The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories Read online

  The captain’s poor wife was to be severely punished for this act of clemency.

  The next day we heard that the armistice had been extended to the eastern part of France, and we had to put an end to our little campaign. Two of us, who belonged to the neighborhood, returned home, so there were only four of us, all told: the captain, his wife, and two men. We belonged to Besancon, which was still being besieged in spite of the armistice.

  “Let us stop here,” said the captain. “I cannot believe that the war is going to end like this. The devil take it! Surely there are men still left in France; and now is the time to prove what they are made of. The spring is coming on, and the armistice is only a trap laid for the Prussians. During the time that it lasts, a new army will be raised, and some fine morning we shall fall upon them again. We shall be ready, and we have a hostage—let us remain here.”

  We fixed our quarters there. It was terribly cold, and we did not go out much, and somebody had always to keep the female prisoner in sight.

  She was sullen, and never said anything, or else spoke of her husband, whom the captain had killed. She looked at him continually with fierce eyes, and we felt that she was tortured by a wild longing for revenge. That seemed to us to be the most suitable punishment for the terrible torments that she had made Piedelot suffer, for impotent vengeance is such intense pain!

  Alas! we who knew how to avenge our comrade ought to have thought that this woman would know how to avenge her husband, and have been on our guard. It is true that one of us kept watch every night, and that at first we tied her by a long rope to the great oak bench that was fastened to the wall. But, by and by, as she had never tried to escape, in spite of her hatred for us, we relaxed our extreme prudence, and allowed her to sleep somewhere else except on the bench, and without being tied. What had we to fear? She was at the end of the room, a man was on guard at the door, and between her and the sentinel the captain’s wife and two other men used to lie. She was alone and unarmed against four, so there could be no danger.

  One night when we were asleep, and the captain was on guard, the lancer’s wife was lying more quietly in her corner than usual, and she had even smiled for the first time since she had been our prisoner during the evening. Suddenly, however, in the middle of the night, we were all awakened by a terrible cry. We got up, groping about, and at once stumbled over a furious couple who were rolling about and fighting on the ground. It was the captain and the lancer’s wife. We threw ourselves on them, and separated them in a moment. She was shouting and laughing, and he seemed to have the death rattle. All this took place in the dark. Two of us held her, and when a light was struck a terrible sight met our eyes. The captain was lying on the floor in a pool of blood, with an enormous gash in his throat, and his sword bayonet, that had been taken from his rifle, was sticking in the red, gaping wound. A few minutes afterward he died, without having been able to utter a word.

  His wife did not shed a tear. Her eyes were dry, her throat was contracted, and she looked at the lancer’s wife steadfastly, and with a calm ferocity that inspired fear.

  “This woman belongs to me,” she said to us suddenly. “You swore to me not a week ago to let me kill her as I chose, if she killed my husband; and you must keep your oath. You must fasten her securely to the fireplace, upright against the back of it, and then you can go where you like, but far from here. I will take my revenge on her myself. Leave the captain’s body, and we three, he, she and I, will remain here.”

  We obeyed, and went away. She promised to write to us to Geneva, as we were returning thither.

  VI

  Two days later I received the following letter, dated the day after we had left, that had been written at an inn on the high road:

  “MY FRIEND:

  “I am writing to you, according to my promise. For the moment I am at the inn, where I have just handed my prisoner over to a Prussian officer.

  “I must tell you, my friend, that this poor woman has left two children in Germany. She had followed her husband, whom she adored, as she did not wish him to be exposed to the risks of war by himself, and as her children were with their grandparents. I have learned all this since yesterday, and it has turned my ideas of vengeance into more humane feelings. At the very moment when I felt pleasure in insulting this woman, and in threatening her with the most fearful torments, in recalling Piedelot, who had been burned alive, and in threatening her with a similar death, she looked at me coldly, and said:

  “‘What have you got to reproach me with, Frenchwoman? You think that you will do right in avenging your husband’s death, is not that so?’

  “‘Yes,’ I replied.

  “‘Very well, then; in killing him, I did what you are going to do in burning me. I avenged my husband, for your husband killed him.’

  “‘Well,’ I replied, ‘as you approve of this vengeance, prepare to endure it.’

  “‘I do not fear it.’

  “And in fact she did not seem to have lost courage. Her face was calm, and she looked at me without trembling, while I brought wood and dried leaves together, and feverishly threw on to them the powder from some cartridges, which was to make her funeral pile the more cruel.

  “I hesitated in my thoughts of persecution for a moment. But the captain was there, pale and covered with blood, and he seemed to be looking at me with his large, glassy eyes, and I applied myself to my work again after kissing his pale lips. Suddenly, however, on raising my head, I saw that she was crying, and I felt rather surprised.

  “‘So you are frightened?’ I said to her.

  “‘No, but when I saw you kiss your husband, I thought of mine, of all whom I love.’

  “She continued to sob, but stopping suddenly, she said to me in broken words and in a low voice:

  “‘Have you any children?’

  “A shiver rare over me, for I guessed that this poor woman had some. She asked me to look in a pocketbook which was in her bosom, and in it I saw two photographs of quite young children, a boy and a girl, with those kind, gentle, chubby faces that German children have. In it there were also two locks of light hair and a letter in a large, childish hand, and beginning with German words which meant:

  “‘My dear little mother.

  “‘I could not restrain my tears, my dear friend, and so I untied her, and without venturing to look at the face of my poor dead husband, who was not to be avenged, I went with her as far as the inn. She is free; I have just left her, and she kissed me with tears. I am going upstairs to my husband; come as soon as possible, my dear friend, to look for our two bodies.’”

  * * * *

  I set off with all speed, and when I arrived there was a Prussian patrol at the cottage; and when I asked what it all meant, I was told that there was a captain of francs-tireurs and his wife inside, both dead. I gave their names; they saw that I knew them, and I begged to be allowed to arrange their funeral.

  “Somebody has already undertaken it,” was the reply. “Go in if you wish to, as you know them. You can settle about their funeral with their friend.”

  I went in. The captain and his wife were lying side by side on a bed, and were covered by a sheet. I raised it, and saw that the woman had inflicted a similar wound in her throat to that from which her husband had died.

  At the side of the bed there sat, watching and weeping, the woman who had been mentioned to me as their best friend. It was the lancer’s wife.

  THE PRISONERS

  There was not a sound in the forest save the indistinct, fluttering sound of the snow falling on the trees. It had been snowing since noon; a little fine snow, that covered the branches as with frozen moss, and spread a silvery covering over the dead leaves in the ditches, and covered the roads with a white, yielding carpet, and made still more intense the boundless silence of this ocean of trees.

  Before the door of the forester’s dwelling a young woman, her arms bare to the elbow, was chopping wood with a hatchet on a block of stone. She was tall, slender, strong—
a true girl of the woods, daughter and wife of a forester.

  A voice called from within the house:

  “We are alone tonight, Berthine; you must come in. It is getting dark, and there may be Prussians or wolves about.”

  “I’ve just finished, mother,” replied the young woman, splitting as she spoke an immense log of wood with strong, deft blows, which expanded her chest each time she raised her arms to strike. “Here I am; there’s no need to be afraid; it’s quite light still.”

  Then she gathered up her sticks and logs, piled them in the chimney corner, went back to close the great oaken shutters, and finally came in, drawing behind her the heavy bolts of the door.

  Her mother, a wrinkled old woman whom age had rendered timid, was spinning by the fireside.

  “I am uneasy,” she said, “when your father’s not here. Two women are not much good.”

  “Oh,” said the younger woman, “I’d cheerfully kill a wolf or a Prussian if it came to that.”

  And she glanced at a heavy revolver hanging above the hearth.

  Her husband had been called upon to serve in the army at the beginning of the Prussian invasion, and the two women had remained alone with the old father, a keeper named Nicolas Pichon, sometimes called Long-legs, who refused obstinately to leave his home and take refuge in the town.

  This town was Rethel, an ancient stronghold built on a rock. Its inhabitants were patriotic, and had made up their minds to resist the invaders, to fortify their native place, and, if need be, to stand a siege as in the good old days. Twice already, under Henri IV and under Louis XIV, the people of Rethel had distinguished themselves by their heroic defence of their town. They would do as much now, by gad! or else be slaughtered within their own walls.

  They had, therefore, bought cannon and rifles, organized a militia, and formed themselves into battalions and companies, and now spent their time drilling all day long in the square. All—bakers, grocers, butchers, lawyers, carpenters, booksellers, chemists—took their turn at military training at regular hours of the day, under the auspices of Monsieur Lavigne, a former noncommissioned officer in the dragoons, now a draper, having married the daughter and inherited the business of Monsieur Ravaudan, Senior.

  He had taken the rank of commanding officer in Rethel, and, seeing that all the young men had gone off to the war, he had enlisted all the others who were in favor of resisting an attack. Fat men now invariably walked the streets at a rapid pace, to reduce their weight and improve their breathing, and weak men carried weights to strengthen their muscles.

  And they awaited the Prussians. But the Prussians did not appear. They were not far off, however, for twice already their scouts had penetrated as far as the forest dwelling of Nicolas Pichon, called Long-legs.

  The old keeper, who could run like a fox, had come and warned the town. The guns had been got ready, but the enemy had not shown themselves.

  Long-legs’ dwelling served as an outpost in the Aveline forest. Twice a week the old man went to the town for provisions and brought the citizens news of the outlying district.

  On this particular day he had gone to announce the fact that a small detachment of German infantry had halted at his house the day before, about two o’clock in the afternoon, and had left again almost immediately. The noncommissioned officer in charge spoke French.

  When the old man set out like this he took with him his dogs—two powerful animals with the jaws of lions—as a safeguard against the wolves, which were beginning to get fierce, and he left directions with the two women to barricade themselves securely within their dwelling as soon as night fell.

  The younger feared nothing, but her mother was always apprehensive, and repeated continually:

  “We’ll come to grief one of these days. You see if we don’t!”

  This evening she was, if possible, more nervous than ever.

  “Do you know what time your father will be back?” she asked.

  “Oh, not before eleven, for certain. When he dines with the commandant he’s always late.”

  And Berthine was hanging her pot over the fire to warm the soup when she suddenly stood still, listening attentively to a sound that had reached her through the chimney.

  “There are people walking in the wood,” she said; “seven or eight men at least.”

  The terrified old woman stopped her spinning wheel, and gasped:

  “Oh, my God! And your father not here!”

  She had scarcely finished speaking when a succession of violent blows shook the door.

  As the woman made no reply, a loud, guttural voice shouted:

  “Open the door!”

  After a brief silence the same voice repeated:

  “Open the door or I’ll break it down!”

  Berthine took the heavy revolver from its hook, slipped it into the pocket of her skirt, and, putting her ear to the door, asked:

  “Who are you?” demanded the young woman. “What do you want?”.

  “The detachment that came here the other day,” replied the voice.

  “My men and I have lost our way in the forest since morning. Open the door or I’ll break it down!”

  The forester’s daughter had no choice; she shot back the heavy bolts, threw open the ponderous shutter, and perceived in the wan light of the snow six men, six Prussian soldiers, the same who had visited the house the day before.

  “What are you doing here at this time of night?” she asked dauntlessly.

  “I lost my bearings,” replied the officer; “lost them completely. Then I recognized this house. I’ve eaten nothing since morning, nor my men either.”

  “But I’m quite alone with my mother this evening,” said Berthine.

  “Never mind,” replied the soldier, who seemed a decent sort of fellow. “We won’t do you any harm, but you must give us something to eat. We are nearly dead with hunger and fatigue.”

  Then the girl moved aside.

  “Come in;” she said.

  Then entered, covered with snow, their helmets sprinkled with a creamy-looking froth, which gave them the appearance of meringues. They seemed utterly worn out.

  The young woman pointed to the wooden benches on either side of the large table.

  “Sit down,” she said, “and I’ll make you some soup. You certainly look tired out, and no mistake.”

  Then she bolted the door afresh.

  She put more water in the pot, added butter and potatoes; then, taking down a piece of bacon from a hook in the chimney earner, cut it in two and slipped half of it into the pot.

  The six men watched her movements with hungry eyes. They had placed their rifles and helmets in a corner and waited for supper, as well behaved as children on a school bench.

  The old mother had resumed her spinning, casting from time to time a furtive and uneasy glance at the soldiers. Nothing was to be heard save the humming of the wheel, the crackling of the fire, and the singing of the water in the pot.

  But suddenly a strange noise—a sound like the harsh breathing of some wild animal sniffing under the door—startled the occupants of the room.

  The German officer sprang toward the rifles. Berthine stopped him with a gesture, and said, smilingly:

  “It’s only the wolves. They are like you—prowling hungry through the forest.”

  The incredulous man wanted to see with his own eyes, and as soon as the door was opened he perceived two large grayish animals disappearing with long, swinging trot into the darkness.

  He returned to his seat, muttering:

  “I wouldn’t have believed it!”

  And he waited quietly till supper was ready.

  The men devoured their meal voraciously, with mouths stretched to their ears that they might swallow the more. Their round eyes opened at the same time as their jaws, and as the soup coursed down their throats it made a noise like the gurgling of water in a rainpipe.

  The two women watched in silence the movements of the big red beards. The potatoes seemed to be engulfed
in these moving fleeces.

  But, as they were thirsty, the forester’s daughter went down to the cellar to draw them some cider. She was gone some time. The cellar was small, with an arched ceiling, and had served, so people said, both as prison and as hiding-place during the Revolution. It was approached by means of a narrow, winding staircase, closed by a trap-door at the farther end of the kitchen.

  When Berthine returned she was smiling mysteriously to herself. She gave the Germans her jug of cider.

  Then she and her mother supped apart, at the other end of the kitchen.

  The soldiers had finished eating, and were all six falling asleep as they sat round the table. Every now and then a forehead fell with a thud on the board, and the man, awakened suddenly, sat upright again.

  Berthine said to the officer:

  “Go and lie down, all of you, round the fire. There’s lots of room for six. I’m going up to my room with my mother.”

  And the two women went upstairs. They could be heard locking the door and walking about overhead for a time; then they were silent.

  The Prussians lay down on the floor, with their feet to the fire and their heads resting on their rolled-up cloaks. Soon all six snored loudly and uninterruptedly in six different keys.

  They had been sleeping for some time when a shot rang out so loudly that it seemed directed against the very wall’s of the house. The soldiers rose hastily. Two—then three—more shots were fired.

  The door opened hastily, and Berthine appeared, barefooted and only half dressed, with her candle in her hand and a scared look on her face.

  “There are the French,” she stammered; “at least two hundred of them. If they find you here they’ll burn the house down. For God’s sake, hurry down into the cellar, and don’t make a sound, whatever you do. If you make any noise we are lost.”

  “We’ll go, we’ll go,” replied the terrified officer. “Which is the way?”