an account of one of his nieces

who had died of it. As to Fauchery, he could speak of it from personal

experience, for he still bore marks of it in the shape of three little

lumps at the base of his nose, which he showed them. And when Mignon

again egged him on to the ascent, on the pretext that you never had it

twice, he violently combated this theory and with infinite abuse of the

doctors instanced various cases. But Lucy and Caroline interrupted

them, for the growing multitude filled them with astonishment.

“Just look! Just look what a lot of people!” The night was deepening,

and in the distance the gas lamps were being lit one by one. Meanwhile

interested spectators became visible at windows, while under the trees

the human flood grew every minute more dense, till it ran in one

enormous stream from the Madeleine to the Bastille. Carriages rolled

slowly along. A roaring sound went up from this compact and as yet

inarticulate mass. Each member of it had come out, impelled by the

desire to form a crowd, and was now trampling along, steeping himself

in the pervading fever. But a great movement caused the mob to flow

asunder. Among the jostling, scattering groups a band of men in

workmen’s caps and white blouses had come in sight, uttering a

rhythmical cry which suggested the beat of hammers upon an anvil.

“To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin! To Ber-lin!” And the crowd stared in gloomy

distrust yet felt themselves already possessed and inspired by heroic

imaginings, as though a military band were passing.

“Oh yes, go and get your throats cut!” muttered Mignon, overcome by an

access of philosophy.

But Fontan thought it very fine, indeed, and spoke of enlisting. When

the enemy was on the frontier all citizens ought to rise up in defense

of the fatherland! And with that he assumed an attitude suggestive of

Bonaparte at Austerlitz.

“Look here, are you coming up with us?” Lucy asked him.

“Oh dear, no! To catch something horrid?” he said.

On a bench in front of the Grand Hotel a man sat hiding his face in a

handkerchief. On arriving Fauchery had indicated him to Mignon with a

wink of the eye. Well, he was still there; yes, he was always there.

And the journalist detained the two women also in order to point him

out to them. When the man lifted his head they recognized him; an

exclamation escaped them. It was the Count Muffat, and he was giving an

upward glance at one of the windows.

“You know, he’s been waiting there since this morning,” Mignon informed

them. “I saw him at six o’clock, and he hasn’t moved since. Directly

Labordette spoke about it he came there with his handkerchief up to his

face. Every half-hour he comes dragging himself to where we’re standing

to ask if the person upstairs is doing better, and then he goes back

and sits down. Hang it, that room isn’t healthy! It’s all very well

being fond of people, but one doesn’t want to kick the bucket.”

The count sat with uplifted eyes and did not seem conscious of what was

going on around him. Doubtless he was ignorant of the declaration of

war, and he neither felt nor saw the crowd.

“Look, here he comes!” said Fauchery. “Now you’ll see.”

The count had, in fact, quitted his bench and was entering the lofty

porch. But the porter, who was getting to know his face at last, did

not give him time to put his question. He said sharply:

“She’s dead, monsieur, this very minute.”

Nana dead! It was a blow to them all. Without a word Muffat had gone

back to the bench, his face still buried in his handkerchief. The

others burst into exclamations, but they were cut short, for a fresh

band passed by, howling, “À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!” Nana dead!

Hang it, and such a fine girl too! Mignon sighed and looked relieved,

for at last Rose would come down. A chill fell on the company. Fontan,

meditating a tragic role, had assumed a look of woe and was drawing

down the corners of his mouth and rolling his eyes askance, while

Fauchery chewed his cigar nervously, for despite his cheap journalistic

chaff he was really touched. Nevertheless, the two women continued to

give vent to their feelings of surprise. The last time Lucy had seen

her was at the Gaîté; Blanche, too, had seen her in Melusine. Oh, how

stunning it was, my dear, when she appeared in the depths of the

crystal grot! The gentlemen remembered the occasion perfectly. Fontan

had played the Prince Cocorico. And their memories once stirred up,

they launched into interminable particulars. How ripping she looked

with that rich coloring of hers in the crystal grot! Didn’t she, now?

She didn’t say a word: the authors had even deprived her of a line or

two, because it was superfluous. No, never a word! It was grander that

way, and she drove her public wild by simply showing herself. You

wouldn’t find another body like hers! Such shoulders as she had, and

such legs and such a figure! Strange that she should be dead! You know,

above her tights she had nothing on but a golden girdle which hardly

concealed her behind and in front. All round her the grotto, which was

entirely of glass, shone like day. Cascades of diamonds were flowing

down; strings of brilliant pearls glistened among the stalactites in

the vault overhead, and amid the transparent atmosphere and flowing

fountain water, which was crossed by a wide ray of electric light, she

gleamed like the sun with that flamelike skin and hair of hers. Paris

would always picture her thus—would see her shining high up among

crystal glass like the good God Himself. No, it was too stupid to let

herself die under such conditions! She must be looking pretty by this

time in that room up there!

“And what a lot of pleasures bloody well wasted!” said Mignon in

melancholy tones, as became a man who did not like to see good and

useful things lost.

He sounded Lucy and Caroline in order to find out if they were going up

after all. Of course they were going up; their curiosity had increased.

Just then Blanche arrived, out of breath and much exasperated at the

way the crowds were blocking the pavement, and when she heard the news

there was a fresh outburst of exclamations, and with a great rustling

of skirts the ladies moved toward the staircase. Mignon followed them,

crying out:

“Tell Rose that I’m waiting for her. She’ll come at once, eh?”

“They do not exactly know whether the contagion is to be feared at the

beginning or near the end,” Fontan was explaining to Fauchery. “A

medical I know was assuring me that the hours immediately following

death are particularly dangerous. There are miasmatic exhalations then.

Ah, but I do regret this sudden ending; I should have been so glad to

shake hands with her for the last time.

“What good would it do you now?” said the journalist.

“Yes, what good?” the two others repeated.

The crowd was still on the increase. In the bright light thrown from

shop-windows and beneath the wavering glare of the gas two living

streams were distinguishable as they flowed along the pavement,

innumerable hats apparently drifting on their surface. At that hour the

popular fever was gaining ground rapidly, and people were flinging

themselves in the wake of the bands of men in blouses. A constant

forward movement seemed to sweep the roadway, and the cry kept

recurring; obstinately, abruptly, there rang from thousands of throats:

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

The room on the fourth floor upstairs cost twelve francs a day, since

Rose had wanted something decent and yet not luxurious, for

sumptuousness is not necessary when one is suffering. Hung with Louis

XIII cretonne, which was adorned with a pattern of large flowers, the

room was furnished with the mahogany commonly found in hotels. On the

floor there was a red carpet variegated with black foliage. Heavy

silence reigned save for an occasional whispering sound caused by

voices in the corridor.

“I assure you we’re lost. The waiter told us to turn to the right. What

a barrack of a house!”

“Wait a bit; we must have a look. Room number 401; room number 401!”

“Oh, it’s this way: 405, 403. We ought to be there. Ah, at last, 401!

This way! Hush now, hush!”

The voices were silent. Then there was a slight coughing and a moment

or so of mental preparation. Then the door opened slowly, and Lucy

entered, followed by Caroline and Blanche. But they stopped directly;

there were already five women in the room; Gaga was lying back in the

solitary armchair, which was a red velvet Voltaire. In front of the

fireplace Simonne and Clarisse were now standing talking to Léa de

Horn, who was seated, while by the bed, to the left of the door, Rose

Mignon, perched on the edge of a chest, sat gazing fixedly at the body

where it lay hidden in the shadow of the curtains. All the others had

their hats and gloves on and looked as if they were paying a call: she

alone sat there with bare hands and untidy hair and cheeks rendered

pale by three nights of watching. She felt stupid in the face of this

sudden death, and her eyes were swollen with weeping. A shaded lamp

standing on the corner of the chest of drawers threw a bright flood of

light over Gaga.

“What a sad misfortune, is it not?” whispered Lucy as she shook hands

with Rose. “We wanted to bid her good-by.”

And she turned round and tried to catch sight of her, but the lamp was

too far off, and she did not dare bring it nearer. On the bed lay

stretched a gray mass, but only the ruddy chignon was distinguishable

and a pale blotch which might be the face. Lucy added:

“I never saw her since that time at the Gaîté, when she was at the end

of the grotto.”

At this Rose awoke from her stupor and smiled as she said:

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed.”

Then she once more lapsed into contemplation and neither moved nor

spoke. Perhaps they would be able to look at her presently! And with

that the three women joined the others in front of the fireplace.

Simonne and Clarisse were discussing the dead woman’s diamonds in low

tones. Well, did they really exist—those diamonds? Nobody had seen

them; it must be a bit of humbug. But Léa de Horn knew someone who knew

all about them. Oh, they were monster stones! Besides, they weren’t

all; she had brought back lots of other precious property from

Russia—embroidered stuffs, for instance, valuable knickknacks, a gold

dinner service, nay, even furniture. “Yes, my dear, fifty-two boxes,

enormous cases some of them, three truckloads of them!” They were all

lying at the station. “Wasn’t it hard lines, eh?—to die without even

having time to unpack one’s traps?” Then she had a lot of tin,

besides—something like a million! Lucy asked who was going to inherit

it all. Oh, distant relations—the aunt, without doubt! It would be a

pretty surprise for that old body. She knew nothing about it yet, for

the sick woman had obstinately refused to let them warn her, for she

still owed her a grudge over her little boy’s death. Thereupon they

were all moved to pity about the little boy, and they remembered seeing

him at the races. Oh, it was a wretchedly sickly baby; it looked so old

and so sad. In fact, it was one of those poor brats who never asked to

be born!

“He’s happier under the ground,” said Blanche.

“Bah, and so’s she!” added Caroline. “Life isn’t so funny!”

In that gloomy room melancholy ideas began to take possession of their

imaginations. They felt frightened. It was silly to stand talking so

long, but a longing to see her kept them rooted to the spot. It was

very hot—the lamp glass threw a round, moonlike patch of light upon the

ceiling, but the rest of the room was drowned in steamy darkness. Under

the bed a deep plate full of phenol exhaled an insipid smell. And every

few moments tiny gusts of wind swelled the window curtains. The window

opened on the boulevard, whence rose a dull roaring sound.

“Did she suffer much?” asked Lucy, who was absorbed in contemplation of

the clock, the design of which represented the three Graces as nude

young women, smiling like opera dancers.

Gaga seemed to wake up.

“My word, yes! I was present when she died. I promise you it was not at

all pleasant to see. Why, she was taken with a shuddering fit—”

But she was unable to proceed with her explanation, for a cry arose

outside:

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

And Lucy, who felt suffocated, flung wide the window and leaned upon

the sill. It was pleasant there; the air came fresh from the starry

sky. Opposite her the windows were all aglow with light, and the gas

sent dancing reflections over the gilt lettering of the shop signs.

Beneath these, again, a most amusing scene presented itself. The

streams of people were discernible rolling torrentwise along the

sidewalks and in the roadway, where there was a confused procession of

carriages. Everywhere there were vast moving shadows in which lanterns

and lampposts gleamed like sparks. But the band which now came roaring

by carried torches, and a red glow streamed down from the direction of

the Madeleine, crossed the mob like a trail of fire and spread out over

the heads in the distance like a vivid reflection of a burning house.

Lucy called Blanche and Caroline, forgetting where she was and

shouting:

“Do come! You get a capital view from this window!”

They all three leaned out, greatly interested. The trees got in their

way, and occasionally the torches disappeared under the foliage. They

tried to catch a glimpse of the men of their own party below, but a

protruding balcony hid the door, and they could only make out Count

Muffat, who looked like a dark parcel thrown down on the bench where he

sat. He was still burying his face in his handkerchief. A carriage had

stopped in front, and yet another woman hurried up, in whom Lucy

recognized Maria Blond. She was not alone; a stout man got down after

her.

“It’s that thief of a Steiner,” said Caroline. “How is it they haven’t

sent him back to Cologne yet? I want to see how he looks when he comes

in.”

They turned round, but when after the lapse of ten minutes Maria Blond

appeared, she was alone. She had twice mistaken the staircase. And when

Lucy, in some astonishment, questioned her:

“What, he?” she said. “My dear, don’t you go fancying that he’ll come

upstairs! It’s a great wonder he’s escorted me as far as the door.

There are nearly a dozen of them smoking cigars.”

As a matter of fact, all the gentlemen were meeting downstairs. They

had come strolling thither in order to have a look at the boulevards,

and they hailed one another and commented loudly on that poor girl’s

death. Then they began discussing politics and strategy. Bordenave,

Daguenet, Labordette, Prullière and others, besides, had swollen the

group, and now they were all listening to Fontan, who was explaining

his plan for taking Berlin within a week.

Meanwhile Maria Blond was touched as she stood by the bedside and

murmured, as the others had done before her:

“Poor pet! The last time I saw her was in the grotto at the Gaîté.”

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed!” Rose Mignon repeated with a smile

of gloomiest dejection.

Two more women arrived. These were Tatan Nene and Louise Violaine. They

had been wandering about the Grand Hotel for twenty minutes past,

bandied from waiter to waiter, and had ascended and descended more than

thirty flights of stairs amid a perfect stampede of travelers who were

hurrying to leave Paris amid the panic caused by the war and the

excitement on the boulevards. Accordingly they just dropped down on

chairs when they came in, for they were too tired to think about the

dead. At that moment a loud noise came from the room next door, where

people were pushing trunks about and striking against furniture to an

accompaniment of strident, outlandish syllables. It was a young

Austrian couple, and Gaga told how during her agony the neighbors had

played a game of catch as catch can and how, as only an unused door

divided the two rooms, they had heard them laughing and kissing when

one or the other was caught.

“Come, it’s time we were off,” said Clarisse. “We shan’t bring her to

life again. Are you coming, Simonne?”

They all looked at the bed out of the corners of their eyes, but they

did not budge an inch. Nevertheless, they began getting ready and gave

their skirts various little pats. Lucy was again leaning out of window.

She was alone now, and a sorrowful feeling began little by little to

overpower her, as though an intense wave of melancholy had mounted up

from the howling mob. Torches still kept passing, shaking out clouds of

sparks, and far away in the distance the various bands stretched into

the shadows, surging unquietly to and fro like flocks being driven to

the slaughterhouse at night. A dizzy feeling emanated from these

confused masses as the human flood rolled them along—a dizzy feeling, a

sense of terror and all the pity of the massacres to come. The people

were going wild; their voices broke; they were drunk with a fever of

excitement which sent them rushing toward the unknown “out there”

beyond the dark wall of the horizon.

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

Lucy turned round. She leaned her back against the window, and her face

was very pale.

“Good God! What’s to become of us?”

The ladies shook their heads. They were serious and very anxious about

the turn events were taking.

“For my part,” said Caroline Hequet in her decisive way, “I start for

London the day after tomorrow. Mamma’s already over there getting a

house ready for me. I’m certainly not going to let myself be massacred

in Paris.”

Her mother, as became a prudent woman, had invested all her daughters’

money in foreign lands. One never knows how a war may end! But Maria

Blond grew vexed at this. She was a patriot and spoke of following the

army.

“There’s a coward for you! Yes, if they wanted me I should put on man’s

clothes just to have a good shot at those pigs of Prussians! And if we

all die after? What of that? Our wretched skins aren’t so valuable!”

Blanche de Sivry was exasperated.

“Please don’t speak ill of the Prussians! They are just like other men,

and they’re not always running after the women, like your Frenchmen.

They’ve just expelled the little Prussian who was with me. He was an

awfully rich fellow and so gentle: he couldn’t have hurt a soul. It’s

disgraceful; I’m ruined by it. And, you know, you mustn’t say a word or

I go and find him out in Germany!”

After that, while the two were at loggerheads, Gaga began murmuring in

dolorous tones:

“It’s all over with me; my luck’s always bad. It’s only a week ago that

I finished paying for my little house at Juvisy. Ah, God knows what

trouble it cost me! I had to go to Lili for help! And now here’s the

war declared, and the Prussians’ll come and they’ll burn everything.

How am I to begin again at my time of life, I should like to know?”

“Bah!” said Clarisse. “I don’t care a damn about it. I shall always

find what I want.”

“Certainly you will,” added Simonne. “It’ll be a joke. Perhaps, after

all, it’ll be good biz.”

And her smile hinted what she thought. Tatan Nene and Louise Violaine

were of her opinion. The former told them that she had enjoyed the most

roaring jolly good times with soldiers. Oh, they were good fellows and

would have done any mortal thing for the girls. But as the ladies had

raised their voices unduly Rose Mignon, still sitting on the chest by

the bed, silenced them with a softly whispered “Hush!” They stood quite

still at this and glanced obliquely toward the dead woman, as though

this request for silence had emanated from the very shadows of the

curtains. In the heavy, peaceful stillness which ensued, a void,

deathly stillness which made them conscious of the stiff dead body

lying stretched close by them, the cries of the mob burst forth:

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

But soon they forgot. Léa de Horn, who had a political salon where

former ministers of Louis Philippe were wont to indulge in delicate

epigrams, shrugged her shoulders and continued the conversation in a

low tone:

“What a mistake this war is! What a bloodthirsty piece of stupidity!”

At this Lucy forthwith took up the cudgels for the empire. She had been

the mistress of a prince of the imperial house, and its defense became

a point of family honor with her.

“Do leave them alone, my dear. We couldn’t let ourselves be further

insulted! Why, this war concerns the honor of France. Oh, you know I

don’t say that because of the prince. He WAS just mean! Just imagine,

at night when he was going to bed he hid his gold in his boots, and

when we played at bezique he used beans, because one day I pounced down

on the stakes for fun. But that doesn’t prevent my being fair. The

emperor was right.”

Léa shook her head with an air of superiority, as became a woman who

was repeating the opinions of important personages. Then raising her

voice:

“This is the end of all things. They’re out of their minds at the

Tuileries. France ought to have driven them out yesterday. Don’t you

see?”

They all violently interrupted her. What was up with her? Was she mad

about the emperor? Were people not happy? Was business doing badly?

Paris would never enjoy itself so thoroughly again.

Gaga was beside herself; she woke up and was very indignant.

“Be quiet! It’s idiotic! You don’t know what you’re saying. I—I’ve seen

Louis Philippe’s reign: it was full of beggars and misers, my dear. And

then came ’48! Oh, it was a pretty disgusting business was their

republic! After February I was simply dying of starvation—yes, I, Gaga.

Oh, if only you’d been through it all you would go down on your knees

before the emperor, for he’s been a father to us; yes, a father to us.”

She had to be soothed but continued with pious fervor:

“O my God, do Thy best to give the emperor the victory. Preserve the

empire to us!”

They all repeated this aspiration, and Blanche confessed that she

burned candles for the emperor. Caroline had been smitten by him and

for two whole months had walked where he was likely to pass but had

failed to attract his attention. And with that the others burst forth

into furious denunciations of the Republicans and talked of

exterminating them on the frontiers so that Napoleon III, after having

beaten the enemy, might reign peacefully amid universal enjoyment.

“That dirty Bismarck—there’s another cad for you!” Maria Blond

remarked.

“To think that I should have known him!” cried Simonne. “If only I

could have foreseen, I’m the one that would have put some poison in his

glass.”

But Blanche, on whose heart the expulsion of her Prussian still

weighed, ventured to defend Bismarck. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad

sort. To every man his trade!

“You know,” she added, “he adores women.”

“What the hell has that got to do with us?” said Clarisse. “We don’t

want to cuddle him, eh?”

“There’s always too many men of that sort!” declared Louise Violaine

gravely. “It’s better to do without ’em than to mix oneself up with

such monsters!”

And the discussion continued, and they stripped Bismarck, and, in her

Bonapartist zeal, each of them gave him a sounding kick, while Tatan

Nene kept saying:

“Bismarck! Why, they’ve simply driven me crazy with the chap! Oh, I

hate him! I didn’t know that there Bismarck! One can’t know everybody.”

“Never mind,” said Léa de Horn by way of conclusion, “that Bismarck

will give us a jolly good threshing.”

But she could not continue. The ladies were all down on her at once.

Eh, what? A threshing? It was Bismarck they were going to escort home

with blows from the butt ends of their muskets. What was this bad

Frenchwoman going to say next?

“Hush,” whispered Rose, for so much noise hurt her.

The cold influence of the corpse once more overcame them, and they all

paused together. They were embarrassed; the dead woman was before them

again; a dull thread of coming ill possessed them. On the boulevard the

cry was passing, hoarse and wild:

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

Presently, when they were making up their minds to go, a voice was

heard calling from the passage:

“Rose! Rose!”

Gaga opened the door in astonishment and disappeared for a moment. When

she returned:

“My dear,” she said, “it’s Fauchery. He’s out there at the end of the

corridor. He won’t come any further, and he’s beside himself because

you still stay near that body.”

Mignon had at last succeeded in urging the journalist upstairs. Lucy,

who was still at the window, leaned out and caught sight of the

gentlemen out on the pavement. They were looking up, making energetic

signals to her. Mignon was shaking his fists in exasperation, and

Steiner, Fontan, Bordenave and the rest were stretching out their arms

with looks of anxious reproach, while Daguenet simply stood smoking a

cigar with his hands behind his back, so as not to compromise himself.

“It’s true, dear,” said Lucy, leaving the window open; “I promised to

make you come down. They’re all calling us now.”

Rose slowly and painfully left the chest.

“I’m coming down; I’m coming down,” she whispered. “It’s very certain

she no longer needs me. They’re going to send in a Sister of Mercy.”

And she turned round, searching for her hat and shawl. Mechanically she

filled a basin of water on the toilet table and while washing her hands

and face continued:

“I don’t know! It’s been a great blow to me. We used scarcely to be

nice to one another. Ah well! You see I’m quite silly over it now. Oh!

I’ve got all sorts of strange ideas—I want to die myself—I feel the end

of the world’s coming. Yes, I need air.”

The corpse was beginning to poison the atmosphere of the room. And

after long heedlessness there ensued a panic.

“Let’s be off; let’s be off, my little pets!” Gaga kept saying. “It

isn’t wholesome here.”

They went briskly out, casting a last glance at the bed as they passed

it. But while Lucy, Blanche and Caroline still remained behind, Rose

gave a final look round, for she wanted to leave the room in order. She

drew a curtain across the window, and then it occurred to her that the

lamp was not the proper thing and that a taper should take its place.

So she lit one of the copper candelabra on the chimney piece and placed

it on the night table beside the corpse. A brilliant light suddenly

illumined the dead woman’s face. The women were horror-struck. They

shuddered and escaped.

“Ah, she’s changed; she’s changed!” murmured Rose Mignon, who was the

last to remain.

She went away; she shut the door. Nana was left alone with upturned

face in the light cast by the candle. She was fruit of the charnel

house, a heap of matter and blood, a shovelful of corrupted flesh

thrown down on the pillow. The pustules had invaded the whole of the

face, so that each touched its neighbor. Fading and sunken, they had

assumed the grayish hue of mud; and on that formless pulp, where the

features had ceased to be traceable, they already resembled some

decaying damp from the grave. One eye, the left eye, had completely

foundered among bubbling purulence, and the other, which remained half

open, looked like a deep, black, ruinous hole. The nose was still

suppurating. Quite a reddish crush was peeling from one of the cheeks

and invading the mouth, which it distorted into a horrible grin. And

over this loathsome and grotesque mask of death the hair, the beautiful

hair, still blazed like sunlight and flowed downward in rippling gold.

Venus was rotting. It seemed as though the poison she had assimilated

in the gutters and on the carrion tolerated by the roadside, the leaven

with which she had poisoned a whole people, had but now remounted to

her face and turned it to corruption.

The room was empty. A great despairing breath came up from the

boulevard and swelled the curtain.

“À BERLIN! À BERLIN! À BERLIN!”

THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER I

THE BETROTHAL

Père Merlier’s mill, one beautiful summer evening, was arranged for a

grand fête. In the courtyard were three tables, placed end to end,

which awaited the guests. Everyone knew that Francoise, Merlier’s

daughter, was that night to be betrothed to Dominique, a young man who

was accused of idleness but whom the fair sex for three leagues around

gazed at with sparkling eyes, such a fine appearance had he.

Père Merlier’s mill was pleasing to look upon. It stood exactly in the

center of Rocreuse, where the highway made an elbow. The village had

but one street, with two rows of huts, a row on each side of the road;

but at the elbow meadows spread out, and huge trees which lined the

banks of the Morelle covered the extremity of the valley with lordly

shade. There was not, in all Lorraine, a corner of nature more

adorable. To the right and to the left thick woods, centenarian

forests, towered up from gentle slopes, filling the horizon with a sea

of verdure, while toward the south the plain stretched away, of

marvelous fertility, displaying as far as the eye could reach patches

of ground divided by green hedges. But what constituted the special

charm of Rocreuse was the coolness of that cut of verdure in the most

sultry days of July and August. The Morelle descended from the forests

of Gagny and seemed to have gathered the cold from the foliage beneath

which it flowed for leagues; it brought with it the murmuring sounds,

the icy and concentrated shade of the woods. And it was not the sole

source of coolness: all sorts of flowing streams gurgled through the

forest; at each step springs bubbled up; one felt, on following the

narrow pathways, that there must exist subterranean lakes which pierced

through beneath the moss and availed themselves of the smallest

crevices at the feet of trees or between the rocks to burst forth in

crystalline fountains. The whispering voices of these brooks were so

numerous and so loud that they drowned the song of the bullfinches. It

was like some enchanted park with cascades falling from every portion.

Below the meadows were damp. Gigantic chestnut trees cast dark shadows.

On the borders of the meadows long hedges of poplars exhibited in lines

their rustling branches. Two avenues of enormous plane trees stretched

across the fields toward the ancient Château de Gagny, then a mass of

ruins. In this constantly watered district the grass grew to an

extraordinary height. It resembled a garden between two wooded hills, a

natural garden, of which the meadows were the lawns, the giant trees

marking the colossal flower beds. When the sun’s rays at noon poured

straight downward the shadows assumed a bluish tint; scorched grass

slept in the heat, while an icy shiver passed beneath the foliage.

And there it was that Père Merlier’s mill enlivened with its ticktack a

corner of wild verdure. The structure, built of plaster and planks,

seemed as old as the world. It dipped partially in the Morelle, which

rounded at that point into a transparent basin. A sluice had been made,

and the water fell from a height of several meters upon the mill wheel,

which cracked as it turned, with the asthmatic cough of a faithful

servant grown old in the house. When Père Merlier was advised to change

it he shook his head, saying that a new wheel would be lazier and would

not so well understand the work, and he mended the old one with

whatever he could put his hands on: cask staves, rusty iron, zinc and

lead. The wheel appeared gayer than ever for it, with its profile grown

odd, all plumed with grass and moss. When the water beat upon it with

its silvery flood it was covered with pearls; its strange carcass wore

a sparkling attire of necklaces of mother-of-pearl.

The part of the mill which dipped in the Morelle had the air of a

barbaric arch stranded there. A full half of the structure was built on

piles. The water flowed beneath the floor, and deep places were there,

renowned throughout the district for the enormous eels and crayfish

caught in them. Below the fall the basin was as clear as a mirror, and

when the wheel did not cover it with foam schools of huge fish could be

seen swimming with the slowness of a squadron. Broken steps led down to

the river near a stake to which a boat was moored. A wooden gallery

passed above the wheel. Windows opened, pierced irregularly. It was a

pell-mell of corners, of little walls, of constructions added too late,

of beams and of roofs, which gave the mill the aspect of an old,

dismantled citadel. But ivy had grown; all sorts of clinging plants

stopped the too-wide chinks and threw a green cloak over the ancient

building. The young ladies who passed by sketched Père Merlier’s mill

in their albums.

On the side facing the highway the structure was more solid. A stone

gateway opened upon the wide courtyard, which was bordered to the right

and to the left by sheds and stables. Beside a well an immense elm

covered half the courtyard with its shadow. In the background the

building displayed the four windows of its second story, surmounted by

a pigeon house. Père Merlier’s sole vanity was to have this front

plastered every ten years. It had just received a new coating and

dazzled the village when the sun shone on it at noon.

For twenty years Père Merlier had been mayor of Rocreuse. He was

esteemed for the fortune he had acquired. His wealth was estimated at

something like eighty thousand francs, amassed sou by sou. When he

married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as her dowry, he

possessed only his two arms. But Madeleine never repented of her

choice, so briskly did he manage the business. Now his wife was dead,

and he remained a widower with his daughter Francoise. Certainly he

might have rested, allowed the mill wheel to slumber in the moss, but

that would have been too dull for him, and in his eyes the building

would have seemed dead. He toiled on for pleasure.

Père Merlier was a tall old man with a long, still face, who never

laughed but who possessed, notwithstanding, a very gay heart. He had

been chosen mayor because of his money and also on account of the

imposing air he could assume during a marriage ceremony.

Francoise Merlier was just eighteen. She did not pass for one of the

handsome girls of the district, as she was not robust. Up to her

fifteenth year she had been even ugly.

The Rocreuse people had not been able to understand why the daughter of

Père and Mere Merlier, both of whom had always enjoyed excellent

health, grew ill and with an air of regret. But at fifteen, though yet

delicate, her little face became one of the prettiest in the world. She

had black hair, black eyes, and was as rosy as a peach; her lips

constantly wore a smile; there were dimples in her cheeks, and her fair

forehead seemed crowned with sunlight. Although not considered robust

in the district, she was far from thin; the idea was simply that she

could not lift a sack of grain, but she would become plump as she grew

older—she would eventually be as round and dainty as a quail. Her

father’s long periods of silence had made her thoughtful very young. If

she smiled constantly it was to please others. By nature she was

serious.

Of course all the young men of the district paid court to her, more on

account of her ecus than her pretty ways. At last she made a choice

which scandalized the community.

On the opposite bank of the Morelle lived a tall youth named Dominique

Penquer. He did not belong to Rocreuse. Ten years before he had arrived

from Belgium as the heir of his uncle, who had left him a small

property upon the very border of the forest of Gagny, just opposite the

mill, a few gunshots distant. He had come to sell this property, he

said, and return home. But the district charmed him, it appeared, for

he did not quit it. He was seen cultivating his little field, gathering

a few vegetables upon which he subsisted. He fished and hunted; many

times the forest guards nearly caught him and were on the point of

drawing up procès-verbaux against him. This free existence, the

resources of which the peasants could not clearly discover, at length

gave him a bad reputation. He was vaguely styled a poacher. At any

rate, he was lazy, for he was often found asleep on the grass when he

should have been at work. The hut he inhabited beneath the last trees

on the edge of the forest did not seem at all like the dwelling of an

honest young fellow. If he had had dealings with the wolves of the

ruins of Gagny the old women would not have been the least bit

surprised. Nevertheless, the young girls sometimes risked defending

him, for this doubtful man was superb; supple and tall as a poplar, he

had a very white skin, with flaxen hair and beard which gleamed like

gold in the sun.

One fine morning Francoise declared to Père Merlier that she loved

Dominique and would never wed any other man.

It may well be imagined what a blow this was to Père Merlier. He said

nothing, according to his custom, but his face grew thoughtful and his

internal gaiety no longer sparkled in his eyes. He looked gruff for a

week. Francoise also was exceedingly grave. What tormented Père Merlier

was to find out how this rogue of a poacher had managed to fascinate

his daughter. Dominique had never visited the mill. The miller watched

and saw the gallant on the other side of the Morelle, stretched out

upon the grass and feigning to be asleep. Francoise could see him from

her chamber window. Everything was plain: they had fallen in love by

casting sheep’s eyes at each other over the mill wheel.

Another week went by. Francoise became more and more grave. Père

Merlier still said nothing. Then one evening he himself silently

brought in Dominique. Francoise at that moment was setting the table.

She did not seem astonished; she contented herself with putting on an

additional plate, knife and fork, but the little dimples were again

seen in her cheeks, and her smile reappeared. That morning Père Merlier

had sought out Dominique in his hut on the border of the wood.

There the two men had talked for three hours with doors and windows

closed. What was the purport of their conversation no one ever knew.

Certain it was, however, that Père Merlier, on taking his departure,

already called Dominique his son-in-law. Without doubt the old man had

found the youth he had gone to seek a worthy youth in the lazy fellow

who stretched himself out upon the grass to make the girls fall in love

with him.

All Rocreuse clamored. The women at the doors had plenty to say on the

subject of the folly of Père Merlier, who had thus introduced a

reprobate into his house. The miller let people talk on. Perhaps he

remembered his own marriage. He was without a sou when he wedded

Madeleine and her mill; this, however, had not prevented him from

making a good husband. Besides, Dominique cut short the gossip by going

so vigorously to work that all the district was amazed. The miller’s

assistant had just been drawn to serve as a soldier, and Dominique

would not suffer another to be engaged. He carried the sacks, drove the

cart, fought with the old mill wheel when it refused to turn, and all

this with such good will that people came to see him out of curiosity.

Père Merlier had his silent laugh. He was excessively proud of having

formed a correct estimate of this youth. There is nothing like love to

give courage to young folks. Amid all these heavy labors Francoise and

Dominique adored each other. They did not indulge in lovers’ talks, but

there was a smiling gentleness in their glances.

Up to that time Père Merlier had not spoken a single word on the

subject of marriage, and they respected this silence, awaiting the old

man’s will. Finally one day toward the middle of July he caused three

tables to be placed in the courtyard, beneath the great elm, and

invited his friends of Rocreuse to come in the evening and drink a

glass of wine with him.

When the courtyard was full and all had their glasses in their hands,

Père Merlier raised his very high and said:

“I have the pleasure to announce to you that Francoise will wed this

young fellow here in a month, on Saint Louis’s Day.”

Then they drank noisily. Everybody smiled. But Père Merlier, again

lifting his voice, exclaimed:

“Dominique, embrace your fiancee. It is your right.”

They embraced, blushing to the tips of their ears, while all the guests

laughed joyously. It was a genuine fête. They emptied a small cask of

wine. Then when all were gone but intimate friends the conversation was

carried on without noise. The night had fallen, a starry and cloudless

night. Dominique and Francoise, seated side by side on a bench, said

nothing.

An old peasant spoke of the war the emperor had declared against

Prussia. All the village lads had already departed. On the preceding

day troops had again passed through the place. There was going to be

hard fighting.

“Bah!” said Père Merlier with the selfishness of a happy man.

“Dominique is a foreigner; he will not go to the war. And if the

Prussians come here he will be on hand to defend his wife!”

The idea that the Prussians might come there seemed a good joke. They

were going to receive a sound whipping, and the affair would soon be

over.

“I have afready seen them; I have already seen them,” repeated the old

peasant in a hollow voice.

There was silence. Then they drank again. Francoise and Dominique had

heard nothing; they had gently taken each other by the hand behind the

bench, so that nobody could see them, and it seemed so delightful that

they remained where they were, their eyes plunged into the depths of

the shadows.

What a warm and superb night it was! The village slumbered on both

edges of the white highway in infantile quietude. From time to time was

heard the crowing of some chanticleer aroused too soon. From the huge

wood near by came long breaths, which passed over the roofs like

caresses. The meadows, with their dark shadows, assumed a mysterious

and dreamy majesty, while all the springs, all the flowing waters which

gurgled in the darkness, seemed to be the cool and rhythmical

respiration of the sleeping country. Occasionally the ancient mill

wheel, lost in a doze, appeared to dream like those old watchdogs that

bark while snoring; it cracked; it talked to itself, rocked by the fall

of the Morelle, the surface of which gave forth the musical and

continuous sound of an organ pipe. Never had more profound peace

descended upon a happier corner of nature.

CHAPTER II

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL

A month later, on the day preceding that of Saint Louis, Rocreuse was

in a state of terror. The Prussians had beaten the emperor and were

advancing by forced marches toward the village. For a week past people

who hurried along the highway had been announcing them thus: “They are

at Lormiere—they are at Novelles!” And on hearing that they were

drawing near so rapidly, Rocreuse every morning expected to see them

descend from the wood of Gagny. They did not come, however, and that

increased the fright. They would surely fall upon the village during

the night and slaughter everybody.

That morning, a little before sunrise, there was an alarm. The

inhabitants were awakened by the loud tramp of men on the highway. The

women were already on their knees, making the sign of the cross, when

some of the people, peering cautiously through the partially opened

windows, recognized the red pantaloons. It was a French detachment. The

captain immediately asked for the mayor of the district and remained at

the mill after having talked with Père Merlier.

The sun rose gaily that morning. It would be hot at noon. Over the wood

floated a golden brightness, while in the distance white vapors arose

from the meadows. The neat and pretty village awoke amid the fresh air,

and the country, with its river and its springs, had the moist

sweetness of a bouquet. But that beautiful day caused nobody to smile.

The captain was seen to take a turn around the mill, examine the

neighboring houses, pass to the other side of the Morelle and from

there study the district with a field glass; Père Merlier, who

accompanied him, seemed to be giving him explanations. Then the captain

posted soldiers behind the walls, behind the trees and in the ditches.

The main body of the detachment encamped in the courtyard of the mill.

Was there going to be a battle? When Père Merlier returned he was

questioned. He nodded his head without speaking. Yes, there was going

to be a battle!

Francoise and Dominique were in the courtyard; they looked at him. At

last he took his pipe from his mouth and said:

“Ah, my poor young ones, you cannot get married tomorrow!”

Dominique, his lips pressed together, with an angry frown on his

forehead, at times raised himself on tiptoe and fixed his eyes upon the

wood of Gagny, as if he wished to see the Prussians arrive. Francoise,

very pale and serious, came and went, furnishing the soldiers with what

they needed. The troops were making soup in a corner of the courtyard;

they joked while waiting for it to get ready.

The captain was delighted. He had visited the chambers and the huge

hall of the mill which looked out upon the river. Now, seated beside

the well, he was conversing with Père Merlier.

“Your mill is a real fortress,” he said. “We can hold it without

difficulty until evening. The bandits are late. They ought to be here.”

The miller was grave. He saw his mill burning like a torch, but he

uttered no complaint, thinking such a course useless. He merely said:

“You had better hide the boat behind the wheel; there is a place there

just fit for that purpose. Perhaps it will be useful to have the boat.”

The captain gave the requisite order. This officer was a handsome man

of forty; he was tall and had an amiable countenance. The sight of

Francoise and Dominique seemed to please him. He contemplated them as

if he had forgotten the coming struggle. He followed Francoise with his

eyes, and his look told plainly that he thought her charming. Then

turning toward Dominique, he asked suddenly:

“Why are you not in the army, my good fellow?”

“I am a foreigner,” answered the young man.

The captain evidently did not attach much weight to this reason. He

winked his eye and smiled. Francoise was more agreeable company than a

cannon. On seeing him smile, Dominique added:

“I am a foreigner, but I can put a ball in an apple at five hundred

meters. There is my hunting gun behind you.”

“You may have use for it,” responded the captain dryly.

Francoise had approached, somewhat agitated. Without heeding the

strangers present Dominique took and grasped in his the two hands she

extended to him, as if to put herself under his protection. The captain

smiled again but said not a word. He remained seated, his sword across

his knees and his eyes plunged into space, lost in a reverie.

It was already ten o’clock. The heat had become very great. A heavy

silence prevailed. In the courtyard, in the shadows of the sheds, the

soldiers had begun to eat their soup. Not a sound came from the

village; all its inhabitants had barricaded the doors and windows of

their houses. A dog, alone upon the highway, howled. From the

neighboring forests and meadows, swooning in the heat, came a prolonged

and distant voice made up of all the scattered breaths. A cuckoo sang.

Then the silence grew more intense.

Suddenly in that slumbering air a shot was heard. The captain leaped

briskly to his feet; the soldiers left their plates of soup, yet half

full. In a few seconds everybody was at the post of duty; from bottom

to top the mill was occupied. Meanwhile the captain, who had gone out

upon the road, had discovered nothing; to the right and to the left the

highway stretched out, empty and white. A second shot was heard, and

still nothing visible, not even a shadow. But as he was returning the

captain perceived in the direction of Gagny, between two trees, a light

puff of smoke whirling away like thistledown. The wood was calm and

peaceful.

“The bandits have thrown themselves into the forest,” he muttered.

“They know we are here.”

Then the firing continued, growing more and more vigorous, between the

French soldiers posted around the mill and the Prussians hidden behind

the trees. The balls whistled above the Morelle without damaging either

side. The fusillade was irregular, the shots coming from every bush,

and still only the little puffs of smoke, tossed gently by the breeze,

were seen. This lasted nearly two hours. The officer hummed a tune with

an air of indifference. Francoise and Dominique, who had remained in

the courtyard, raised themselves on tiptoe and looked over a low wall.

They were particularly interested in a little soldier posted on the

shore of the Morelle, behind the remains of an old bateau; he stretched

himself out flat on the ground, watched, fired and then glided into a

ditch a trifle farther back to reload his gun; and his movements were

so droll, so tricky and so supple, that they smiled as they looked at

him. He must have perceived the head of a Prussian, for he arose

quickly and brought his weapon to his shoulder, but before he could

fire he uttered a cry, fell and rolled into the ditch, where for an

instant his legs twitched convulsively like the claws of a chicken just

killed. The little soldier had received a ball full in the breast. He

was the first man slain. Instinctively Francoise seized Dominique’s

hand and clasped it with a nervous contraction.

“Move away,” said the captain. “You are within range of the balls.”

At that moment a sharp little thud was heard in the old elm, and a

fragment of a branch came whirling down. But the two young folks did

not stir; they were nailed to the spot by anxiety to see what was going

on. On the edge of the wood a Prussian had suddenly come out from

behind a tree as from a theater stage entrance, beating the air with

his hands and falling backward. Nothing further moved; the two corpses

seemed asleep in the broad sunlight; not a living soul was seen in the

scorching country. Even the crack of the fusillade had ceased. The

Morelle alone whispered in its clear tones.

Père Merlier looked at the captain with an air of surprise, as if to

ask him if the struggle was over.

“They are getting ready for something worse,” muttered the officer.

“Don’t trust appearances. Move away from there.”

He had not finished speaking when there was a terrible discharge of

musketry. The great elm was riddled, and a host of leaves shot into the

air. The Prussians had happily fired too high. Dominique dragged,

almost carried, Francoise away, while Père Merlier followed them,

shouting:

“Go down into the cellar; the walls are solid!”

But they did not heed him; they entered the huge hall where ten

soldiers were waiting in silence, watching through the chinks in the

closed window shutters. The captain was alone in the courtyard,

crouching behind the little wall, while the furious discharges

continued. Without, the soldiers he had posted gave ground only foot by

foot. However, they re-entered one by one, crawling, when the enemy had

dislodged them from their hiding places. Their orders were to gain time

and not show themselves, that the Prussians might remain in ignorance

as to what force was before them. Another hour went by. As a sergeant

arrived, saying that but two or three more men remained without, the

captain glanced at his watch, muttering:

“Half-past two o’clock. We must hold the position four hours longer.”

He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be closed, and every

preparation was made for an energetic resistance. As the Prussians were

on the opposite side of the Morelle, an immediate assault was not to be

feared. There was a bridge two kilometers away, but they evidently were

not aware of its existence, and it was hardly likely that they would

attempt to ford the river. The officer, therefore, simply ordered the

highway to be watched. Every effort would be made in the direction of

the country.

Again the fusillade had ceased. The mill seemed dead beneath the

glowing sun. Not a shutter was open; no sound came from the interior.

At length, little by little, the Prussians showed themselves at the

edge of the forest of Gagny. They stretched their necks and grew bold.

In the mill several soldiers had already raised their guns to their

shoulders, but the captain cried:

“No, no; wait. Let them come nearer.”

They were exceedingly prudent, gazing at the mill with a suspicious

air. The silent and somber old structure with its curtains of ivy

filled them with uneasiness. Nevertheless, they advanced. When fifty of

them were in the opposite meadow the officer uttered the single word:

“Fire!”

A crash was heard; isolated shots followed. Francoise, all of a

tremble, had mechanically put her hands to her ears. Dominique, behind

the soldiers, looked on; when the smoke had somewhat lifted he saw

three Prussians stretched upon their backs in the center of the meadow.

The others had thrown themselves behind the willows and poplars. Then

the siege began.

For more than an hour the mill was riddled with balls. They dashed

against the old walls like hail. When they struck the stones they were

heard to flatten and fall into the water. They buried themselves in the

wood with a hollow sound. Occasionally a sharp crack announced that the

mill wheel had been hit. The soldiers in the interior were careful of

their shots; they fired only when they could take aim. From time to

time the captain consulted his watch. As a ball broke a shutter and

plowed into the ceiling he said to himself:

“Four o’clock. We shall never be able to hold out!”

Little by little the terrible fusillade weakened the old mill. A

shutter fell into the water, pierced like a bit of lace, and it was

necessary to replace it with a mattress. Père Merlier constantly

exposed himself to ascertain the extent of the damage done to his poor

wheel, the cracking of which made his heart ache. All would be over

with it this time; never could he repair it. Dominique had implored

Francoise to withdraw, but she refused to leave him; she was seated

behind a huge oaken clothespress, which protected her. A ball, however,

struck the clothespress, the sides of which gave forth a hollow sound.

Then Dominique placed himself in front of Francoise. He had not yet

fired a shot; he held his gun in his hand but was unable to approach

the windows, which were altogether occupied by the soldiers. At each

discharge the floor shook.

“Attention! Attention!” suddenly cried the captain.

He had just seen a great dark mass emerge from the wood. Immediately a

formidable platoon fire opened. It was like a waterspout passing over

the mill. Another shutter was shattered, and through the gaping opening

of the window the balls entered. Two soldiers rolled upon the floor.

One of them lay like a stone; they pushed the body against the wall

because it was in the way. The other twisted in agony, begging his

comrades to finish him, but they paid no attention to him. The balls

entered in a constant stream; each man took care of himself and strove

to find a loophole through which to return the fire. A third soldier

was hit; he uttered not a word; he fell on the edge of a table, with

eyes fixed and haggard. Opposite these dead men Francoise, stricken

with horror, had mechanically pushed away her chair to sit on the floor

against the wall; she thought she would take up less room there and not

be in so much danger. Meanwhile the soldiers had collected all the

mattresses of the household and partially stopped up the windows with

them. The hall was filled with wrecks, with broken weapons and

demolished furniture.

“Five o’clock,” said the captain. “Keep up your courage! They are about

to try to cross the river!”

At that moment Francoise uttered a cry. A ball which had ricocheted had

grazed her forehead. Several drops of blood appeared. Dominique stared

at her; then, approaching the window, he fired his first shot. Once

started, he did not stop. He loaded and fired without heeding what was

passing around him, but from time to time he glanced at Francoise. He

was very deliberate and aimed with care. The Prussians, keeping beside

the poplars, attempted the passage of the Morelle, as the captain had

predicted, but as soon as a man strove to cross he fell, shot in the

head by Dominique. The captain, who had his eyes on the young man, was

amazed. He complimented him, saying that he should be glad to have many

such skillful marksmen. Dominique did not hear him. A ball cut his

shoulder; another wounded his arm, but he continued to fire.

There were two more dead men. The mangled mattresses no longer stopped

the windows. The last discharge seemed as if it would have carried away

the mill. The position had ceased to be tenable. Nevertheless, the

captain said firmly:

“Hold your ground for half an hour more!”

Now he counted the minutes. He had promised his chiefs to hold the

enemy in check there until evening, and he would not give an inch

before the hour he had fixed on for the retreat. He preserved his

amiable air and smiled upon Francoise to reassure her. He had picked up

the gun of a dead soldier and himself was firing.

Only four soldiers remained in the hall. The Prussians appeared in a

body on the other side of the Morelle, and it was clear that they

intended speedily to cross the river. A few minutes more elapsed. The

stubborn captain would not order the retreat. Just then a sergeant

hastened to him and said:

“They are upon the highway; they will take us in the rear!”

The Prussians must have found the bridge. The captain pulled out his

watch and looked at it.

“Five minutes longer,” he said. “They cannot get here before that

time!”

Then at six o’clock exactly he at last consented to lead his men out

through a little door which opened into a lane. From there they threw

themselves into a ditch; they gained the forest of Sauval. Before

taking his departure the captain bowed very politely to Père Merlier

and made his excuses, adding:

“Amuse them! We will return!”

Dominique was now alone in the hall. He was still firing, hearing

nothing, understanding nothing. He felt only the need of defending

Francoise. He had not the least suspicion in the world that the

soldiers had retreated. He aimed and killed his man at every shot.

Suddenly there was a loud noise. The Prussians had entered the

courtyard from behind. Dominique fired a last; shot, and they fell upon

him while his gun was yet smoking.

Four men held him. Others vociferated around him in a frightful

language. They were ready to slaughter him on the spot. Francoise, with

a supplicating look, had cast herself before him. But an officer

entered and ordered the prisoner to be delivered up to him. After

exchanging a few words in German with the soldiers he turned toward

Dominique and said to him roughly in very good French:

“You will be shot in two hours!”

CHAPTER III

THE FLIGHT

It was a settled rule of the German staff that every Frenchman, not

belonging to the regular army, taken with arms in his hands should be

shot. The militia companies themselves were not recognized as

belligerents. By thus making terrible examples of the peasants who

defended their homes, the Germans hoped to prevent the levy en masse,

which they feared.

The officer, a tall, lean man of fifty, briefly questioned Dominique.

Although he spoke remarkably pure French he had a stiffness altogether

Prussian.

“Do you belong to this district?” he asked.

“No; I am a Belgian,” answered the young man.

“Why then did you take up arms? The fighting did not concern you!”

Dominique made no reply. At that moment the officer saw Francoise who

was standing by, very pale, listening; upon her white forehead her

slight wound had put a red bar. He looked at the young folks, one after

the other, seemed to understand matters and contented himself with

adding:

“You do not deny having fired, do you?”

“I fired as often as I could!” responded Dominique tranquilly.

This confession was useless, for he was black with powder, covered with

sweat and stained with a few drops of blood which had flowed from the

scratch on his shoulder.

“Very well,” said the officer. “You will be shot in two hours!”

Francoise did not cry out. She clasped her hands and raised them with a

gesture of mute despair. The officer noticed this gesture. Two soldiers

had taken Dominique to a neighboring apartment, where they were to keep

watch over him. The young girl had fallen upon a chair, totally

overcome; she could not weep; she was suffocating. The officer had

continued to examine her. At last he spoke to her.

“Is that young man your brother?” he demanded.

She shook her head negatively. The German stood stiffly on his feet

with out a smile. Then after a short silence he again asked:

“Has he lived long in the district?”

She nodded affirmatively.

“In that case, he ought to be thoroughly acquainted with the

neighboring forests.”

This time she spoke.

“He is thoroughly acquainted with them, monsieur,” she said, looking at

him with considerable surprise.

He said nothing further to her but turned upon his heel, demanding that

the mayor of the village should be brought to him. But Francoise had

arisen with a slight blush on her countenance; thinking that she had

seized the aim of the officer’s questions, she had recovered hope. She

herself ran to find her father.

Père Merlier, as soon as the firing had ceased, had quickly descended

to the wooden gallery to examine his wheel. He adored his daughter; he

had a solid friendship for Dominique, his future son-in-law, but his

wheel also held a large place in his heart. Since the two young ones,

as he called them, had come safe and sound out of the fight, he thought

of his other tenderness, which had suffered greatly. Bent over the huge

wooden carcass, he was studying its wounds with a sad air. Five buckets

were shattered to pieces; the central framework was riddled. He thrust

his fingers in the bullet holes to measure their depth; he thought how

he could repair all these injuries. Francoise found him already

stopping up the clefts with rubbish and moss.

“Father,” she said, “you are wanted.”

And she wept at last as she told him what she had just heard. Père

Merlier tossed his head. People were not shot in such a summary

fashion. The matter must be looked after. He re-entered the mill with

his silent and tranquil air. When the officer demanded of him

provisions for his men he replied that the inhabitants of Rocreuse were

not accustomed to be treated roughly and that nothing would be obtained

from them if violence were employed. He would see to everything but on

condition that he was not interfered with. The officer at first seemed

irritated by his calm tone; then he gave way before the old man’s short

and clear words. He even called him back and asked him:

“What is the name of that wood opposite?”

“The forest of Sauval.”

“What is its extent?”

The miller looked at him fixedly.

“I do not know,” he answered.

And he went away. An hour later the contribution of war in provisions

and money, demanded by the officer, was in the courtyard of the mill.

Night came on. Francoise watched with anxiety the movements of the

soldiers. She hung about the room in which Dominique was imprisoned.

Toward seven o’clock she experienced a poignant emotion. She saw the

officer enter the prisoner’s apartment and for a quarter of an hour

heard their voices in loud conversation. For an instant the officer

reappeared upon the threshold to give an order in German, which she did

not understand, but when twelve men ranged themselves in the courtyard,

their guns on their shoulders, she trembled and felt as if about to

faint. All then was over: the execution was going to take place. The

twelve men stood there ten minutes, Dominique’s voice continuing to be

raised in a tone of violent refusal. Finally the officer came out,

saying, as he roughly shut the door:

“Very well; reflect. I give you until tomorrow morning.”

And with a gesture he ordered the twelve men to break ranks. Francoise

was stupefied. Père Merlier, who had been smoking his pipe and looking

at the platoon simply with an air of curiosity, took her by the arm

with paternal gentleness. He led her to her chamber.

“Be calm,” he said, “and try to sleep. Tomorrow, when it is light, we

will see what can be done.”

As he withdrew he prudently locked her in. It was his opinion that

women were good for nothing and that they spoiled everything when they

took a hand in a serious affair. But Francoise did not retire. She sat

for a long while upon the side of her bed, listening to the noises of

the house. The German soldiers encamped in the courtyard sang and

laughed; they must have been eating and drinking until eleven o’clock,

for the racket did not cease an instant. In the mill itself heavy

footsteps resounded from time to time, without doubt those of the

sentinels who were being relieved. But she was interested most by the

sounds she could distinguish in the apartment beneath her chamber. Many

times she stretched herself out at full length and put her ear to the

floor. That apartment was the one in which Dominique was confined. He

must have been walking back and forth from the window to the wall, for

she long heard the regular cadence of his steps. Then deep silence

ensued; he had doubtless seated himself. Finally every noise ceased and

all was as if asleep. When slumber appeared to her to have settled on

the house she opened her window as gently as possible and leaned her

elbows on the sill.

Without, the night had a warm serenity. The slender crescent of the

moon, which was sinking behind the forest of Sauval, lit up the country

with the glimmer of a night lamp. The lengthened shadows of the tall

trees barred the meadows with black, while the grass in uncovered spots

assumed the softness of greenish velvet. But Francoise did not pause to

admire the mysterious charms of the night. She examined the country,

searching for the sentinels whom the Germans had posted obliquely. She

clearly saw their shadows extending like the rounds of a ladder along

the Morelle. Only one was before the mill, on the other shore of the

river, beside a willow, the branches of which dipped in the water.

Francoise saw him plainly. He was a tall man and was standing

motionless, his face turned toward the sky with the dreamy air of a

shepherd.

When she had carefully inspected the locality she again seated herself

on her bed. She remained there an hour, deeply absorbed. Then she

listened once more: there was not a sound in the mill. She returned to

the window and glanced out, but doubtless one of the horns of the moon,

which was still visible behind the trees, made her uneasy, for she

resumed her waiting attitude. At last she thought the proper time had

come. The night was as black as jet; she could no longer see the

sentinel opposite; the country spread out like a pool of ink. She

strained her ear for an instant and made her decision. Passing near the

window was an iron ladder, the bars fastened to the wall, which mounted

from the wheel to the garret and formerly enabled the millers to reach

certain machinery; afterward the mechanism had been altered, and for a

long while the ladder had been hidden under the thick ivy which covered

that side of the mill.

Francoise bravely climbed out of her window and grasped one of the bars

of the ladder. She began to descend. Her skirts embarrassed her

greatly. Suddenly a stone was detached from the wall and fell into the

Morelle with a loud splash. She stopped with an icy shiver of fear.

Then she realized that the waterfall with its continuous roar would

drown every noise she might make, and she descended more courageously,

feeling the ivy with her foot, assuring herself that the rounds were

firm. When she was at the height of the chamber which served as

Dominique’s prison she paused. An unforeseen difficulty nearly caused

her to lose all her courage: the window of the chamber was not directly

below that of her apartment. She hung off from the ladder, but when she

stretched out her arm her hand encountered only the wall. Must she,

then, ascend without pushing her plan to completion? Her arms were

fatigued; the murmur of the Morelle beneath her commenced to make her

dizzy. Then she tore from the wall little fragments of plaster and

threw them against Dominique’s window. He did not hear; he was

doubtless asleep. She crumbled more plaster from the wall, scraping the

skin off her fingers. She was utterly exhausted; she felt herself

falling backward, when Dominique at last softly opened the window.

“It is I!” she murmured. “Catch me quickly; I’m falling!”

It was the first time that she had addressed him familiarly. Leaning

out, he seized her and drew her into the chamber. There she gave vent

to a flood of tears, stifling her sobs that she might not be heard.

Then by a supreme effort she calmed herself.

“Are you guarded?” she asked in a low voice.

Dominique, still stupefied at seeing her thus, nodded his head

affirmatively, pointing to the door. On the other side they heard

someone snoring; the sentinel, yielding to sleep, had thrown himself on

the floor against the door, arguing that by disposing himself thus the

prisoner could not escape.

“You must fly,” resumed Francoise excitedly. “I have come to beg you to

do so and to bid you farewell.”

But he did not seem to hear her. He repeated:

“What? Is it you; is it you? Oh, what fear you caused me! You might

have killed yourself!”

He seized her hands; he kissed them.

“How I love you, Francoise!” he murmured. “You are as courageous as

good. I had only one dread: that I should die without seeing you again.

But you are here, and now they can shoot me. When I have passed a

quarter of an hour with you I shall be ready.”

Little by little he had drawn her to him, and she leaned her head upon

his shoulder. The danger made them dearer to each other. They forgot

everything in that warm clasp.

“Ah, Francoise,” resumed Dominique in a caressing voice, “this is Saint

Louis’s Day, the day, so long awaited, of our marriage. Nothing has

been able to separate us, since we are both here alone, faithful to the

appointment. Is not this our wedding morning?”

“Yes, yes,” she repeated, “it is our wedding morning.”

They tremblingly exchanged a kiss. But all at once she disengaged

herself from Dominique’s arms; she remembered the terrible reality.

“You must fly; you must fly,” she whispered. “There is not a minute to

be lost!”

And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness to clasp her again,

she said tenderly:

“Oh, I implore you to listen to me! If you die I shall die also! In an

hour it will be light. I want you to go at once.”

Then rapidly she explained her plan. The iron ladder descended to the

mill wheel; there he could climb down the buckets and get into the boat

which was hidden away in a nook. Afterward it would be easy for him to

reach the other bank of the river and escape.

“But what of the sentinels?” he asked.

“There is only one, opposite, at the foot of the first willow.”

“What if he should see me and attempt to give an alarm?”

Francoise shivered. She placed in his hand a knife she had brought with

her. There was a brief silence.

“What is to become of your father and yourself?” resumed Dominique.

“No, I cannot fly! When I am gone those soldiers will, perhaps,

massacre you both! You do not know them. They offered me my life if I

would consent to guide them through the forest of Sauval. When they

discover my escape they will be capable of anything!”

The young girl did not stop to argue. She said simply in reply to all

the reasons he advanced:

“Out of love for me, fly! If you love me, Dominique, do not remain here

another moment!”

Then she promised to climb back to her chamber. No one would know that

she had helped him. She finally threw her arms around him to convince

him with an embrace, with a burst of extraordinary love. He was

vanquished. He asked but one more question:

“Can you swear to me that your father knows what you have done and that

he advises me to fly?”

“My father sent me!” answered Francoise boldly.

She told a falsehood. At that moment she had only one immense need: to

know that he was safe, to escape from the abominable thought that the

sun would be the signal for his death. When he was far away every

misfortune might fall upon her; that would seem delightful to her from

the moment he was secure. The selfishness of her tenderness desired

that he should live before everything.

“Very well,” said Dominique; “I will do what you wish.”

They said nothing more. Dominique reopened the window. But suddenly a

sound froze them. The door was shaken, and they thought that it was

about to be opened. Evidently a patrol had heard their voices. Standing

locked in each other’s arms, they waited in unspeakable anguish. The

door was shaken a second time, but it did not open. They uttered low

sighs of relief; they comprehended that the soldier who was asleep

against the door must have turned over. In fact, silence succeeded; the

snoring was resumed.

Dominique exacted that Francoise should ascend to her chamber before he

departed. He clasped her in his arms and bade her a mute adieu. Then he

aided her to seize the ladder and clung to it in his turn. But he

refused to descend a single round until convinced that she was in her

apartment. When Francoise had entered her window she let fall in a

voice as light as a breath:

“Au revoir, my love!”

She leaned her elbows on the sill and strove to follow Dominique with

her eyes. The night was yet very dark. She searched for the sentinel

but could not see him; the willow alone made a pale stain in the midst

of the gloom. For an instant she heard the sound produced by

Dominique’s body in passing along the ivy. Then the wheel cracked, and

there was a slight agitation in the water which told her that the young

man had found the boat. A moment afterward she distinguished the somber

silhouette of the bateau on the gray surface of the Morelle. Terrible

anguish seized upon her. Each instant she thought she heard the

sentinel’s cry of alarm; the smallest sounds scattered through the

gloom seemed to her the hurried tread of soldiers, the clatter of

weapons, the charging of guns. Nevertheless, the seconds elapsed and

the country maintained its profound peace. Dominique must have reached

the other side of the river. Francoise saw nothing more. The silence

was majestic. She heard a shuffling of feet, a hoarse cry and the

hollow fall of a body. Afterward the silence grew deeper. Then as if

she had felt Death pass by, she stood, chilled through and through,

staring into the thick night.

CHAPTER IV

A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE

At dawn a clamor of voices shook the mill. Père Merlier opened the door

of Francoise’s chamber. She went down into the courtyard, pale and very

calm. But there she could not repress a shiver as she saw the corpse of

a Prussian soldier stretched out on a cloak beside the well.

Around the body troops gesticulated, uttering cries of fury. Many of

them shook their fists at the village. Meanwhile the officer had

summoned Père Merlier as the mayor of the commune.

“Look!” he said to him in a voice almost choking with anger. “There

lies one of our men who was found assassinated upon the bank of the

river. We must make a terrible example, and I count on you to aid us in

discovering the murderer.”

“As you choose,” answered the miller with his usual stoicism, “but you

will find it no easy task.”

The officer stooped and drew aside a part of the cloak which hid the

face of the dead man. Then appeared a horrible wound. The sentinel had

been struck in the throat, and the weapon had remained in the cut. It

was a kitchen knife with a black handle.

“Examine that knife,” said the officer to Père Merlier; “perhaps it

will help us in our search.”

The old man gave a start but recovered control of himself immediately.

He replied without moving a muscle of his face:

“Everybody in the district has similar knives. Doubtless your man was

weary of fighting and put an end to his own life. It looks like it!”

“Mind what you say!” cried the officer furiously. “I do not know what

prevents me from setting fire to the four corners of the village!”

Happily in his rage he did not notice the deep trouble pictured on

Francoise’s countenance. She had been forced to sit down on a stone

bench near the well. Despite herself her eyes were fixed upon the

corpse stretched our on the ground almost at her feet. It was that of a

tall and handsome man who resembled Dominique, with flaxen hair and

blue eyes. This resemblance made her heart ache. She thought that

perhaps the dead soldier had left behind him in Germany a sweetheart

who would weep her eyes out for him. She recognized her knife in the

throat of the murdered man. She had killed him.

The officer was talking of striking Rocreuse with terrible measures,

when soldiers came running to him. Dominique’s escape had just been

discovered. It caused an extreme agitation. The officer went to the

apartment in which the prisoner had been confined, looked out of the

window which had remained open, understood everything and returned,

exasperated.

Père Merlier seemed greatly vexed by Dominique’s flight.

“The imbecile!” he muttered. “He has ruined all!”

Francoise heard him and was overcome with anguish. But the miller did

not suspect her of complicity in the affair. He tossed his head, saying

to her in an undertone:

“We are in a nice scrape!”

“It was that wretch who assassinated the soldier! I am sure of it!”

cried the officer. “He has undoubtedly reached the forest. But he must

be found for us or the village shall pay for him!”

Turning to the miller, he said:

“See here, you ought to know where he is hidden!”

Père Merlier laughed silently, pointing to the wide stretch of wooden

hills.

“Do you expect to find a man in there?” he said.

“Oh, there must be nooks there with which you are acquainted. I will

give you ten men. You must guide them.”

“As you please. But it will take a week to search all the wood in the

vicinity.”

The old man’s tranquillity enraged the officer. In fact, the latter

comprehended the asburdity of this search. At that moment he saw

Francoise, pale and trembling, on the bench. The anxious attitude of

the young girl struck him. He was silent for an instant, during which

he in turn examined the miller and his daughter.

At length he demanded roughly of the old man:

“Is not that fellow your child’s lover?”

Père Merlier grew livid and seemed about to hurl himself upon the

officer to strangle him. He stiffened himself but made no answer.

Francoise buried her face in her hands.

“Yes, that’s it!” continued the Prussian. “And you or your daughter

helped him to escape! One of you is his accomplice! For the last time,

will you give him up to us?”

The miller uttered not a word. He turned away and looked into space

with an air of indifference, as if the officer had not addressed him.

This brought the latter’s rage to a head.

“Very well!” he shouted. “You shall be shot in his place!”

And he again ordered out the platoon of execution. Père Merlier

remained as stoical as ever. He hardly even shrugged his shoulders; all

this drama appeared to him in bad taste. Without doubt he did not

believe that they would shoot a man so lightly. But when the platoon

drew up before him he said gravely:

“So it is serious, is it? Go on with your bloody work then! If you must

have a victim I will do as well as another!”

But Francoise started up, terrified, stammering:

“In pity, monsieur, do no harm to my father! Kill me in his stead! I

aided Dominique to fly! I alone am guilty!”

“Hush, my child!” cried Père Merlier. “Why do you tell an untruth? She

passed the night locked in her chamber, monsieur. She tells a

falsehood, I assure you!”

“No, I do not tell a falsehood!” resumed the young girl ardently. “I

climbed out of my window and went down the iron ladder; I urged

Dominique to fly. This is the truth, the whole truth!”

The old man became very pale. He saw clearly in her eyes that she did

not lie, and her story terrified him. Ah, these children with their

hearts, how they spoil everything! Then he grew angry and exclaimed:

“She is mad; do not heed her. She tells you stupid tales. Come, finish

your work!”

She still protested. She knelt, clasping her hands. The officer

tranquilly watched this dolorous struggle.

“MON DIEU!” he said at last. “I take your father because I have not the

other. Find the fugitive and the old man shall be set at liberty!”

She gazed at him with staring eyes, astonished at the atrocity of the

proposition.

“How horrible!” she murmured. “Where do you think I can find Dominique

at this hour? He has departed; I know no more about him.”

“Come, make your choice—him or your father.”

“Oh, MON DIEU! How can I choose? If I knew where Dominique was I could

not choose! You are cutting my heart. I would rather die at once. Yes,

it would be the sooner over. Kill me, I implore you, kill me!”

This scene of despair and tears finally made the officer impatient. He

cried out:

“Enough! I will be merciful. I consent to give you two hours. If in

that time your lover is not here your father will be shot in his

place!”

He caused Père Merlier to be taken to the chamber which had served as

Dominique’s prison. The old man demanded tobacco and began to smoke.

Upon his impassible face not the slightest emotion was visible. But

when alone, as he smoked, he shed two big tears which ran slowly down

his cheeks. His poor, dear child, how she was suffering!

Francoise remained in the middle of the courtyard. Prussian soldiers

passed, laughing. Some of them spoke to her, uttered jokes she could

not understand. She stared at the door through which her father had

disappeared. With a slow movement she put her hand to her forehead, as

if to prevent it from bursting.

The officer turned upon his heel, saying:

“You have two hours. Try to utilize them.”

She had two hours. This phrase buzzed in her ears. Then mechanically

she quitted the courtyard; she walked straight ahead. Where should she

go?—what should she do? She did not even try to make a decision because

she well understood the inutility of her efforts. However, she wished

to see Dominique. They could have an understanding together; they

might, perhaps, find an expedient. And amid the confusion of her

thoughts she went down to the shore of the Morelle, which she crossed

below the sluice at a spot where there were huge stones. Her feet led

her beneath the first willow, in the corner of the meadow. As she

stooped she saw a pool of blood which made her turn pale. It was there

the murder had been committed. She followed the track of Dominique in

the trodden grass; he must have run, for she perceived a line of long

footprints stretching across the meadow. Then farther on she lost these

traces. But in a neighboring field she thought she found them again.

The new trail conducted her to the edge of the forest, where every

indication was effaced.

Francoise, nevertheless, plunged beneath the trees. It solaced her to

be alone. She sat down for an instant, but at the thought that time was

passing she leaped to her feet. How long had it been since she left the

mill? Five minutes?—half an hour? She had lost all conception of time.

Perhaps Dominique had concealed himself in a copse she knew of, where

they had one afternoon eaten filberts together. She hastened to the

copse, searched it. Only a blackbird flew away, uttering its soft, sad

note. Then she thought he might have taken refuge in a hollow of the

rocks, where it had sometimes been his custom to lie in wait for game,

but the hollow of the rocks was empty. What good was it to hunt for

him? She would never find him, but little by little the desire to

discover him took entire possession of her, and she hastened her steps.

The idea that he might have climbed a tree suddenly occurred to her.

She advanced with uplifted eyes, and that he might be made aware of her

presence she called him every fifteen or twenty steps. Cuckoos

answered; a breath of wind which passed through the branches made her

believe that he was there and was descending. Once she even imagined

she saw him; she stopped, almost choked, and wished to fly. What was

she to say to him? Had she come to take him back to be shot? Oh no, she

would not tell him what had happened. She would cry out to him to

escape, not to remain in the neighborhood. Then the thought that her

father was waiting for her gave her a sharp pain. She fell upon the

turf, weeping, crying aloud:

“MON DIEU! MON DIEU! Why am I here?”

She was mad to have come. And as if seized with fear, she ran; she

sought to leave the forest. Three times she deceived herself; she

thought she never again would find the mill, when she entered a meadow

just opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she saw the village she paused. Was

she going to return alone? She was still hesitating when a voice softly

called:

“Francoise! Francoise!”

And she saw Dominique, who had raised his head above the edge of a

ditch. Just God! She had found him! Did heaven wish his death? She

restrained a cry; she let herself glide into the ditch.

“Are you searching for me?” asked the young man.

“Yes,” she answered, her brain in a whirl, not knowing what she said.

“What has happened?”

She lowered her eyes, stammered:

“Nothing. I was uneasy; I wanted to see you.”

Then, reassured, he explained to her that he had resolved not to go

away. He was doubtful about the safety of herself and her father. Those

Prussian wretches were fully capable of taking vengeance upon women and

old men. But everything was getting on well. He added with a laugh:

“Our wedding will take place in a week—I am sure of it.”

Then as she remained overwhelmed, he grew grave again and said:

“But what ails you? You are concealing something from me!”

“No; I swear it to you. I am out of breath from running.”

He embraced her, saying that it was imprudent for them to be talking,

and he wished to climb out of the ditch to return to the forest. She

restrained him. She trembled.

“Listen,” she said: “it would, perhaps, be wise for you to remain where

you are. No one is searching for you; you have nothing to fear.”

“Francoise, you are concealing something from me,” he repeated.

Again she swore that she was hiding nothing. She had simply wished to

know that he was near her. And she stammered forth still further

reasons. She seemed so strange to him that he now could not be induced

to flee. Besides, he had faith in the return of the French. Troops had

been seen in the direction of Sauval.

“Ah, let them hurry; let them get here as soon as possible,” she

murmured fervently.

At that moment eleven o’clock sounded from the belfry of Rocreuse. The

strokes were clear and distinct. She arose with a terrified look; two

hours had passed since she quitted the mill.

“Hear me,” she said rapidly: “if we have need of you I will wave my

handkerchief from my chamber window.”

And she departed on a run, while Dominique, very uneasy, stretched

himself out upon the edge of the ditch to watch the mill. As she was

about to enter Rocreuse, Francoise met an old beggar, Père Bontemps,

who knew everybody in the district. He bowed to her; he had just seen

the miller in the midst of the Prussians; then, making the sign of the

cross and muttering broken words, he went on his way.

“The two hours have passed,” said the officer when Francoise appeared.

Père Merlier was there, seated upon the bench beside the well. He was

smoking. The young girl again begged, wept, sank on her knees. She

wished to gain time. The hope of seeing the French return had increased

in her, and while lamenting she thought she heard in the distance, the

measured tramp of an army. Oh, if they would come, if they would

deliver them all?

“Listen, monsieur,” she said: “an hour, another hour; you can grant us

another hour!”

But the officer remained inflexible. He even ordered two men to seize

her and take her away, that they might quietly proceed with the

execution of the old man. Then a frightful struggle took place in

Francoise’s heart. She could not allow her father to be thus

assassinated. No, no; she would die rather with Dominique. She was

running toward her chamber when Dominique himself entered the

courtyard.

The officer and the soldiers uttered a shout of triumph. But the young

man, calmly, with a somewhat severe look, went up to Francoise, as if

she had been the only person present.

“You did wrong,” he said. “Why did you not bring me back? It remained

for Père Bontemps to tell me everything. But I am here!”

CHAPTER V

THE RETURN OF THE FRENCH

It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Great black clouds, the trail of

some neighboring storm, had slowly filled the sky. The yellow heavens,

the brass covered uniforms, had changed the valley of Rocreuse, so gay

in the sunlight, into a den of cutthroats full of sinister gloom. The

Prussian officer had contented himself with causing Dominique to be

imprisoned without announcing what fate he reserved for him. Since noon

Francoise had been torn by terrible anguish. Despite her father’s

entreaties she would not quit the courtyard. She was awaiting the

French. But the hours sped on; night was approaching, and she suffered

the more as all the time gained did not seem to be likely to change the

frightful denouement.

About three o’clock the Prussians made their preparations for

departure. For an instant past the officer had, as on the previous day,

shut himself up with Dominique. Francoise realized that the young man’s

life was in balance. She clasped her hands; she prayed. Père Merlier,

beside her, maintained silence and the rigid attitude of an old peasant

who does not struggle against fate.

“Oh, MON DIEU! Oh, MON DIEU!” murmured Francoise. “They are going to

kill him!”

The miller drew her to him and took her on his knees as if she had been

a child.

At that moment the officer came out, while behind him two men brought

Dominique.

“Never! Never!” cried the latter. “I am ready to die!”

“Think well,” resumed the officer. “The service you refuse me another

will render us. I am generous: I offer you your life. I want you simply

to guide us through the forest to Montredon. There must be pathways

leading there.”

Dominique was silent.

“So you persist in your infatuation, do you?”

“Kill me and end all this!” replied the young man.

Francoise, her hands clasped, supplicated him from afar. She had

forgotten everything; she would have advised him to commit an act of

cowardice. But Père Merlier seized her hands that the Prussians might

not see her wild gestures.

“He is right,” he whispered: “it is better to die!”

The platoon of execution was there. The officer awaited a sign of

weakness on Dominique’s part. He still expected to conquer him. No one

spoke. In the distance violent crashes of thunder were heard.

Oppressive heat weighed upon the country. But suddenly, amid the

silence, a cry broke forth:

“The French! The French!”

Yes, the French were at hand. Upon the Sauval highway, at the edge of

the wood, the line of red pantaloons could be distinguished. In the

mill there was an extraordinary agitation. The Prussian soldiers ran

hither and thither with guttural exclamations. Not a shot had yet been

fired.

“The French! The French!” cried Francoise, clapping her hands.

She was wild with joy. She escaped from her father’s grasp; she laughed

and tossed her arms in the air. At last they had come and come in time,

since Dominique was still alive!

A terrible platoon fire, which burst upon her ears like a clap of

thunder, caused her to turn. The officer muttered between his teeth:

“Before everything, let us settle this affair!”

And with his own hand pushing Dominique against the wall of a shed he

ordered his men to fire. When Francoise looked Dominique lay upon the

ground with blood streaming from his neck and shoulders.

She did not weep; she stood stupefied. Her eyes grew fixed, and she sat

down under the shed, a few paces from the body. She stared at it,

wringing her hands. The Prussians had seized Père Merlier as a hostage.

It was a stirring combat. The officer had rapidly posted his men,

comprehending that he could not beat a retreat without being cut to

pieces. Hence he would fight to the last. Now the Prussians defended

the mill, and the French attacked it. The fusillade began with unusual

violence. For half an hour it did not cease. Then a hollow sound was

heard, and a ball broke a main branch of the old elm. The French had

cannon. A battery, stationed just above the ditch in which Dominique

had hidden himself, swept the wide street of Rocreuse. The struggle

could not last long.

Ah, the poor mill! Balls pierced it in every part. Half of the roof was

carried away. Two walls were battered down. But it was on the side of

the Morelle that the destruction was most lamentable. The ivy, torn

from the tottering edifice, hung like rags; the river was encumbered

with wrecks of all kinds, and through a breach was visible Francoise’s

chamber with its bed, the white curtains of which were carefully

closed. Shot followed shot; the old wheel received two balls and gave

vent to an agonizing groan; the buckets were borne off by the current;

the framework was crushed. The soul of the gay mill had left it!

Then the French began the assault. There was a furious fight with

swords and bayonets. Beneath the rust-colored sky the valley was choked

with the dead. The broad meadows had a wild look with their tall,

isolated trees and their hedges of poplars which stained them with

shade. To the right and to the left the forests were like the walls of

an ancient ampitheater which enclosed the fighting gladiators, while

the springs, the fountains and the flowing brooks seemed to sob amid

the panic of the country.

Beneath the shed Francoise still sat near Dominique’s body; she had not

moved. Père Merlier had received a slight wound. The Prussians were

exterminated, but the ruined mill was on fire in a dozen places. The

French rushed into the courtyard, headed by their captain. It was his

first success of the war. His face beamed with triumph. He waved his

sword, shouting:

“Victory! Victory!”

On seeing the wounded miller, who was endeavoring to comfort Francoise,

and noticing the body of Dominique, his joyous look changed to one of

sadness. Then he knelt beside the young man and, tearing open his

blouse, put his hand to his heart.

“Thank God!” he cried. “It is yet beating! Send for the surgeon!”

At the captain’s words Francoise leaped to her feet.

“There is hope!” she cried. “Oh, tell me there is hope!”

At that moment the surgeon appeared. He made a hasty examination and

said:

“The young man is severely hurt, but life is not extinct; he can be

saved!” By the surgeon’s orders Dominique was transported to a

neighboring cottage, where he was placed in bed. His wounds were

dressed; restoratives were administered, and he soon recovered

consciousness. When he opened his eyes he saw Francoise sitting beside

him and through the open window caught sight of Père Merlier talking

with the French captain. He passed his hand over his forehead with a

bewildered air and said:

“They did not kill me after all!”

“No,” replied Francoise. “The French came, and their surgeon saved

you.”

Père Merlier turned and said through the window:

“No talking yet, my young ones!”

In due time Dominique was entirely restored, and when peace again

blessed the land he wedded his beloved Francoise.

The mill was rebuilt, and Père Merlier had a new wheel upon which to

bestow whatever tenderness was not engrossed by his daughter and her

husband.

CAPTAIN BURLE

CHAPTER I

THE SWINDLE

It was nine o’clock. The little town of Vauchamp, dark and silent, had

just retired to bed amid a chilly November rain. In the Rue des

Recollets, one of the narrowest and most deserted streets of the

district of Saint-Jean, a single window was still alight on the third

floor of an old house, from whose damaged gutters torrents of water

were falling into the street. Mme Burle was sitting up before a meager

fire of vine stocks, while her little grandson Charles pored over his

lessons by the pale light of a lamp.

The apartment, rented at one hundred and sixty francs per annum,

consisted of four large rooms which it was absolutely impossible to

keep warm during the winter. Mme Burle slept in the largest chamber,

her son Captain and Quartermaster Burle occupying a somewhat smaller

one overlooking the street, while little Charles had his iron cot at

the farther end of a spacious drawing room with mildewed hangings,

which was never used. The few pieces of furniture belonging to the

captain and his mother, furniture of the massive style of the First

Empire, dented and worn by continuous transit from one garrison town to

another, almost disappeared from view beneath the lofty ceilings whence

darkness fell. The flooring of red-colored tiles was cold and hard to

the feet; before the chairs there were merely a few threadbare little

rugs of poverty-stricken aspect, and athwart this desert all the winds

of heaven blew through the disjointed doors and windows.

Near the fireplace sat Mme Burle, leaning back in her old yellow velvet

armchair and watching the last vine branch smoke, with that stolid,

blank stare of the aged who live within themselves. She would sit thus

for whole days together, with her tall figure, her long stern face and

her thin lips that never smiled. The widow of a colonel who had died

just as he was on the point of becoming a general, the mother of a

captain whom she had followed even in his campaigns, she had acquired a

military stiffness of bearing and formed for herself a code of honor,

duty and patriotism which kept her rigid, desiccated, as it were, by

the stern application of discipline. She seldom, if ever, complained.

When her son had become a widower after five years of married life she

had undertaken the education of little Charles as a matter of course,

performing her duties with the severity of a sergeant drilling

recruits. She watched over the child, never tolerating the slightest

waywardness or irregularity, but compelling him to sit up till midnight

when his exercises were not finished, and sitting up herself until he

had completed them. Under such implacable despotism Charles, whose

constitution was delicate, grew up pale and thin, with beautiful eyes,

inordinately large and clear, shining in his white, pinched face.

During the long hours of silence Mme Burle dwelt continuously upon one

and the same idea: she had been disappointed in her son. This thought

sufficed to occupy her mind, and under its influence she would live her

whole life over again, from the birth of her son, whom she had pictured

rising amid glory to the highest rank, till she came down to mean and

narrow garrison life, the dull, monotonous existence of nowadays, that

stranding in the post of a quartermaster, from which Burle would never

rise and in which he seemed to sink more and more heavily. And yet his

first efforts had filled her with pride, and she had hoped to see her

dreams realized. Burle had only just left Saint-Cyr when he

distinguished himself at the battle of Solferino, where he had captured

a whole battery of the enemy’s artillery with merely a handful of men.

For this feat he had won the cross; the papers had recorded his

heroism, and he had become known as one of the bravest soldiers in the

army. But gradually the hero had grown stout, embedded in flesh,

timorous, lazy and satisfied. In 1870, still a captain, he had been

made a prisoner in the first encounter, and he returned from Germany

quite furious, swearing that he would never be caught fighting again,

for it was too absurd. Being prevented from leaving the army, as he was

incapable of embracing any other profession, he applied for and

obtained the position of captain quartermaster, “a kennel,” as he

called it, “in which he would be left to kick the bucket in peace.”

That day Mme Burle experienced a great internal disruption. She felt

that it was all over, and she ever afterward preserved a rigid attitude

with tightened lips.

A blast of wind shook the Rue des Recollets and drove the rain angrily

against the windowpanes. The old lady lifted her eyes from the smoking

vine roots now dying out, to make sure that Charles was not falling

asleep over his Latin exercise. This lad, twelve years of age, had

become the old lady’s supreme hope, the one human being in whom she

centered her obstinate yearning for glory. At first she had hated him

with all the loathing she had felt for his mother, a weak and pretty

young lacemaker whom the captain had been foolish enough to marry when

he found out that she would not listen to his passionate addresses on

any other condition. Later on, when the mother had died and the father

had begun to wallow in vice, Mme Burle dreamed again in presence of

that little ailing child whom she found it so hard to rear. She wanted

to see him robust, so that he might grow into the hero that Burle had

declined to be, and for all her cold ruggedness she watched him

anxiously, feeling his limbs and instilling courage into his soul. By

degrees, blinded by her passionate desires, she imagined that she had

at last found the man of the family. The boy, whose temperament was of

a gentle, dreamy character, had a physical horror of soldiering, but as

he lived in mortal dread of his grandmother and was extremely shy and

submissive, he would echo all she said and resignedly express his

intention of entering the army when he grew up.

Mme Burle observed that the exercise was not progressing. In fact,

little Charles, overcome by the deafening noise of the storm, was

dozing, albeit his pen was between his fingers and his eyes were

staring at the paper. The old lady at once struck the edge of the table

with her bony hand; whereupon the lad started, opened his dictionary

and hurriedly began to turn over the leaves. Then, still preserving

silence, his grandmother drew the vine roots together on the hearth and

unsuccessfully attempted to rekindle the fire.

At the time when she had still believed in her son she had sacrificed

her small income, which he had squandered in pursuits she dared not

investigate. Even now he drained the household; all its resources went

to the streets, and it was through him that she lived in penury, with

empty rooms and cold kitchen. She never spoke to him of all those

things, for with her sense of discipline he remained the master. Only

at times she shuddered at the sudden fear that Burle might someday

commit some foolish misdeed which would prevent Charles from entering

the army.

She was rising up to fetch a fresh piece of wood in the kitchen when a

fearful hurricane fell upon the house, making the doors rattle, tearing

off a shutter and whirling the water in the broken gutters like a spout

against the window. In the midst of the uproar a ring at the bell

startled the old lady. Who could it be at such an hour and in such

weather? Burle never returned till after midnight, if he came home at

all. However, she went to the door. An officer stood before her,

dripping with rain and swearing savagely.

“Hell and thunder!” he growled. “What cursed weather!”

It was Major Laguitte, a brave old soldier who had served under Colonel

Burle during Mme Burle’s palmy days. He had started in life as a

drummer boy and, thanks to his courage rather than his intellect, had

attained to the command of a battalion, when a painful infirmity—the

contraction of the muscles of one of his thighs, due to a wound—obliged

him to accept the post of major. He was slightly lame, but it would

have been imprudent to tell him so, as he refused to own it.

“What, you, Major?” said Mme Burle with growing astonishment.