The mystery terrified her. However, no trace of fear or the tumult in
her breast appeared on her face. Her simple peasant logic told her
that would have been fatal. In the presence of the hidden and perhaps
imminent danger into which she divined she had stumbled, she told
herself, with feminine shrewdness, that at all costs she must preserve
a brave countenance and combat the enemy by craft.
"What do you want with me? Can I be of any service to you? If you have
lost your way I can set you right. No one knows the forest better than
I."
She paused and smiled.
The German soldier's only reply was a sort of grunt and a slightly
relaxed hold on her shoulder. At the same time he led her in the
direction of a deep excavation, formerly used as a wolf-trap. What was
he going to do to her? She now noticed that he carried in his right
hand a bayonet, with which he swished, as they walked along, at the
tall grass and weeds. Was he going to kill her? She would have turned
and fled like a hare but for the grip in which she was held. Perhaps,
after all, she thought, there was greater safety in non-resistance than
in attempted flight. So she allowed herself to be led to the very edge
of the excavation before saying to her captor, in a pleading voice:--
"You are not going to do me any harm, are you? I'm only a poor,
inoffensive woman."
Whilst making this appeal, standing on the edge of what she imagined
might be her grave, she noticed that the greater part of the hole was
skilfully hidden by a roof of branches. The next moment she heard the
man with the bayonet whistle, whereupon the head of a blond, blue-eyed
giant, also dressed in grey, but with the rank marks of an officer,
suddenly appeared through the aperture. Words in a gutteral tongue
passed between the two soldiers. Then the fair-complexioned Boche,
eyeing her critically, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, uttered an
order, and disappeared.
The leaden hand immediately fell from Octavie Delacourt's shoulder and
she was once more free. Now, however, all her strength seemed to have
gone from her. The feeling that she had just escaped a very real danger
robbed her of her desire to flee. Slowly, timidly, like a frightened
animal, she moved away, with her head slightly turned towards her
captor, who stood watching her, as a cat will a mouse, his bayonet
still in his hand and a look of mingled cruelty and regret on his
coarse, heavy features. A few steps more and he called to her to halt.
"Has he changed his mind?" thought Octavie, seeing him walk towards
her. No; he intended to do her no harm; all he wanted to do was to take
her by the hand and lead her in an entirely opposite direction to the
one she was heading in. This done, he released her.
Once through the trees, and hidden from view, Octavie Delacourt made a
_détour_ and ran as fast as her legs would carry her to Neuf-Marché.
At first she thought of returning to Martagny, but the fear of being
recaptured restrained her. Moreover, she felt that she had now an
urgent duty to perform--to inform the nearest authorities of her
discovery. That it foreboded something extremely serious for the
country she could now no longer doubt for a moment. In her flight she
had caught sight through an opening in the trees, of a third grey-clad
soldier, lying flat on his stomach at the edge of the forest and, with
his rifle close to hand, watching the movements of a peasant guiding
his plough.
Dupont, the _aubergiste_ of Neuf-Marché, listened to her story with a
puzzled face. But, though his scepticism was great, he did not allow it
to get the better of his judgment. "Nothing would astonish him in these
times," he declared; so off he went in search of the _garde champêtre_,
one of the keepers of the forest. He was lucky in catching him before
he went for his leisurely morning round, and brought him to the inn,
ready to explode with hilarity.
"My poor woman, you must be suffering from illusions," he exclaimed,
bursting into a roar of laughter. "Prussians in the Forêt de Lyons? No
more than there are cockchafers on a switch!"
Whilst he hastened to turn to his wine and touch glasses with the
innkeeper, Octavie, seeing that it would be useless to discuss
the matter, slipped out without a word and hurried off to the
_gendarmerie_. Here Quartermaster Crosnier was almost as difficult to
convince as the _garde champêtre_.
"Prussians at Martagny?" he said, with wrinkled brow and a look of
doubt in his eyes, as he twisted his moustache. "Are you quite sure?
You astonish me."
"Yes, I'm quite sure," affirmed Octavie, in an almost supplicating
voice. "Quite, _quite_ sure. And if you go after them, take care you
go in force, otherwise they will kill you. There is one Boche, as I've
told you, at the edge of the wood, ready to fire, and I've no doubt
there are others also lying in waiting."
"Certainly we shall go and see if there's anything in what you say, my
good woman," replied the Quartermaster, in a condescending tone, which
proved to her that he was still undecided whether to accept her story
for gospel.
However, there was no knowing. So he promised he would see to the
matter at once. Fraets and Lebas, his _gendarmes_, should accompany him
into the wood. They would look into the mystery as a matter of duty.