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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0eacdd2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63382 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63382) diff --git a/old/63382-0.txt b/old/63382-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e92e9e5..0000000 --- a/old/63382-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3682 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Attack on the Mill and Other Sketches of -War, by Émile Zola - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Attack on the Mill and Other Sketches of War - - -Author: Émile Zola - - - -Release Date: October 5, 2020 [eBook #63382] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATTACK ON THE MILL AND OTHER -SKETCHES OF WAR*** - - -E-text prepared by Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/AttackOnTheMillAndOtherSketchesOfWar - - - - - -THE ATTACK ON THE MILL -AND OTHER SKETCHES OF WAR - - - * * * * * * - -_Uniform with this Volume. Price 3s. 6d._ - -_THE AVERAGE WOMAN_ - -_By_ - -_WOLCOTT BALESTIER_ - - -_World.--“Characteristic, fresh, and simply-pathetic.”_ - -_St. James’s Gazette.--“Decidedly good stories and well - told.”_ - -_Scotsman.--“The book will interest every one who takes it up.”_ - -_Morning Post.--“Considerable freshness of inspiration ... - touches both of humour and pathos.”_ - - -_LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_ - - * * * * * * - - -THE ATTACK ON THE MILL -AND OTHER SKETCHES OF WAR - -by - -ÉMILE ZOLA - -With an Essay on the -Short Stories of M. Zola -by Edmund Gosse - - - - - - -London -William Heinemann -Bedford Street W.C. -MDCCCXCII - -All rights reserved - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - ESSAY BY MR. GOSSE 1 - - THE ATTACK ON THE MILL 47 - - THREE WARS 131 - - PUBLISHER’S CATALOG - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE - - - - -THE SHORT STORIES OF M. ZOLA - - -It is by his huge novels, and principally by those of the -_Rougon-Macquart_ series, that M. Zola is known to the public and to -the critics. Nevertheless, he has found time during the thirty years -of his busy literary career to publish about as many small stories, -now comprised in four separate volumes. It is natural that his novels -should present so very much wider and more attractive a subject for -analysis that, so far as I can discover, even in France no critic has -hitherto taken the shorter productions separately, and discussed M. -Zola as a maker of _contes_. Yet there is a very distinct interest -in seeing how such a thunderer or bellower on the trumpet can breathe -through silver, and, as a matter of fact, the short stories reveal a -M. Zola considerably dissimilar to the author of “Nana” and of “La -Terre”--a much more optimistic, romantic, and gentle writer. If, -moreover, he had nowhere assailed the decencies more severely than he -does in these thirty or forty short stories, he would never have been -named among the enemies of Mrs. Grundy, and the gates of the Palais -Mazarin would long ago have been opened to receive him. It is, indeed, -to a lion with his mane _en papillotes_ that I here desire to attract -the attention of English readers; to a man-eating monster, indeed, but -to one who is on his best behaviour and blinking in the warm sunshine -of Provence. - - -I. - -The first public appearance of M. Zola in any form was made as a writer -of a short story. A southern journal, _La Provence_, published at Aix, -brought out in 1859 a little _conte_ entitled “La Fée Amoureuse.” -When this was written, in 1858, the future novelist was a student -of eighteen, attending the rhetoric classes at the Lycée St. Louis; -when it was printed, life in Paris, far from his delicious South, was -beginning to open before him, harsh, vague, with a threat of poverty -and failure. “La Fée Amoureuse” may still be read by the curious in -the _Contes à Ninon_. It is a fantastic little piece, in the taste of -the eighteenth-century trifles of Crébillon or Boufflers, written with -considerable care in an over-luscious vein--a fairy tale about an -enchanted bud of sweet marjoram, which expands and reveals the amorous -fay, guardian of the loves of Prince Loïs and the fair Odette. This is -a moonlight-coloured piece of unrecognisable Zola, indeed, belonging -to the period of his lost essay on “The Blind Milton dictating to his -Elder Daughter, while the Younger accompanies him upon the Harp,” a -piece which many have sighed in vain to see. - -He was twenty when, in 1860, during the course of blackening reams of -paper with poems _à la Musset_, he turned, in the aërial garret, or -lantern above the garret of 35 Rue St. Victor, to the composition of -a second story--“Le Carnet de Danse.” This is addressed to Ninon, the -ideal lady of all M. Zola’s early writings--the fleet and jocund virgin -of the South, in whom he romantically personifies the Provence after -which his whole soul was thirsting in the desert of Paris. This is an -exquisite piece of writing--a little too studied, perhaps, too full -of opulent and voluptuous adjectives; written, as we may plainly see, -under the influence of Théophile Gautier. The story, such as it is, is -a conversation between Georgette and the programme-card of her last -night’s ball. What interest “Le Carnet de Danse” possesses it owes to -the style, especially that of the opening pages, in which the joyous -Provençal life is elegantly described. The young man, still stumbling -in the wrong path, had at least become a writer. - -For the next two years M. Zola was starving, and vainly striving to -be a poet. Another “belvédère,” as M. Aléxis calls it, another glazed -garret above the garret, received him in the Rue Neuve St. Étienne -du Mont. Here the squalor of Paris was around him; the young idealist -from the forests and lagoons of Provence found himself lost in a loud -and horrid world of quarrels, oaths, and dirt, of popping beer-bottles -and yelling women. A year, at the age of two-and-twenty, spent in -this atmosphere of sordid and noisy vice, left its mark for ever on -the spirit of the young observer. He lived on bread and coffee, with -two sous’ worth of apples upon gala days. He had, on one occasion, -even to make an Arab of himself, sitting with the bed-wraps draped -about him, because he had pawned his clothes. All the time, serene and -ardent, he was writing modern imitations of Dante’s “Divina Commedia,” -epics on the genesis of the world, didactic hymns to Religion, and -love-songs by the gross. Towards the close of 1861 this happy misery, -this wise folly, came to an end; he obtained a clerkship in the famous -publishing house of M. Hachette. - -But after these two years of poverty and hardship he began to write a -few things which were not in verse. Early in 1862 he again addressed -to the visionary Ninon a short story called “Le Sang.” He confesses -himself weary, as Ninon also must be, of the coquettings of the rose -and the infidelities of the butterfly. He will tell her a terrible -tale of real life. But, in fact, he is absolutely in the clouds of the -worst romanticism. Four soldiers, round a camp-fire, suffer agonies -of ghostly adventure, in the manner of Hofmann or of Petrus Borel. We -seem to have returned to the age of 1830, with its vampires and its -ghouls. “Simplice,” which comes next in point of date, is far more -characteristic, and here, indeed, we find one talent of the future -novelist already developed. Simplice is the son of a worldly king, who -despises him for his innocence; the prince slips away into the primæval -forest and lives with dragon-flies and water-lilies. In the personal -life given to the forest itself, as well as to its inhabitants, we -have something very like the future idealisations in _L’Abbé Mouret_, -although the touch is yet timid and the flashes of romantic insight -fugitive. “Simplice” is an exceedingly pretty fairy story, curiously -like what Mrs. Alfred Gatty used to write for sentimental English girls -and boys: it was probably inspired to some extent by George Sand. - -On a somewhat larger scale is “Les Voleurs et l’Âne,” which belongs -to the same period of composition. It is delightful to find M. Zola -describing his garret as “full of flowers and of light, and so high -up that sometimes one hears the angels talking on the roof.” His -story describes a summer day’s adventure on the Seine, an improvised -picnic of strangers on a grassy island of elms, a siesta disturbed by -the somewhat stagey trick of a fantastic coquette. According to his -faithful biographer, M. Paul Aléxis, the author, towards the close of -1862, chose another lodging, again a romantic chamber, overlooking -this time the whole extent of the cemetery of Montparnasse. In this -elegiacal retreat he composed two short stories, “Sœur des Pauvres” and -“Celle qui m’Aime.” Of these, the former was written as a commission -for the young Zola’s employer, M. Hachette, who wanted a tale -appropriate for a children’s newspaper which his firm was publishing. -After reading what his clerk submitted to him, the publisher is said -to have remarked, “Vous êtes un révolté,” and to have returned -him the manuscript as “too revolutionary.” “Sœur des Pauvres” is a -tiresome fable, and it is difficult to understand why M. Zola has -continued to preserve it among his writings. It belongs to the class -of semi-realistic stories which Tolstoi has since then composed with -such admirable skill. But M. Zola is not happy among saintly visitants -to little holy girls, nor among pieces of gold that turn into bats -and rats in the hands of selfish peasants. Why this anodyne little -religious fable should ever have been considered revolutionary, it is -impossible to conceive. - -Of a very different order is “Celle qui m’Aime,” a story of real power. -Outside a tent, in the suburbs of Paris, a man in a magician’s dress -stands beating a drum and inviting the passers-by to enter and gaze -on the realisation of their dreams, the face of her who loves you. -The author is persuaded to go in, and he finds himself in the midst of -an assemblage of men and boys, women and girls, who pass up in turn to -look through a glass trap in a box. In the description of the various -types, as they file by, of the aspect of the interior of the tent, -there is the touch of a new hand. The vividness of the study is not -maintained; it passes off into romanesque extravagance, but for a few -moments the attentive listener, who goes back to these early stories, -is conscious that he has heard the genuine accent of the master of -Naturalism. - -Months passed, and the young Provençal seemed to be making but little -progress in the world. His poems definitely failed to find a publisher, -and for a while he seems to have flagged even in the production of -prose. Towards the beginning of 1864, however, he put together the -seven stories which I have already mentioned, added to them a short -novel entitled “Aventures du Grand Sidoine,” prefixed a fanciful and -very prettily turned address “À Ninon,” and carried off the collection -to a new publisher, M. Hetzel. It was accepted, and issued in October -of the same year. M. Zola’s first book appeared under the title of -_Contes à Ninon_. This volume was very well received by the reviewers, -but ten years passed before the growing fame of its author carried it -beyond its first edition of one thousand copies. - -There is no critical impropriety in considering these early stories, -since M. Zola has never allowed them, as he has allowed several of -his subsequent novels, to pass out of print. Nor, from the point of -view of style, is there anything to be ashamed of in them. They are -written with an uncertain and an imitative, but always with a careful -hand, and some passages of natural description, if a little too -precious, are excellently modulated. What is really very curious in -the first _Contes à Ninon_ is the optimistic tone, the sentimentality, -the luscious idealism. The young man takes a cobweb for his canvas, -and paints upon it in rainbow-dew with a peacock’s feather. Except, -for a brief moment, in “Celle qui m’Aime,” there is not a phrase that -suggests the naturalism of the Rougon-Macquart novels, and it is an -amusing circumstance that, while M. Zola has not only been practising, -but very sternly and vivaciously preaching, the gospel of Realism, this -innocent volume of fairy stories should all the time have been figuring -among his works. The humble student who should turn from the master’s -criticism to find an example in his writings, and who should fall by -chance on the _Contes à Ninon_, would be liable to no small distress of -bewilderment. - - -II. - -Ten years later, in 1874, M. Zola published a second volume of short -stories, entitled _Nouveaux Contes à Ninon_. His position, his literary -character, had in the meantime undergone a profound modification. In -1874 he was no longer unknown to the public or to himself. He had -already published four of the Rougon-Macquart novels, embodying the -natural and social history of a French family during the Second Empire. -He was scandalous and famous, and already bore a great turbulent -name in literature and criticism. The _Nouveaux Contes à Ninon_, -composed at intervals during that period of stormy evolution, have the -extraordinary interest which attends the incidental work thrown off -by a great author during the early and noisy manhood of his talent. -After 1864 M. Zola had written one unsuccessful novel after another, -until at last, in _Thérèse Raquin_, with its magnificent study of -crime chastised by its own hideous after-gust, he produced a really -remarkable performance. The scene in which the paralytic mother tries -to denounce the domestic murderess was in itself enough to prove that -France possessed one novelist the more. - -This was late in 1867, when M. Zola was in his twenty-eighth year. -A phrase of Louis Ulbach’s, in reviewing _Thérèse Raquin_, which he -called “littérature putride,” is regarded as having stated the question -of Naturalism and M. Zola who had not, up to that time, had any notion -of founding a school, or even of moving in any definite direction, was -led to adopt the theories which we identify with his name during the -angry dispute with Ulbach. In 1865 he had begun to be drawn towards -Edmond and Jules de Goncourt, and to feel, as he puts it, that in the -_salons_ of the Parnassians he was growing more and more out of his -element “among so many impenitent _romantiques_.” Meanwhile he was -for ever feeding the furnaces of journalism, scorched and desiccated -by the blaze of public life, by the daily struggle for bread. He was -roughly affronting the taste of those who differed from him, with -rude hands he was thrusting out of his path the timid, the dull, the -old-fashioned. The spectacle of these years of M. Zola’s life is not -altogether a pleasant one, but it leaves on us the impression of a -colossal purpose pursued with force and courage. In 1870 the first -of the _Rougon Macquart_ novels appeared, and the author was fairly -launched on his career. He was writing books of large size, in which -he was endeavouring to tell the truth about modern life with absolute -veracity, no matter how squalid, or ugly, or venomous that truth might -be. - -But during the whole of this tempestuous decade M. Zola, in his -hot battle-field of Paris, heard the voice of Ninon calling to him -from the leafy hollows, from behind the hawthorn hedges, of his own -dewy Provence--the cool Provence of earliest flowery spring. When -he caught these accents whistling to his memory from the past, and -could no longer resist answering them, he was accustomed to write a -little _conte_, light and innocent, and brief enough to be the note -of a caged bird from indoors answering its mate in the trees of the -garden. This is the real secret of the utterly incongruous tone of the -_Nouveaux Contes_ when we compare them with the _Curée_ and _Madeleine -Férat_ of the same period. It would be utterly to misunderstand the -nature of M. Zola to complain, as Pierre Loti did the other day, that -the coarseness and cynicism of the naturalistic novel, the tone of -a ball at Belleville, could not sincerely co-exist with a love of -beauty, or with a nostalgia for youth and country pleasures. In the -short stories of the period of which we are speaking, that poet which -dies in every middle-aged man lived on for M. Zola, artificially, in a -crystal box carefully addressed “à Ninon là-bas,” a box into which, at -intervals, the master of the Realists slipped a document of the most -refined ideality. - -Of these tiny stories--there are twelve of them within one hundred -pages--not all are quite worthy of his genius. He grimaces a little too -much in “Les Epaules de la Marquise,” and M. Bourget has since analysed -the little self-indulgent _dévote_ of quality more successfully than M. -Zola did in “Le Jeûne.” But most of them are very charming. Here is “Le -Grand Michu,” a study of gallant, stupid boyhood; here “Les Paradis des -Chats,” one of the author’s rare escapes into humour. In “Le Forgeron,” -with its story of the jaded and cynical town-man, who finds health -and happiness by retiring to a lodging within the very thunders of a -village blacksmith, we have a profound criticism of life. “Le Petit -Village” is interesting to us here, because, with its pathetic picture -of Woerth in Alsace, it is the earliest of M. Zola’s studies of war. -In other of these stories the spirit of Watteau seems to inspire -the sooty Vulcan of Naturalism. He prattles of moss-grown fountains, -of alleys of wild strawberries, of rendezvous under the wings of the -larks, of moonlight strolls in the bosquets of a château. In every one, -without exception, is absent that tone of brutality which we associate -with the notion of M. Zola’s genius. All is gentle irony and pastoral -sweetness, or else downright pathetic sentiment. - -The volume of _Nouveaux Contes à Ninon_ closes with a story which is -much longer and considerably more important than the rest. “Les Quatre -Journées de Jean Gourdon” deserves to rank among the very best things -to which M. Zola has signed his name. It is a study of four typical -days in the life of a Provençal peasant of the better sort, told by -the man himself. In the first of these it is spring: Jean Gourdon is -eighteen years of age, and he steals away from the house of his uncle -Lazare, a country priest, that he may meet his coy sweetheart Babet -by the waters of the broad Durance. His uncle follows and captures -him, but the threatened sermon turns into a benediction, the priestly -malediction into an impassioned song to the blossoming springtide. -Babet and Jean receive the old man’s blessing on their betrothal. - -Next follows a day in summer, five years later; Jean, as a soldier in -the Italian war, goes through the horrors of a battle and is wounded, -but not dangerously, in the shoulder. Just as he marches into action -he receives a letter from Uncle Lazare and Babet, full of tender -fears and tremors; he reads it when he recovers consciousness after -the battle. Presently he creeps off to help his excellent colonel, -and they support one another till both are carried off to hospital. -This episode, which has something in common with the “Sevastopol” of -Tolstoi, is exceedingly ingenious in its observation of the sentiments -of a common man under fire. - -The third part of the story occurs fifteen years later. Jean and Babet -have now long been married, and Uncle Lazare, in extreme old age, has -given up his cure, and lives with them in their farm by the river. -All things have prospered with them save one. They are rich, healthy, -devoted to one another, respected by all their neighbours; but there -is a single happiness lacking--they have no child. And now, in the -high autumn splendour--when the corn and the grapes are ripe, and the -lovely Durance winds like a riband of white satin through the gold and -purple of the landscape--this gift also is to be theirs. A little son -is born to them in the midst of the vintage weather, and the old uncle, -to whom life has now no further good thing to offer, drops painlessly -from life, shaken down like a blown leaf by his access of joy, on the -evening of the birthday of the child. - -The optimistic tone has hitherto been so consistently preserved, that -we must almost resent the tragedy of the fourth day. This is eighteen -years later, and Jean is now an elderly man. His son Jacques is in -early manhood. In the midst of their felicity, on a winter’s night, -the Durance rises in spate, and all are swept away. It is impossible, -in a brief sketch, to give an impression of the charm and romantic -sweetness of this little masterpiece, a veritable hymn to the Ninon -of Provence; but it raises many curious reflections to consider that -this exquisitely pathetic pastoral, with all its gracious and tender -personages, should have been written by the master of Naturalism, the -author of _Germinal_ and of _Pot-Bouille_. - - -III. - -In 1878, M. Zola, who had long been wishing for a place whither to -escape from the roar of Paris, bought a little property on the right -bank of the Seine, between Poissy and Meulan, where he built himself -the house which he still inhabits, and which he has made so famous. -Médan, the village in which this property is placed, is a very quiet -hamlet of less than two hundred inhabitants, absolutely unillustrious, -save that, according to tradition, Charles the Bold was baptised in -the font of its parish church. The river lies before it, with its rich -meadows, its poplars, its willow groves; a delicious and somnolent -air of peace hangs over it, though so close to Paris. Thither the -master’s particular friends and disciples soon began to gather: that -enthusiastic Boswell, M. Paul Aléxis; M. Guy de Maupassant, a stalwart -oarsman, in his skiff, from Rouen; others, whose names were soon to -come prominently forward in connection with that naturalistic school of -which M. Zola was the leader. - -It was in 1880 that the little hamlet on the Poissy Road awoke to find -itself made famous by the publication of a volume which marks an epoch -in French literature, and still more in the history of the short story. -_Les Soirées de Médan_ was a manifesto by the naturalists, the most -definite and the most defiant which had up to that time been made. It -consisted of six short stories, several of which were of remarkable -excellence, and all of which awakened an amount of discussion almost -unprecedented. M. Zola came first with “L’Attaque du Moulin,” of which -a translation is here offered to the English public. The next story -was “Boule de Suif,” a veritable masterpiece in a new vein, by an -entirely new writer, a certain M. Guy de Maupassant, thirty years of -age, who had been presented to M. Zola, with warm recommendations, -by Gustave Flaubert. The other contributors were M. Henri Céard, who -also had as yet published nothing, a man who seems to have greatly -impressed all his associates, but who has done little or nothing to -justify their hopes. M. Joris Karel Huysmans, older than the rest, and -already somewhat distinguished for picturesque, malodorous novels; M. -Léon Hennique, a youth from Guadeloupe, who had attracted attention by -a very odd and powerful novel, _La Dévouée_, the story of an inventor -who murders his daughter that he may employ her fortune on perfecting -his machine; and finally, the faithful Paul Aléxis, a native, like -M. Zola himself, of Aix in Provence, and full of the perfervid -extravagance of the South. The thread on which the whole book is hung -is the supposition that these stories are brought to Médan to be read -of an evening to M. Zola, and that he leads off by telling a tale of -his own. - -Nothing need be said here, however, of the works of those disciples -who placed themselves under the flag of Médan, and little of that -story in which, with his accustomed _bonhomie_ of a good giant, M. -Zola accepted their comradeship and consented to march with them. “The -Attack on the Windmill” is here offered to those who have not already -met with it in the original, and it is for our readers to estimate its -force and truth. Whenever M. Zola writes of war, he writes seriously -and well. Like the Julien of his late reminiscences, he has never -loved war for its own sake. He has little of the mad and pompous -chivalry of the typical Frenchman in his nature. He sees war as the -disturber, the annihilator; he recognises in it mainly a destructive, -stupid, unintelligible force, set in motion by those in power for the -discomfort of ordinary beings, of workers like himself. But in the -course of three European wars--those of his childhood, of his youth, of -his maturity--he has come to see beneath the surface, and in his latest -novel, _La Débâcle_, he almost agrees with our young Jacobin poets of -one hundred years ago, that Slaughter is God’s daughter. - -In this connection, and as a commentary on “The Attack on the -Windmill,” we may commend the three short papers appended to this -story to the earnest attention of readers. Nothing on the subject has -been written more picturesque, nor, in its simple way, more poignant, -than the chain of reminiscences called “Three Wars.” Whether Louis and -Julien existed under those forms, or whether the episodes which they -illustrate are fictitious, matters little or nothing. The brothers are -natural enough, delightful enough, to belong to the world of fiction, -and if their story is, in the historical sense, true, it is one of -those rare instances in which fact is better than fancy. The crisis -under which the timid Julien, having learned the death of his spirited -martial brother, is not broken down, but merely frozen into a cold -soldierly passion, and spends the remainder of the campaign--he, the -poet, the nestler by the fireside, the timid club-man--in watching -behind hedges for Prussians to shoot or stab, is one of the most -extraordinary and most interesting that a novelist has ever tried -to describe. And the light that it throws on war as a disturber of -the moral nature, as a dynamitic force exploding in the midst of an -elaborately co-related society, is unsurpassed, even by the studies -which Count Lyof Tolstoi has made in a similar direction. It is -unsurpassed, because it is essentially without prejudice. It admits -the discomfort, the horrible vexation and shame of war, and it tears -aside the conventional purple and tinsel of it; but at the same time it -admits, not without a sigh, that even this clumsy artifice may be the -only one available for the cleansing of the people. - - -IV. - -In 1883, M. Zola published a third volume of short stories, under -the title of the opening one, _Le Capitaine Burle_. This collection -contains the delicate series of brief semi-autobiographical essays -called “Aux Champs,” little studies of past impression, touched with a -charm which is almost kindred to that of Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson’s -memories. With this exception, the volume consists of four short -stories, and of a set of little death-bed anecdotes, called “Comment -on Meurt.” This latter is hardly in the writer’s best style, and -suffers by suggesting the immeasurably finer and deeper studies of the -same kind which the genius of Tolstoi has elaborated. Of these little -sketches of death, one alone, that of Madame Rousseau, the stationer’s -wife, is quite of the best class. This is an excellent episode from the -sort of Parisian life which M. Zola seems to understand best, the lower -middle class, the small and active shopkeeper, who just contrives to -be respectable and no more. The others seem to be invented rather than -observed. - -The four stories which make up the bulk of this book are almost typical -examples of M. Zola’s mature style. They are worked out with extreme -care, they display in every turn the skill of the practised narrator, -they are solid and yet buoyant in style, and the construction of each -may be said to be faultless. It is faultless to a fault; in other -words, the error of the author is to be mechanically and inevitably -correct. It is difficult to define wherein the over-elaboration shows -itself, but in every case the close of the story leaves us sceptical -and cold. The _dénouement_ is too brilliant and conclusive, the -threads are drawn together with too much evidence of preoccupation. The -impression is not so much of a true tale told as of an extraordinary -situation frigidly written up to and accounted for. In each case a -certain social condition is described at the beginning, and a totally -opposite condition is discovered at the end of the story. We are -tempted to believe that the author determined to do this, to turn the -whole box of bricks absolutely topsy-turvy. This disregard of the soft -and supple contours of nature, this rugged air of molten metal, takes -away from the pleasure we should otherwise legitimately receive from -the exhibition of so much fancy, so much knowledge, so many proofs of -observation. - -The story which gives its name to the book, “Le Capitaine Burle” is -perhaps the best, because it has least of this air of artifice. In a -military county town, a captain, who lives with his anxious mother and -his little pallid, motherless son, sinks into vicious excesses, and -pilfers from the regiment to pay for his vices. It is a great object -with the excellent major, who discovers this condition, to save his -friend the captain in some way which will prevent an open scandal, and -leave the child free for ultimate success in the army. After trying -every method, and discovering that the moral nature of the captain -is altogether too soft and too far sunken to be redeemed, as the -inevitable hour of publicity approaches, the major insults his friend -in a café, so as to give him an opportunity of fighting a duel and -dying honourably. This is done, and the scandal is evaded, without, -however, any good being thereby secured to the family, for the little -boy dies of weakness and his grandmother starves. Still, the name of -Burle has not been dragged through the mud. - -M. Zola has rarely displayed the quality of humour, but it is present -in the story called “La Fête à Coqueville.” Coqueville is the name -given to a very remote Norman fishing-village, set in a gorge of -rocks, and almost inaccessible except from the sea. Here a sturdy -population of some hundred and eighty souls, all sprung from one or -other of two rival families, live in the condition of a tiny Verona, -torn between contending interests. A ship laden with liqueurs is -wrecked on the rocks outside, and one precious cask after another -comes riding into Coqueville over the breakers. The villagers, to -whom brandy itself has hitherto been the rarest of luxuries, spend -a glorious week of perfumed inebriety, sucking splinters that drip -with bénédictine, catching noyeau in iron cups, and supping up curaçao -from the bottom of a boat. Upon this happy shore chartreuse flows like -cider, and trappistine is drunk out of a mug. The rarest drinks of the -world--Chios mastic and Servian sliwowitz, Jamaica rum and arrack, -crême de moka and raki drip among the mackerel nets and deluge the -seaweed. In the presence of this extraordinary and fantastic bacchanal -all the disputes of the rival families are forgotten, class prejudices -are drowned, and the mayor’s rich daughter marries the poorest of -the fisher-sons of the enemy’s camp. It is very amusingly and very -picturesquely told, but spoiled a little by M. Zola’s pet sin--the -overcrowding of details, the theatrical completeness and orchestral -big-drum of the final scene. Too many barrels of liqueur come in, the -village becomes too universally drunk, the scene at last becomes too -Lydian for credence. - -In the two remaining stories of this collection--“Pour une Nuit -d’Amour” and “L’Inondation”--the fault of mechanical construction is -still more plainly obvious. Each of these narratives begins with a -carefully accentuated picture of a serene life: in the first instance, -that of a timid lad sequestered in a country town; in the second, that -of a prosperous farmer, surrounded by his family and enjoying all the -delights of material and moral success. In each case this serenity is -but the prelude to events of the most appalling tragedy--a tragedy -which does not merely strike or wound, but positively annihilates. The -story called “L’Inondation,” which describes the results of a bore on -the Garonne, would be as pathetic as it is enthralling, exciting, and -effective, if the destruction were not so absolutely complete, if the -persons so carefully enumerated at the opening of the piece were not -all of them sacrificed, and, as in the once popular song called “An -’Orrible Tale,” each by some different death of peculiar ingenuity. -As to “Pour une Nuit d’Amour,” it is not needful to do more than say -that it is one of the most repulsive productions ever published by its -author, and a vivid exception to the general innocuous character of his -short stories. - -No little interest, to the practical student of literature, attaches -to the fact that in “L’Inondation” M. Zola is really re-writing, in a -more elaborate form, the fourth section of his “Jean Gourdon.” Here, -as there, a farmer who has lived in the greatest prosperity, close to -a great river, is stripped of everything--of his house, his wealth, -and his family--by a sudden rising of the waters. It is unusual for -an author thus to re-edit a work, or tell the same tale a second time -at fuller length, but the sequences of incidents will be found to be -closely identical, although the later is by far the larger and the more -populous story. It is not uninteresting to the technical student to -compare the two pieces, the composition of which was separated by about -ten years. - - -V. - -Finally, in 1884, M. Zola published a fourth collection, named, after -the first of the series, _Naïs Micoulin_. This volume contained in -all six stories, each of considerable extent. I do not propose to -dwell at any length on the contents of this book, partly because -they belong to the finished period of naturalism, and seem more like -castaway fragments of the _Rougon-Macquart_ epos than like independent -creations, but also because they clash with the picture I have sought -to draw of an optimistic and romantic Zola returning from time to time -to the short story as a shelter from his theories. Of these tales, one -or two are trifling and passably insipid; the Parisian sketches called -“Nantas” and “Madame Neigon” have little to be said in favour of their -existence. Here M. Zola seems desirous to prove to us that he could -write as good Octave Feuillet, if he chose, as the author of _Monsieur -de Camors_ himself. In “Les Coquillages de M. Chabre,” which I confess -I read when it first appeared, and have now re-read, with amusement, -we see the heavy M. Zola endeavouring to sport as gracefully as M. de -Maupassant, and in the same style. The impression of buoyant Atlantic -seas and hollow caverns is well rendered in this most unedifying story. -“Naïs Micoulin,” which gives its name to the book, is a disagreeable -tale of seduction and revenge in Provence, narrated with the usual -ponderous conscientiousness. In each of the last mentioned the -background of landscape is so vivid that we half forgive the faults of -the narrative. - -The two remaining stories in the book are more remarkable, and one of -them, at least, is of positive value. It is curious that in “Le Mort -d’Olivier Bécaille” and “Jacques Damour” M. Zola should in the same -volume present versions of the Enoch Arden story, the now familiar -episode of the man who is supposed to be dead, and comes back to find -his wife re-married. Olivier Bécaille is a poor clerk, lately arrived -in Paris with his wife; he is in wretched health, and has always been -subject to cataleptic seizures. In one of these he falls into a state -of syncope so prolonged that they believe him to be dead, and bury him. -He manages to break out of his coffin in the cemetery, and is picked up -fainting by a philanthropic doctor. He has a long illness, at the end -of which he cannot discover what has become of his wife. After a long -search, he finds that she has married a very excellent young fellow, a -neighbour; and in the face of her happiness, Olivier Bécaille has not -the courage to disturb her. Like Tennyson’s “strong, heroic soul,” he -passes out into the silence and the darkness. - -The exceedingly powerful story called “Jacques Damour” treats the same -idea, but with far greater mastery, and in a less conventional manner. -Jacques Damour is a Parisian artisan, who becomes demoralised during -the siege, and joins the Commune. He is captured by the Versailles -army, and sentenced to penal servitude in New Caledonia, leaving a wife -and a little girl behind him in Paris. After some years, in company -with two or three other convicts, he makes an attempt to escape. He, -in fact, succeeds in escaping, with one companion, the rest being -drowned before they get out of the colony. One of the dead men being -mistaken for him, Jacques Damour is reported home deceased. When, after -credible adventures, and at the declaration of the amnesty, he returns -to Paris, his wife and daughter have disappeared. At length he finds -the former married to a prosperous butcher in the Batignolles, and he -summons up courage, egged on by a rascally friend, to go to the shop -in midday and claim his lawful wife. The successive scenes in the shop, -and the final one, in which the ruddy butcher, sure of his advantage -over this squalid and prematurely wasted ex-convict, bids Félicie take -her choice, are superb. M. Zola has done nothing more forcible or -life-like. The poor old Damour retires, but he still has a daughter to -discover. The finale of the tale is excessively unfitted for the young -person, and no serious critic could do otherwise than blame it. But, at -the same time, I am hardened enough to admit that I think it very true -to life and not a little humorous, which, I hope, is not equivalent -to a moral commendation. We may, if we like, wish that M. Zola had -never written “Jacques Damour,” but nothing can prevent it from being -a superbly constructed and supported piece of narrative, marred by -unusually few of the mechanical faults of his later work. - -Since 1884 M. Zola, more and more absorbed in the completion of his -huge central edifice, has not found time to build many arbours or -pavilions in his literary garden. No one can possibly say what such -an active and forcible talent, still in the prime of life, will or -will not do in the future. But it is very probable that the day of his -sentimental short stories is over, and that those who like the oddity -of studying a moonlight-coloured Zola are already in full possession of -the materials for so doing. - - EDMUND GOSSE. - - - - -THE ATTACK ON THE MILL - - -I. - -It was high holiday at Father Merlier’s mill on that pleasant summer -afternoon. Three tables had been brought out into the garden and placed -end to end in the shadow of the great elm, and now they were awaiting -the arrival of the guests. It was known throughout the length and -breadth of the land that that day was to witness the betrothal of old -Merlier’s daughter, Françoise, to Dominique, a young man who was said -to be not overfond of work, but whom never a woman for three leagues -of the country around could look at without sparkling eyes, such a -well-favoured young fellow was he. - -That mill of Father Merlier’s was truly a very pleasant spot. It was -situated right in the heart of Rocreuse, at the place where the main -road makes a sharp bend. The village has but a single street, bordered -on either side by a row of low, whitened cottages, but just there, -where the road curves, there are broad stretches of meadow-land, and -huge trees, which follow the course of the Morelle, cover the low -grounds of the valley with a most delicious shade. All Lorraine has no -more charming bit of nature to show. To right and left dense forests, -great monarchs of the wood, centuries old, rise from the gentle slopes -and fill the horizon with a sea of verdure, while away toward the -south extends the plain, of wondrous fertility and checkered almost to -infinity with its small inclosures, divided off from one another by -their live hedges. But what makes the crowning glory of Rocreuse is -the coolness of this verdurous nook, even in the hottest days of July -and August. The Morelle comes down from the woods of Gagny, and it -would seem as if it gathered to itself on the way all the delicious -freshness of the foliage beneath which it glides for many a league; it -brings down with it the murmuring sounds, the glacial, solemn shadows -of the forest. And that is not the only source of coolness; there -are running waters of all kinds singing among the copses; one cannot -take a step without coming on a gushing spring, and as he makes his -way along the narrow paths he seems to be treading above subterranean -lakes that seek the air and sunshine through the moss above and profit -by every smallest crevice, at the roots of trees or among the chinks -and crannies of the rocks, to burst forth in fountains of crystalline -clearness. So numerous and so loud are the whispering voices of these -streams that they silence the song of the bullfinches. It is as if one -were in an enchanted park, with cascades falling on every side. - -The meadows below are never athirst. The shadows beneath the gigantic -chestnut trees are of inky blackness, and along the edges of the -fields long rows of poplars stand like walls of rustling foliage. -There is a double avenue of huge plane trees ascending across the -fields toward the ancient castle of Gagny, now gone to rack and ruin. -In this region, where drought is never known, vegetation of all kinds -is wonderfully rank; it is like a flower garden down there in the low -ground between those two wooded hills, a natural garden, where the -lawns are broad meadows and the giant trees represent colossal beds. -When the noonday sun pours down his scorching rays the shadows lie blue -upon the ground, the glowing vegetation slumbers in the heat, while -every now and then a breath of icy coldness passes under the foliage. - -Such was the spot where Father Merlier’s mill enlivened with its -cheerful clack nature run riot. The building itself, constructed of -wood and plaster, looked as if it might be coeval with our planet. Its -foundations were in part washed by the Morelle, which here expands into -a clear pool. A dam, a few feet in height, afforded sufficient head of -water to drive the old wheel, which creaked and groaned as it revolved, -with the asthmatic wheezing of a faithful servant who has grown old in -her place. Whenever Father Merlier was advised to change it, he would -shake his head and say that like as not a young wheel would be lazier -and not so well acquainted with its duties, and then he would set to -work and patch up the old one with anything that came to hand, old -hogshead-staves, bits of rusty iron, zinc, or lead. The old wheel only -seemed the gayer for it, with its odd profile, all plumed and feathered -with tufts of moss and grass, and when the water poured over it in a -silvery tide its gaunt black skeleton was decked out with a gorgeous -display of pearls and diamonds. - -That portion of the mill which was bathed by the Morelle had something -of the look of a barbaric arch that had been dropped down there by -chance. A good half of the structure was built on piles; the water -came in under the floor, and there were deep holes, famous throughout -the whole country for the eels and the huge crawfish that were to be -caught there. Below the fall the pool was as clear as a mirror, and -when it was not clouded by foam from the wheel one could see troops of -great fish swimming about in it with the slow, majestic movements of a -squadron. There was a broken stairway leading down to the stream, near -a stake to which a boat was fastened, and over the wheel was a gallery -of wood. Such windows as there were were arranged without any attempt -at order. The whole was a quaint conglomeration of nooks and corners, -bits of wall, additions made here and there as afterthoughts, beams and -roofs, that gave the mill the aspect of an old dismantled citadel, but -ivy and all sorts of creeping plants had grown luxuriantly and kindly -covered up such crevices as were too unsightly, casting a mantle of -green over the old dwelling. Young ladies who passed that way used to -stop and sketch Father Merlier’s mill in their albums. - -The side of the house that faced the road was less irregular. A -gateway in stone afforded access to the principal courtyard, on the -right and left hand of which were sheds and stables. Beside a well -stood an immense elm that threw its shade over half the court. At -the further end, opposite the gate, stood the house, surmounted by a -dovecote, the four windows of its first floor in a symmetrical line. -The only vanity that Father Merlier ever allowed himself was to paint -this façade every ten years. It had just been freshly whitened at the -time of our story, and dazzled the eyes of all the village when the sun -lighted it up in the middle of the day. - -For twenty years had Father Merlier been mayor of Rocreuse. He was held -in great consideration on account of his fortune; he was supposed to -be worth something like eighty thousand francs, the result of patient -saving. When he married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as -her dowry, his entire capital lay in his two strong arms, but Madeleine -had never repented of her choice, so manfully had he conducted their -joint affairs. Now his wife was dead, and he was left a widower with -his daughter Françoise. Doubtless he might have sat himself down to -take his rest and suffered the old mill-wheel to sleep among its moss, -but he would have found idleness too irksome and the house would have -seemed dead to him. He kept on working still, for the pleasure of it. -In those days Father Merlier was a tall old man, with a long, silent -face, on which a laugh was never seen, but beneath which there lay, -none the less, a large fund of good-humour. He had been elected mayor -on account of his money, and also for the impressive air that he knew -how to assume when it devolved on him to marry a couple. - -Françoise Merlier had just completed her eighteenth year. She was -small, and for that reason was not accounted one of the beauties of -the country. Until she reached the age of fifteen she had been even -homely; the good folks of Rocreuse could not see how it was that the -daughter of Father and Mother Merlier, such a hale, vigorous couple, -had such a hard time of it in getting her growth. When she was fifteen, -however, though still remaining delicate, a change came over her and -she took on the prettiest little face imaginable. She had black hair, -black eyes, and was red as a rose withal; her mouth was always smiling, -there were delicious dimples in her cheeks, and a crown of sunshine -seemed to be ever resting on her fair, candid forehead. Although small -as girls went in that region, she was far from being thin; she might -not have been able to raise a sack of wheat to her shoulder, but she -became quite plump as she grew older, and gave promise of becoming -eventually as well-rounded and appetising as a partridge. Her father’s -habits of taciturnity had made her reflective while yet a young girl; -if she always had a smile on her lips it was in order to give pleasure -to others. Her natural disposition was serious. - -As was no more than to be expected, she had every young man in the -countryside at her heels as a suitor, more even for her money than -for her attractiveness, and she had made a choice at last, a choice -that had been the talk and scandal of the entire neighbourhood. On -the other side of the Morelle lived a strapping young fellow who went -by the name of Dominique Penquer. He was not to the manor born; ten -years previously he had come to Rocreuse from Belgium to receive the -inheritance of an uncle who had owned a small property on the very -borders of the forest of Gagny, just facing the mill and distant -from it only a few musket-shots. His object in coming was to sell -the property, so he said, and return to his own home again; but he -must have found the land to his liking, for he made no move to go -away. He was seen cultivating his bit of a field and gathering the -few vegetables that afforded him an existence. He fished, he hunted; -more than once he was near coming in contact with the law through the -intervention of the keepers. This independent way of living, of which -the peasants could not very clearly see the resources, had in the end -given him a bad name. He was vaguely looked on as nothing better than -a poacher. At all events he was lazy, for he was frequently found -sleeping in the grass at hours when he should have been at work. Then, -too, the hut in which he lived, in the shade of the last trees of the -forest, did not seem like the abode of an honest young man; the old -women would not have been surprised at any time to hear that he was -on friendly terms with the wolves in the ruins of Gagny. Still, the -young girls would now and then venture to stand up for him, for he -was altogether a splendid specimen of manhood, was this individual -of doubtful antecedents, tall and straight as a young poplar, with a -milk-white skin and ruddy hair and beard that seemed to be of gold -when the sun shone on them. Now one fine morning it came to pass that -Françoise told Father Merlier that she loved Dominique, and that -never, never would she consent to marry any other young man. - -It may be imagined what a knockdown blow it was that Father Merlier -received that day! As was his wont, he said never a word; his -countenance wore its usual reflective look, only the fun that used to -bubble up from within no longer shone in his eyes. Françoise, too, was -very serious, and for a week father and daughter scarcely spoke to each -other. What troubled Father Merlier was to know how that rascal of a -poacher had succeeded in bewitching his daughter. Dominique had never -shown himself at the mill. The miller played the spy a little, and was -rewarded by catching sight of the gallant, on the other side of the -Morelle, lying among the grass and pretending to be asleep. Françoise -could see him from her chamber window. The thing was clear enough; they -had been making sheep’s eyes at each other over the old mill-wheel, and -so had fallen in love. - -A week slipped by; Françoise became more and more serious. Father -Merlier still continued to say nothing. Then, one evening, of his own -accord, he brought Dominique to the house, without a word. Françoise -was just setting the table. She made no demonstration of surprise; all -she did was to add another plate, but her laugh had come back to her, -and the little dimples appeared again upon her cheeks. Father Merlier -had gone that morning to look for Dominique at his hut on the edge of -the forest, and there the two men had had a conference, with closed -doors and windows that lasted three hours. No one ever knew what they -said to each other; the only thing certain is that when Father Merlier -left the hut he already treated Dominique as a son. Doubtless the old -man had discovered that he whom he had gone to visit was a worthy young -fellow, even though he did lie in the grass to gain the love of young -girls. - -All Rocreuse was up in arms. The women gathered at their doors, and -could not find words strong enough to characterise Father Merlier’s -folly in thus receiving a ne’er-do-well into his family. He let them -talk. Perhaps he thought of his own marriage. Neither had he possessed -a penny to his name at the time he married Madeleine and her mill, -and yet that had not prevented him from being a good husband to her. -Moreover, Dominique put an end to their tittle-tattle by setting to -work in such strenuous fashion that all the countryside was amazed. It -so happened just then that the boy of the mill drew an unlucky number -and had to go for a soldier, and Dominique would not hear of their -engaging another. He lifted sacks, drove the cart, wrestled with the -old wheel when it took an obstinate fit and refused to turn, and all so -pluckily and cheerfully that people came from far and near merely for -the pleasure of seeing him. Father Merlier laughed his silent laugh. -He was highly elated that he had read the youngster aright. There is -nothing like love to hearten up young men. - -In the midst of all that laborious toil Françoise and Dominique fairly -worshipped each other. They had not much to say, but their tender -smiles conveyed a world of meaning. Father Merlier had not said a -word thus far on the subject of their marriage, and they had both -respected his silence, waiting until the old man should see fit to -give expression to his will. At last, one day along toward the middle -of July, he had had three tables laid in the courtyard, in the shade -of the big elm, and had invited his friends of Rocreuse to come that -afternoon and drink a glass of wine with him. When the courtyard was -filled with people, and every one there had a full glass in his hand, -Father Merlier raised his own high above his head, and said: - -“I have the pleasure of announcing to you that Françoise and this lad -will be married in a month from now, on Saint Louis’ fête-day.” - -Then there was a universal touching of glasses, attended by a -tremendous uproar; every one was laughing. But Father Merlier, raising -his voice above the din, again spoke: - -“Dominique, kiss your wife that is to be. It is no more than customary.” - -And they kissed, very red in the face, both of them, while the company -laughed louder still. It was a regular fête; they emptied a small -cask. Then, when only the intimate friends of the house remained, -conversation went on in a calmer strain. Night had fallen, a starlit -night, and very clear. Dominique and Françoise sat on a bench, side -by side, and said nothing. An old peasant spoke of the war that the -Emperor had declared against Prussia. All the lads of the village were -already gone off to the army. Troops had passed through the place only -the night before. There were going to be hard knocks. - -“Bah!” said Father Merlier, with the selfishness of a man who is quite -happy, “Dominique is a foreigner; he won’t have to go--and if the -Prussians come this way, he will be here to defend his wife.” - -The idea of the Prussians coming there seemed to the company an -exceedingly good joke. The army would give them one good conscientious -thrashing, and the affair would be quickly ended. - -“I have seen them before, I have seen them before,” the old peasant -repeated, in a low voice. - -There was silence for a little, then they all touched glasses once -again. Françoise and Dominique had heard nothing; they had managed to -clasp hands behind the bench in such a way as not to be seen by the -others, and this condition of affairs seemed so beatific to them that -they sat there, mute, their gaze lost in the darkness of the night. - -What a magnificent, balmy night! The village lay slumbering on either -side of the white road as peacefully as a little child. The deep -silence was undisturbed save by the occasional crow of a cock in some -distant barnyard acting on a mistaken impression that dawn was at -hand. Perfumed breaths of air, like long-drawn sighs, came down from -the great woods that lay around and above, sweeping softly over the -roofs, as if caressing them. The meadows, with their black intensity of -shadow, took on a dim, mysterious majesty of their own, while all the -springs, all the brooks and watercourses that gurgled in the darkness, -might have been taken for the cool and rhythmical breathing of the -sleeping country. Every now and then the old dozing mill-wheel seemed -to be dreaming like a watch-dog that barks uneasily in his slumber; it -creaked, it talked to itself, rocked by the fall of the Morelle, whose -current gave forth the deep, sustained music of an organ-pipe. Never -was there a more charming or happier nook, never did a deeper peace -came down to cover it. - - -II. - -One month later to a day, on the eve of the fête of Saint Louis, -Rocreuse was in a state of alarm and dismay. The Prussians had beaten -the Emperor, and were advancing on the village by forced marches. For -a week past people passing along the road had brought tidings of the -enemy: “They are at Lormières, they are at Nouvelles;” and by dint of -hearing so many stories of the rapidity of their advance, Rocreuse woke -up every morning in the full expectation of seeing them swarming down -out of Gagny wood. They did not come, however, and that only served -to make the affright the greater. They would certainly fall upon the -village in the night-time, and put every soul to the sword. - -There had been an alarm the night before, a little before daybreak. -The inhabitants had been aroused by a great noise of men tramping upon -the road. The women were already throwing themselves upon their knees -and making the sign of the cross, when some one, to whom it happily -occurred to peep through a half-opened window, caught sight of red -trousers. It was a French detachment. The captain had forthwith asked -for the mayor, and, after a long conversation with Father Merlier, had -remained at the mill. - -The sun shone bright and clear that morning, giving promise of a warm -day. There was a golden light floating over the woodland, while in -the low grounds white mists were rising from the meadows. The pretty -village, so neat and trim, awoke in the cool dawning, and the country, -with its streams and its fountains, was as gracious as a freshly -plucked bouquet. But the beauty of the day brought gladness to the face -of no one; the villagers had watched the captain, and seen him circle -round and round the old mill; examine the adjacent houses, then pass -to the other bank of the Morelle, and from thence scan the country -with a field-glass; Father Merlier, who accompanied him, appeared -to be giving explanations. After that the captain had posted some of -his men behind walls, behind trees, or in hollows. The main body of -the detachment had encamped in the courtyard of the mill. So there -was going to be a fight, then? And when Father Merlier returned, they -questioned him. He spoke no word, but slowly and sorrowfully nodded his -head. Yes, there was going to be a fight. - -Françoise and Dominique were there in the courtyard, watching him. He -finally took his pipe from his lips and gave utterance to these few -words: - -“Ah! my poor children, I shall not be able to marry you to-day!” - -Dominique, with lips tight set and an angry frown upon his forehead, -raised himself on tiptoe from time to time and stood with eyes bent on -Gagny wood, as if he would have been glad to see the Prussians appear -and end the suspense they were in. Françoise, whose face was grave and -very pale, was constantly passing back and forth, supplying the needs -of the soldiers. They were preparing their soup in a corner of the -courtyard, joking and chaffing one another while awaiting their meal. - -The captain appeared to be highly pleased. He had visited the chambers -and the great hall of the mill that looked out on the stream. Now, -seated beside the well, he was conversing with Father Merlier. - -“You have a regular fortress here,” he was saying. “We shall have no -trouble in holding it until evening. The bandits are late; they ought -to be here by this time.” - -The miller looked very grave. He saw his beloved mill going up in -flame and smoke, but uttered no word of remonstrance or complaint, -considering that it would be useless. He only opened his mouth to say: - -“You ought to take steps to hide the boat; there is a hole behind the -wheel fitted to hold it. Perhaps you may find it of use to you.” - -The captain gave an order to one of his men. This captain was a tall, -fine-looking man of about forty, with an agreeable expression of -countenance. The sight of Dominique and Françoise seemed to afford -him much pleasure; he watched them as if he had forgotten all about -the approaching conflict. He followed Françoise with his eyes as she -moved about the courtyard, and his manner showed clearly enough that he -thought her charming. Then, turning to Dominique: - -“You are not with the army, I see, my boy?” he abruptly asked. - -“I am a foreigner,” the young man replied. - -The captain did not seem particularly pleased with the answer; he -winked his eyes and smiled. Françoise was doubtless a more agreeable -companion than a musket would have been. Dominique, noticing his smile, -made haste to add: - -“I am a foreigner, but I can lodge a rifle-bullet in an apple at five -hundred yards. See, there’s my rifle, behind you.” - -“You may find use for it,” the captain dryly answered. - -Françoise had drawn near; she was trembling a little, and Dominique, -regardless of the bystanders, took and held firmly clasped in his own -the two hands that she held forth to him, as if committing herself to -his protection. The captain smiled again, but said nothing more. He -remained seated, his sword between his legs, his eyes fixed on space, -apparently lost in dreamy reverie. - -It was ten o’clock. The heat was already oppressive. A deep silence -prevailed. The soldiers had sat down in the shade of the sheds in -the courtyard and begun to eat their soup. Not a sound came from the -village, where the inhabitants had all barricaded their houses, doors -and windows. A dog, abandoned by his master, howled mournfully upon the -road. From the woods and the near-by meadows, that lay fainting in the -heat, came a long-drawn, whispering, soughing sound, produced by the -union of what wandering breaths of air there were. A cuckoo called. -Then the silence became deeper still. - -And all at once, upon that lazy, sleepy air, a shot rang out. The -captain rose quickly to his feet, the soldiers left their half-emptied -plates. In a few seconds all were at their posts; the mill was occupied -from top to bottom. And yet the captain, who had gone out through the -gate, saw nothing; to right and left the road stretched away, desolate -and blindingly white in the fierce sunshine. A second report was heard, -and still nothing to be seen, not even so much as a shadow; but just -as he was turning to re-enter he chanced to look over toward Gagny and -there beheld a little puff of smoke floating away on the tranquil air, -like thistle-down. The deep peace of the forest was apparently unbroken. - -“The rascals have occupied the wood,” the officer murmured. “They know -we are here.” - -Then the firing went on, and became more and more continuous, between -the French soldiers posted about the mill and the Prussians concealed -among the trees. The bullets whistled over the Morelle without doing -any mischief on either side. The firing was irregular; every bush -seemed to have its marksman, and nothing was to be seen save those -bluish smoke wreaths that hung for a moment on the wind before they -vanished. It lasted thus for nearly two hours. The officer hummed a -tune with a careless air. Françoise and Dominique, who had remained -in the courtyard, raised themselves to look out over a low wall. They -were more particularly interested in a little soldier who had his post -on the bank of the Morelle, behind the hull of an old boat; he would -lie face downward on the ground, watch his chance, deliver his fire, -then slip back into a ditch a few steps in his rear to reload, and his -movements were so comical, he displayed such cunning and activity, that -it was difficult for any one watching him to refrain from smiling. He -must have caught sight of a Prussian, for he rose quickly and brought -his piece to the shoulder, but before he could discharge it he uttered -a loud cry, whirled completely around in his tracks and fell backward -into the ditch, where for an instant his legs moved convulsively, just -as the claws of a fowl do when it is beheaded. The little soldier had -received a bullet directly through his heart. It was the first casualty -of the day. Françoise instinctively seized Dominique’s hand and held it -tight in a convulsive grasp. - -“Come away from there,” said the captain. “The bullets reach us here.” - -As if to confirm his words a slight, sharp sound was heard up in the -old elm, and the end of a branch came to the ground, turning over and -over as it fell, but the two young people never stirred, riveted to the -spot as they were by the interest of the spectacle. On the edge of the -wood a Prussian had suddenly emerged from behind a tree, as an actor -comes upon the stage from the wings, beating the air with his arms and -falling over upon its back. And beyond that there was no movement; the -two dead men appeared to be sleeping in the bright sunshine; there was -not a soul to be seen in the fields on which the heat lay heavy. Even -the sharp rattle of the musketry had ceased. Only the Morelle kept on -whispering to itself with its low, musical murmur. - -Father Merlier looked at the captain with an astonished air, as if to -inquire whether that were the end of it. - -“Here comes their attack,” the officer murmured. “Look out for -yourself! Don’t stand there!” - -The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a terrible discharge of -musketry ensued. The great elm was riddled, its leaves came eddying -down as thick as snowflakes. Fortunately the Prussians had aimed too -high. Dominique dragged, almost carried Françoise from the spot, while -Father Merlier followed them, shouting: - -“Get into the small cellar, the walls are thicker there.” - -But they paid no attention to him; they made their way to the main -hall, where ten or a dozen soldiers were silently waiting, watching -events outside through the chinks of the closed shutters. The captain -was left alone in the courtyard, where he sheltered himself behind the -low wall, while the furious fire was maintained uninterruptedly. The -soldiers whom he had posted outside only yielded their ground inch -by inch; they came crawling in, however, one after another, as the -enemy dislodged them from their positions. Their instructions were to -gain all the time they could, taking care not to show themselves, in -order that the Prussians might remain in ignorance of the force they -had opposed to them. Another hour passed, and as a sergeant came in, -reporting that there were now only two or three men left outside, the -officer took his watch from his pocket, murmuring: - -“Half-past two. Come, we must hold out for four hours yet.” - -He caused the great gate of the courtyard to be tightly secured, and -everything was made ready for an energetic defence. The Prussians were -on the other side of the Morelle, consequently there was no reason -to fear an assault at the moment. There was a bridge, indeed, a mile -and a quarter away, but they were probably unaware of its existence, -and it was hardly to be supposed that they would attempt to cross the -stream by fording. The officer, therefore, simply caused the road to -be watched; the attack, when it came, was to be looked for from the -direction of the fields. - -The firing had ceased again. The mill appeared to lie there in the -sunlight, void of all life. Not a shutter was open, not a sound came -from within. Gradually, however, the Prussians began to show themselves -at the edge of Gagny wood. Heads were protruded here and there; they -seemed to be mustering up their courage. Several of the soldiers -within the mill brought up their pieces to an aim, but the captain -shouted: - -“No, no; not yet; wait. Let them come nearer.” - -They displayed a great deal of prudence in their advance, looking at -the mill with a distrustful air; they seemed hardly to know what to -make of the old structure, so lifeless and gloomy, with its curtain of -ivy. Still they kept on advancing. When there were fifty of them or so -in the open, directly opposite, the officer uttered one word: - -“Now!” - -A crashing, tearing discharge burst from the position, succeeded by an -irregular, dropping fire. Françoise, trembling violently, involuntarily -raised her hands to her ears. Dominique, from his position behind the -soldiers, peered out upon the field, and when the smoke drifted away a -little, counted three Prussians extended on their backs in the middle -of the meadow. The others had sought shelter among the willows and the -poplars. And then commenced the siege. - -For more than an hour the mill was riddled with bullets; they beat and -rattled on its old walls like hail. The noise they made was plainly -audible as they struck the stonework, were flattened, and fell back -into the water; they buried themselves in the woodwork with a dull -thud. Occasionally a creaking sound would announce that the wheel had -been hit. Within the building the soldiers husbanded their ammunition, -firing only when they could see something to aim at. The captain kept -consulting his watch every few minutes, and as a ball split one of the -shutters in halves and then lodged in the ceiling: - -“Four o’clock,” he murmured. “We shall never be able to hold the -position.” - -The old mill, in truth, was gradually going to pieces beneath that -terrific fire. A shutter that had been perforated again and again, -until it looked like a piece of lace, fell off its hinges into the -water, and had to be replaced by a mattress. Every moment, almost, -Father Merlier exposed himself to the fire in order to take account -of the damage sustained by his poor wheel, every wound of which was -like a bullet in his own heart. Its period of usefulness was ended -this time for certain; he would never be able to patch it up again. -Dominique had besought Françoise to retire to a place of safety, but -she was determined to remain with him; she had taken a seat behind a -great oaken clothes-press, which afforded her protection. A ball struck -the press, however, the sides of which gave out a dull, hollow sound, -whereupon Dominique stationed himself in front of Françoise. He had as -yet taken no part in the firing, although he had his rifle in his hand; -the soldiers occupied the whole breadth of the windows, so that he -could not get near them. At every discharge the floor trembled. - -“Look out! look out!” the captain suddenly shouted. - -He had just descried a dark mass emerging from the wood. As soon as -they gained the open they set up a telling platoon fire. It struck -the mill like a tornado. Another shutter parted company, and the -bullets came whistling in through the yawning aperture. Two soldiers -rolled upon the floor; one lay where he fell and never moved a limb; -his comrades pushed him up against the wall because he was in their -way. The other writhed and twisted, beseeching some one to end his -agony, but no one had ears for the poor wretch; the bullets were still -pouring in, and every one was looking out for himself and searching for -a loophole whence he might answer the enemy’s fire. A third soldier -was wounded; that one said not a word, but with staring, haggard eyes -sank down beneath a table. Françoise, horror-stricken by the dreadful -spectacle of the dead and dying men, mechanically pushed away her chair -and seated herself on the floor, against the wall; it seemed to her -that she would be smaller there and less exposed. In the meantime men -had gone and secured all the mattresses in the house; the opening of -the window was partially closed again. The hall was filled with débris -of every description, broken weapons, dislocated furniture. - -“Five o’clock,” said the captain. “Stand fast, boys. They are going to -make an attempt to pass the stream.” - -Just then Françoise gave a shriek. A bullet had struck the floor, and, -rebounding, grazed her forehead on the ricochet. A few drops of blood -appeared. Dominique looked at her, then went to the window and fired -his first shot, and from that time kept on firing uninterruptedly. -He kept on loading and discharging his piece mechanically, paying -no attention to what was passing at his side, only pausing from -time to time to cast a look at Françoise. He did not fire hurriedly -or at random, moreover, but took deliberate aim. As the captain -had predicted, the Prussians were skirting the belt of poplars and -attempting the passage of the Morelle, but each time that one of -them showed himself he fell with one of Dominique’s bullets in his -brain. The captain, who was watching the performance, was amazed; he -complimented the young man, telling him that he would like to have many -more marksmen of his skill. Dominique did not hear a word he said. A -ball struck him in the shoulder, another raised a contusion on his arm. -And still he kept on firing. - -There were two more deaths. The mattresses were torn to shreds and no -longer availed to stop the windows. The last volley that was poured in -seemed as if it would carry away the mill bodily, so fierce it was. The -position was no longer tenable. Still, the officer kept repeating: - -“Stand fast. Another half-hour yet.” - -He was counting the minutes, one by one, now. He had promised his -commanders that he would hold the enemy there until nightfall, and he -would not budge a hair’s-breadth before the moment that he had fixed -on for his withdrawal. He maintained his pleasant air of good-humour, -smiling at Françoise by way of reassuring her. He had picked up the -musket of one of the dead soldiers and was firing away with the rest. - -There were but four soldiers left in the room. The Prussians were -showing themselves _en masse_ on the other bank of the Morelle, and it -was evident that they might now pass the stream at any moment. A few -moments more elapsed; the captain was as determined as ever, and would -not give the order to retreat, when a sergeant came running into the -room, saying: - -“They are on the road; they are going to take us in rear.” - -The Prussians must have discovered the bridge. The captain drew out his -watch again. - -“Five minutes more,” he said. “They won’t be here within five minutes.” - -Then exactly at six o’clock he at last withdrew his men through a -little postern that opened on a narrow lane, whence they threw -themselves into the ditch, and in that way reached the forest of -Sauval. The captain took leave of Father Merlier with much politeness, -apologising profusely for the trouble he had caused. He even added: - -“Try to keep them occupied for a while. We shall return.” - -While this was occurring Dominique had remained alone in the hall. He -was still firing away, hearing nothing, conscious of nothing; his sole -thought was to defend Françoise. The soldiers were all gone, and he had -not the remotest idea of the fact; he aimed and brought down his man -at every shot. All at once there was a great tumult. The Prussians had -entered the courtyard from the rear. He fired his last shot, and they -fell upon him with his weapon still smoking in his hand. - -It required four men to hold him; the rest of them swarmed about him, -vociferating like madmen in their horrible dialect. Françoise rushed -forward to intercede with her prayers. They were on the point of -killing him on the spot, but an officer came in and made them turn the -prisoner over to him. After exchanging a few words in German with his -men he turned to Dominique and said to him roughly, in very good French: - -“You will be shot in two hours from now.” - - -III. - -It was the standing regulation, laid down by the German staff, that -every Frenchman, not belonging to the regular army, taken with arms -in his hands, should be shot. Even the _compagnies franches_ were not -recognised as belligerents. It was the intention of the Germans, in -making such terrible examples of the peasants who attempted to defend -their firesides, to prevent a rising _en masse_, which they greatly -dreaded. - -The officer, a tall, spare man about fifty years old, subjected -Dominique to a brief examination. Although he spoke French fluently, -he was unmistakably Prussian in the stiffness of his manner. - -“You are a native of this country?” - -“No, I am a Belgian.” - -“Why did you take up arms? These are matters with which you have no -concern.” - -Dominique made no reply. At this moment the officer caught sight of -Françoise where she stood listening, very pale; her slight wound had -marked her white forehead with a streak of red. He looked from one to -the other of the young people and appeared to understand the situation; -he merely added: - -“You do not deny having fired on my men?” - -“I fired as long as I was able to do so,” Dominique quietly replied. - -The admission was scarcely necessary, for he was black with powder, wet -with sweat, and the blood from the wound in his shoulder had trickled -down and stained his clothing. - -“Very well,” the officer repeated. “You will be shot two hours hence.” - -Françoise uttered no cry. She clasped her hands and raised them above -her head in a gesture of mute despair. Her action was not lost upon the -officer. Two soldiers had led Dominique away to an adjacent room, where -their orders were to guard him and not lose sight of him. The girl -had sunk upon a chair; her strength had failed her, her legs refused -to support her; she was denied the relief of tears, it seemed as if -her emotion was strangling her. The officer continued to examine her -attentively, and finally addressed her: - -“Is that young man your brother?” he inquired. - -She shook her head in negation. He was as rigid and unbending as ever, -without the suspicion of a smile on his face. Then, after an interval -of silence, he spoke again: - -“Has he been living in the neighbourhood long?” - -She answered yes, by another motion of the head. - -“Then he must be well acquainted with the woods about here?” - -This time she made a verbal answer. “Yes, sir,” she said, looking at -him with some astonishment. - -He said nothing more, but turned on his heel, requesting that the mayor -of the village should be brought before him. But Françoise had risen -from her chair, a faint tinge of colour on her cheeks, believing that -she had caught the significance of his questions, and with renewed hope -she ran off to look for her father. - -As soon as the firing had ceased Father Merlier had hurriedly descended -by the wooden gallery to have a look at his wheel. He adored his -daughter and had a strong feeling of affection for Dominique, his -son-in-law who was to be; but his wheel also occupied a large space in -his heart. Now that the two little ones, as he called them, had come -safe and sound out of the fray, he thought of his other love, which -must have suffered sorely, poor thing, and bending over the great -wooden skeleton he was scrutinising its wounds with a heart-broken air. -Five of the buckets were reduced to splinters, the central framework -was honeycombed. He was thrusting his fingers into the cavities that -the bullets had made to see how deep they were, and reflecting how he -was ever to repair all that damage. When Françoise found him he was -already plugging up the crevices with moss and such débris as he could -lay hands on. - -“They are asking for you, father,” said she. - -And at last she wept as she told him what she had just heard. Father -Merlier shook his head. It was not customary to shoot people like that. -He would have to look into the matter. And he re-entered the mill -with his usual placid, silent air. When the officer made his demand -for supplies for his men, he answered that the people of Rocreuse -were not accustomed to be ridden roughshod, and that nothing would -be obtained from them through violence; he was willing to assume all -the responsibility, but only on condition that he was allowed to act -independently. The officer at first appeared to take umbrage at this -easy way of viewing matters, but finally gave way before the old man’s -brief and distinct representations. As the latter was leaving the room -the other recalled him to ask: - -“Those woods there, opposite, what do you call them?” - -“The woods of Sauval.” - -“And how far do they extend?” - -The miller looked him straight in the face. “I do not know,” he replied. - -And he withdrew. An hour later the subvention in money and provisions -that the officer had demanded was in the courtyard of the mill. Night -was closing in; Françoise followed every movement of the soldiers with -an anxious eye. She never once left the vicinity of the room in which -Dominique was imprisoned. About seven o’clock she had a harrowing -emotion; she saw the officer enter the prisoner’s apartment, and for -a quarter of an hour heard their voices raised in violent discussion. -The officer came to the door for a moment and gave an order in German -which she did not understand, but when twelve men came and formed in -the courtyard with shouldered muskets, she was seized with a fit of -trembling and felt as if she should die. It was all over, then; the -execution was about to take place. The twelve men remained there ten -minutes; Dominique’s voice kept rising higher and higher in a tone of -vehement denial. Finally the officer came out, closing the door behind -him with a vicious bang and saying: - -“Very well; think it over. I give you until to-morrow morning.” - -And he ordered the twelve men to break ranks by a motion of his hand. -Françoise was stupefied. Father Merlier, who had continued to puff away -at his pipe while watching the platoon with a simple, curious air, came -and took her by the arm with fatherly gentleness. He led her to her -chamber. - -“Don’t fret,” he said to her; “try to get some sleep. To-morrow it will -be light and we shall see more clearly.” - -He locked the door behind him as he left the room. It was a fixed -principle with him that women are good for nothing, and that they spoil -everything whenever they meddle in important matters. Françoise did -not lie down, however; she remained a long time seated on her bed, -listening to the various noises in the house. The German soldiers -quartered in the courtyard were singing and laughing; they must have -kept up their eating and drinking until eleven o’clock, for the riot -never ceased for an instant. Heavy footsteps resounded from time to -time through the mill itself, doubtless the tramp of the guards as they -were relieved. What had most interest for her was the sounds that she -could catch in the room that lay directly under her own; several times -she threw herself prone upon the floor and applied her ear to the -boards. That room was the one in which they had locked up Dominique. -He must have been pacing the apartment, for she could hear for a long -time his regular, cadenced tread passing from the wall to the window -and back again; then there was a deep silence; doubtless he had seated -himself. The other sounds ceased too; everything was still. When it -seemed to her that the house was sunk in slumber she raised her window -as noiselessly as possible and leaned out. - -Without, the night was serene and balmy. The slender crescent of the -moon, which was just setting behind Sauval wood, cast a dim radiance -over the landscape. The lengthening shadows of the great trees -stretched far athwart the fields in bands of blackness, while in such -spots as were unobscured the grass appeared of a tender green, soft as -velvet. But Françoise did not stop to consider the mysterious charm of -night. She was scrutinising the country and looking to see where the -Germans had posted their sentinels. She could clearly distinguish their -dark forms outlined along the course of the Morelle. There was only one -stationed opposite the mill, on the far bank of the stream, by a willow -whose branches dipped in the water--Françoise had an excellent view -of him; he was a tall young man, standing quite motionless with face -upturned toward the sky, with the meditative air of a shepherd. - -When she had completed her careful inspection of localities she -returned and took her former seat upon the bed. She remained there an -hour, absorbed in deep thought. Then she listened again; there was -not a breath to be heard in the house. She went again to the window -and took another look outside, but one of the moon’s horns was still -hanging above the edge of the forest, and this circumstance doubtless -appeared to her unpropitious, for she resumed her waiting. At last -the moment seemed to have arrived; the night was now quite dark; she -could no longer discern the sentinel opposite her, the landscape lay -before her black as a sea of ink. She listened intently for a moment, -then formed her resolve. Close beside her window was an iron ladder -made of bars set in the wall, which ascended from the mill-wheel to the -granary at the top of the building, and had formerly served the miller -as a means of inspecting certain portions of the gearing, but a change -having been made in the machinery the ladder had long since become lost -to sight beneath the thick ivy that covered all that side of the mill. - -Françoise bravely climbed over the balustrade of the little balcony in -front of her window, grasped one of the iron bars and found herself -suspended in space. She commenced the descent; her skirts were a great -hindrance to her. Suddenly a stone became loosened from the wall, and -fell into the Morelle with a loud splash. She stopped, benumbed with -fear, but reflection quickly told her that the waterfall, with its -continuous roar, was sufficient to deaden any noise that she could -make, and then she descended more boldly, putting aside the ivy with -her foot, testing each round of her ladder. When she was on a level -with the room that had been converted into a prison for her lover she -stopped. An unforeseen difficulty came near depriving her of all her -courage; the window of the room beneath was not situated directly under -the window of her bedroom; there was a wide space between it and the -ladder, and when she extended her hand it only encountered the naked -wall. - -Would she have to go back the way she came and leave her project -unaccomplished? Her arms were growing very tired; the murmuring of -the Morelle, far down below, was beginning to make her dizzy. Then -she broke off bits of plaster from the wall and threw them against -Dominique’s window. He did not hear; perhaps he was asleep. Again she -crumbled fragments from the wall, until the skin was peeled from her -fingers. Her strength was exhausted; she felt that she was about to -fall backward into the stream, when at last Dominique softly raised -his sash. - -“It is I,” she murmured. “Take me quick; I am about to fall.” Leaning -from the window he grasped her and drew her into the room, where she -had a paroxysm of weeping, stifling her sobs in order that she might -not be heard. Then, by a supreme effort of the will she overcame her -emotion. - -“Are you guarded?” she asked in a low voice. - -Dominique, not yet recovered from his stupefaction at seeing her there, -made answer by simply pointing toward his door. There was a sound of -snoring audible on the outside; it was evident that the sentinel had -been overpowered by sleep and had thrown himself upon the floor close -against the door in such a way that it could not be opened without -arousing him. - -“You must fly,” she continued earnestly. “I came here to bid you fly -and say farewell.” - -But he seemed not to hear her. He kept repeating: - -“What, is it you, is it you? Oh, what a fright you gave me! You might -have killed yourself.” He took her hands, he kissed them again and -again. “How I love you, Françoise! You are as courageous as you are -good. The only thing I feared was that I might die without seeing you -again; but you are here, and now they may shoot me when they will. Let -me but have a quarter of an hour with you and I am ready.” - -He had gradually drawn her to him; her head was resting on his -shoulder. The peril that was so near at hand brought them closer to -each other, and they forgot everything in that long embrace. - -“Ah, Françoise!” Dominique went on in low, caressing tones, “to-day is -the fête of Saint Louis, our wedding-day, that we have been waiting -for so long. Nothing has been able to keep us apart, for we are both -here, faithful to our appointment, are we not? It is now our wedding -morning.” - -“Yes, yes,” she repeated after him, “our wedding morning.” - -They shuddered as they exchanged a kiss. But suddenly she tore herself -from his arms; the terrible reality arose before her eyes. - -“You must fly, you must fly,” she murmured breathlessly. “There is not -a moment to lose.” And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness to -draw her to him again, she went on in tender, beseeching tones: “Oh! -listen to me, I entreat you. If you die, I shall die. In an hour it -will be daylight. Go, go at once; I command you to go.” - -Then she rapidly explained her plan to him. The iron ladder extended -downward to the wheel; once he had got so far he could climb down by -means of the buckets and get into the boat, which was hidden in a -recess. Then it would be an easy matter for him to reach the other bank -of the stream and make his escape. - -“But are there no sentinels?” said he. - -“Only one, directly opposite here, at the foot of the first willow.” - -“And if he sees me, if he gives the alarm?” - -Françoise shuddered. She placed in his hand a knife that she had -brought down with her. They were silent. - -“And your father--and you?” Dominique continued. “But no, it is not to -be thought of; I must not fly. When I am no longer here those soldiers -are capable of murdering you. You do not know them. They offered to -spare my life if I would guide them into Sauval forest. When they -discover that I have escaped, their fury will be such that they will be -ready for every atrocity.” - -The girl did not stop to argue the question. To all the considerations -that he adduced her one simple answer was: “Fly. For the love of me, -fly. If you love me, Dominique, do not linger here a single moment -longer.” - -She promised that she would return to her bedroom; no one should know -that she had helped him. She concluded by folding him in her arms and -smothering him with kisses, in an extravagant outburst of passion. He -was vanquished. He put only one more question to her: - -“Will you swear to me that your father knows what you are doing, and -that he counsels my flight?” - -“It was my father who sent me to you,” Françoise unhesitatingly replied. - -She told a falsehood. At that moment she had but one great, -overmastering longing, to know that he was in safety, to escape from -the horrible thought that the morning’s sun was to be the signal for -his death. When he should be far away, then calamity and evil might -burst upon her head; whatever fate might be in store for her would seem -endurable, so that only his life might be spared. Before and above all -other considerations, the selfishness of her love demanded that he -should be saved. - -“It is well,” said Dominique; “I will do as you desire.” - -No further word was spoken. Dominique went to the window to raise it -again. But suddenly there was a noise that chilled them with affright. -The door was shaken violently; they thought that some one was about -to open it; it was evidently a party going the rounds who had heard -their voices. They stood by the window, close locked in each other’s -arms, awaiting the event with anguish unspeakable. Again there came -the rattling at the door, but it did not open. Each of them drew a -deep sigh of relief; they saw how it was. The soldier lying across the -threshold had turned over in his sleep. Silence was restored indeed, -and presently the snoring began again. - -Dominique insisted that Françoise should return to her room first of -all. He took her in his arms, he bade her a silent farewell, then -helped her to grasp the ladder, and himself climbed out on it in turn. -He refused to descend a single step, however, until he knew that she -was in her chamber. When she was safe in her room she let fall, in a -voice scarce louder than a whisper, the words: - -“_Au revoir._ I love you!” - -She kneeled at the window, resting her elbows on the sill, straining -her eyes to follow Dominique. The night was still very dark. She looked -for the sentinel, but could see nothing of him; the willow alone was -dimly visible, a pale spot upon the surrounding blackness. For a moment -she heard the rustling of the ivy as Dominique descended, then the -wheel creaked, and there was a faint plash which told that the young -man had found the boat. This was confirmed when, a minute later, she -descried the shadowy outline of the skiff on the grey bosom of the -Morelle. Then a horrible feeling of dread seemed to clutch her by the -throat. Every moment she thought she heard the sentry give the alarm; -every faintest sound among the dusky shadows seemed to her overwrought -imagination to be the hurrying tread of soldiers, the clash of steel, -the click of musket-locks. The seconds slipped by, however, the -landscape still preserved its solemn peace. Dominique must have landed -safely on the other bank. Françoise no longer had eyes for anything. -The silence was oppressive. And she heard the sound of trampling feet, -a hoarse cry, the dull thud of a heavy body falling. This was followed -by another silence, even deeper than that which had gone before. Then, -as if conscious that Death had passed that way, she became very cold in -presence of the impenetrable night. - - -IV. - -At early daybreak the repose of the mill was disturbed by the clamour -of angry voices. Father Merlier had gone and unlocked Françoise’s door. -She descended to the courtyard, pale and very calm, but when there, -could not repress a shudder upon being brought face to face with the -body of a Prussian soldier that lay on the ground beside the well, -stretched out upon a cloak. - -Around the corpse soldiers were shouting and gesticulating angrily. -Several of them shook their fists threateningly in the direction of -the village. The officer had just sent a summons to Father Merlier to -appear before him in his capacity as mayor of the commune. - -“Here is one of our men,” he said, in a voice that was almost -unintelligible from anger, “who was found murdered on the bank of the -stream. The murderer must be found, so that we may make a salutary -example of him, and I shall expect you to co-operate with us in finding -him.” - -“Whatever you desire,” the miller replied, with his customary -impassiveness. “Only it will be no easy matter.” - -The officer stooped down and drew aside the skirt of the cloak which -concealed the dead man’s face, disclosing as he did so a frightful -wound. The sentinel had been struck in the throat and the weapon had -not been withdrawn from the wound. It was a common kitchen-knife, with -a black handle. - -“Look at that knife,” the officer said to Father Merlier. “Perhaps it -will assist us in our investigation.” - -The old man had started violently, but recovered himself at once; not a -muscle of his face moved as he replied: - -“Every one about here has knives like that. Like enough your man was -tired of fighting and did the business himself. Such things have -happened before now.” - -“Be silent!” the officer shouted in a fury. “I don’t know what it is -that keeps me from setting fire to the four corners of your village.” - -His anger fortunately kept him from noticing the great change that had -come over Françoise’s countenance. Her feelings had compelled her to -sit down upon the stone bench beside the well. Do what she would she -could not remove her eyes from the body that lay stretched upon the -ground, almost at her feet. He had been a tall, handsome young man in -life, very like Dominique in appearance, with blue eyes and yellow -hair. The resemblance went to her heart. She thought that perhaps the -dead man had left behind him in his German home some sweetheart who -would weep for his loss. And she recognised her knife in the dead man’s -throat. She had killed him. - -The officer, meantime, was talking of visiting Rocreuse with some -terrible punishment, when two or three soldiers came running in. The -guard had just that moment ascertained the fact of Dominique’s escape. -The agitation caused by the tidings was extreme. The officer went -to inspect the locality, looked out through the still open window, -saw at once how the event had happened, and returned in a state of -exasperation. - -Father Merlier appeared greatly vexed by Dominique’s flight. “The -idiot!” he murmured; “he has upset everything.” - -Françoise heard him, and was in an agony of suffering. Her father, -moreover, had no suspicion of her complicity. He shook his head, saying -to her in an undertone: - -“We are in a nice box, now!” - -“It was that scoundrel! it was that scoundrel!” cried the officer. “He -has got away to the woods; but he must be found, or the village shall -stand the consequences.” And addressing himself to the miller: “Come, -you must know where he is hiding?” - -Father Merlier laughed in his silent way, and pointed to the wide -stretch of wooded hills. - -“How can you expect to find a man in that wilderness?” he asked. - -“Oh! there are plenty of hiding-places that you are acquainted with. I -am going to give you ten men; you shall act as guide to them.” - -“I am perfectly willing. But it will take a week to beat up all the -woods of the neighbourhood.” - -The old man’s serenity enraged the officer; he saw, indeed, what a -ridiculous proceeding such a hunt would be. It was at that moment that -he caught sight of Françoise where she sat, pale and trembling, on her -bench. His attention was aroused by the girl’s anxious attitude. He was -silent for a moment, glancing suspiciously from father to daughter and -back again. - -“Is not that man,” he at last coarsely asked the old man, “your -daughter’s lover?” - -Father Merlier’s face became ashy pale, and he appeared for a moment -as if about to throw himself on the officer and throttle him. He -straightened himself up and made no reply. Françoise had hidden her -face in her hands. - -“Yes, that is how it is,” the Prussian continued; “you or your daughter -have helped him to escape. You are his accomplices. For the last time, -will you surrender him?” - -The miller did not answer. He had turned away and was looking at the -distant landscape with an air of indifference, just as if the officer -were talking to some other person. That put the finishing touch to the -latter’s wrath. - -“Very well, then!” he declared, “you shall be shot in his stead.” - -And again he ordered out the firing-party. Father Merlier was as -imperturbable as ever. He scarcely did so much as shrug his shoulders; -the whole drama appeared to him to be in very doubtful taste. He -probably believed that they would not take a man’s life in that -unceremonious manner. When the platoon was on the ground he gravely -said: - -“So, then, you are in earnest? Very well, I am willing it should be so. -If you feel you must have a victim, it may as well be I as another.” - -But Françoise arose, greatly troubled, stammering: “Have mercy, sir; -do not harm my father. Kill me instead of him. It was I who helped -Dominique to escape; I am the only guilty one.” - -“Hold your tongue, my girl,” Father Merlier exclaimed. “Why do you tell -such a falsehood? She passed the night locked in her room, sir; I -assure you that she does not speak the truth.” - -“I _am_ speaking the truth,” the girl eagerly replied. “I got down by -the window; I incited Dominique to fly. It is the truth, the whole -truth.” - -The old man’s face was very white. He could read in her eyes that she -was not lying, and her story terrified him. Ah, those children! those -children! how they spoiled everything, with their hearts and their -feelings! Then he said angrily: - -“She is crazy; do not listen to her. It is a lot of trash she is -telling you. Come, let us get through with this business.” - -She persisted in her protestations; she kneeled, she raised her clasped -hands in supplication. The officer stood tranquilly by and watched the -harrowing scene. - -“_Mon Dieu!_” he said at last, “I take your father because the other -has escaped me. Bring me back the other man, and your father shall -have his liberty.” - -She looked at him for a moment with eyes dilated by the horror which -his proposal inspired in her. - -“It is dreadful,” she murmured. “Where can I look for Dominique now? He -is gone; I know nothing beyond that.” - -“Well, make your choice between them; him or your father.” - -“Oh, my God! how can I choose? Even if I knew where to find Dominique -I could not choose. You are breaking my heart. I would rather die at -once. Yes, it would be more quickly ended thus. Kill me, I beseech you, -kill me----” - -The officer finally became weary of this scene of despair and tears. He -cried: - -“Enough of this! I wish to treat you kindly; I will give you two hours. -If your lover is not here within two hours, your father shall pay the -penalty that he has incurred.” - -And he ordered Father Merlier away to the room that had served as a -prison for Dominique. The old man asked for tobacco, and began to -smoke. There was no trace of emotion to be descried on his impassive -face. Only when he was alone he wept two big tears that coursed slowly -down his cheeks. His poor, dear child, what a fearful trial she was -enduring! - -Françoise remained in the courtyard. Prussian soldiers passed back and -forth, laughing. Some of them addressed her with coarse pleasantries -which she did not understand. Her gaze was bent upon the door through -which her father had disappeared, and with a slow movement she raised -her hand to her forehead, as if to keep it from bursting. The officer -turned sharply on his heel, and said to her: - -“You have two hours. Try to make good use of them.” - -She had two hours. The words kept buzzing, buzzing in her ears. Then -she went forth mechanically from the courtyard; she walked straight -ahead with no definite end. Where was she to go? what was she to do? -She did not even endeavour to arrive at any decision, for she felt -how utterly useless were her efforts. And yet she would have liked to -see Dominique; they could have come to some understanding together, -perhaps they might have hit on some plan to extricate them from their -difficulties. And so, amid the confusion of her whirling thoughts, she -took her way downward to the bank of the Morelle, which she crossed -below the dam by means of some stepping-stones which were there. -Proceeding onward, still involuntarily, she came to the first willow, -at the corner of the meadow, and stooping down, beheld a sight that -made her grow deathly pale--a pool of blood. It was the spot. And she -followed the track that Dominique had left in the tall grass; it was -evident that he had run, for the footsteps that crossed the meadow in a -diagonal line were separated from one another by wide intervals. Then, -beyond that point, she lost the trace, but thought she had discovered -it again in an adjoining field. It led her onward to the border of the -forest, where the trail came abruptly to an end. - -Though conscious of the futility of the proceeding, Françoise -penetrated into the wood. It was a comfort to her to be alone. She sat -down for a moment, then, reflecting that time was passing, rose again -to her feet. How long was it since she left the mill? Five minutes, -or a half-hour? She had lost all idea of time. Perhaps Dominique had -sought concealment in a clearing that she knew of, where they had gone -together one afternoon and eaten hazelnuts. She directed her steps -toward the clearing; she searched it thoroughly. A blackbird flew out, -whistling his sweet and melancholy note; that was all. Then she thought -that he might have taken refuge in a hollow among the rocks where he -went sometimes with his gun, but the spot was untenanted. What use -was there in looking for him? She would never find him, and little -by little the desire to discover his hiding-place became a passionate -longing. She proceeded at a more rapid pace. The idea suddenly took -possession of her that he had climbed into a tree, and thenceforth she -went along with eyes raised aloft and called him by name every fifteen -or twenty steps, so that he might know she was near him. The cuckoos -answered her; a breath of air that rustled the leaves made her think -that he was there and was coming down to her. Once she even imagined -that she saw him; she stopped with a sense of suffocation, with a -desire to run away. What was she to say to him? Had she come there to -take him back with her and have him shot? Oh! no, she would not mention -those things; she would tell him that he must fly, that he must not -remain in the neighbourhood. Then she thought of her father awaiting -her return, and the reflection caused her most bitter anguish. She sank -upon the turf, weeping hot tears, crying aloud: - -“My God! My God! why am I here!” - -It was a mad thing for her to have come. And as if seized with sudden -panic, she ran hither and thither, she sought to make her way out of -the forest. Three times she lost her way, and had begun to think she -was never to see the mill again, when she came out into a meadow, -directly opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of the village -she stopped. Was she going to return alone? - -She was standing there when she heard a voice calling her by name, -softly: - -“Françoise! Françoise!” - -And she beheld Dominique raising his head above the edge of a ditch. -Just God! she had found him. - -Could it be, then, that Heaven willed his death? She suppressed a cry -that rose to her lips, and slipped into the ditch beside him. - -“You were looking for me?” he asked. - -“Yes,” she replied bewilderedly, scarce knowing what she was saying. - -“Ah! what has happened?” - -She stammered, with eyes downcast: “Why, nothing; I was anxious, I -wanted to see you.” - -Thereupon, his fears alleviated, he went on to tell her how it was -that he had remained in the vicinity. He was alarmed for them. Those -rascally Prussians were not above wreaking their vengeance on women and -old men. All had ended well, however, and he added, laughing: - -“The wedding will be put off for a week, that’s all.” - -He became serious, however, upon noticing that her dejection did not -pass away. - -“But what is the matter? You are concealing something from me.” - -“No, I give you my word I am not. I am tired; I ran all the way here.” - -He kissed her, saying it was imprudent for them both to talk there any -longer, and was about to climb out of the ditch in order to return to -the forest. She stopped him; she was trembling violently. - -“Listen, Dominique; perhaps it will be as well for you to stay here, -after all. There is no one looking for you; you have nothing to fear.” - -“Françoise, you are concealing something from me,” he said again. - -Again she protested that she was concealing nothing. She only liked -to know that he was near her. And there were other reasons still -that she gave in stammering accents. Her manner was so strange that -no consideration could now have induced him to go away. He believed, -moreover, that the French would return presently. Troops had been seen -over toward Sauval. - -“Ah! let them make haste; let them come as quickly as possible,” she -murmured fervently. - -At that moment the clock of the church at Rocreuse struck eleven; the -strokes reached them, clear and distinct. She arose in terror; it was -two hours since she had left the mill. - -“Listen,” she said, with feverish rapidity, “should we need you, I -will go up to my room and wave my handkerchief from the window.” - -And she started off homeward on a run, while Dominique, greatly -disturbed in mind, stretched himself at length beside the ditch to -watch the mill. Just as she was about to enter the village Françoise -encountered an old beggar man, Father Bontemps, who knew every one and -everything in that part of the country. He saluted her; he had just -seen the miller, he said, surrounded by a crowd of Prussians; then, -making numerous signs of the Cross and mumbling some inarticulate -words, he went his way. - -“The two hours are up,” the officer said when Françoise made her -appearance. - -Father Merlier was there, seated on the bench beside the well. He was -smoking still. The young girl again proffered her supplication kneeling -before the officer and weeping. Her wish was to gain time. The hope -that she might yet behold the return of the French had been gaining -strength in her bosom, and amid her tears and sobs she thought she -could distinguish in the distance the cadenced tramp of an advancing -army. Oh! if they would but come and deliver them all from their -fearful trouble! - -“Hear me, sir: grant us an hour, just one little hour. Surely you will -not refuse to grant us an hour!” - -But the officer was inflexible. He even ordered two men to lay hold of -her and take her away, in order that they might proceed undisturbed -with the execution of the old man. Then a dreadful conflict took place -in Françoise’s heart. She could not allow her father to be murdered in -that manner; no, no, she would die in company with Dominique rather; -and she was just darting away in the direction of her room in order to -signal to her _fiancé_, when Dominique himself entered the courtyard. - -The officer and his soldiers gave a great shout of triumph, but he, as -if there had been no soul there but Françoise, walked straight up to -her; he was perfectly calm, and his face wore a slight expression of -sternness. - -“You did wrong,” he said. “Why did you not bring me back with you? Had -it not been for Father Bontemps I should have known nothing of all -this. Well, I am here, at all events.” - - -V. - -It was three o’clock. The heavens were piled high with great black -clouds, the tail-end of a storm that had been raging somewhere in -the vicinity. Beneath the coppery sky and ragged scud the valley of -Rocreuse, so bright and smiling in the sunlight, became a grim chasm, -full of sinister shadows. The Prussian officer had done nothing with -Dominique beyond placing him in confinement, giving no indication of -his ultimate purpose in regard to him. Françoise, since noon, had been -suffering unendurable agony; notwithstanding her father’s entreaties, -she would not leave the courtyard. She was waiting for the French -troops to appear, but the hours slipped by, night was approaching, and -she suffered all the more since it appeared as if the time thus gained -would have no effect on the final result. - -About three o’clock, however, the Prussians began to make their -preparations for departure. The officer had gone to Dominique’s room -and remained closeted with him for some minutes, as he had done the day -before. Françoise knew that the young man’s life was hanging in the -balance; she clasped her hands and put up fervent prayers. Beside her -sat Father Merlier, rigid and silent, declining, like the true peasant -he was, to attempt any interference with accomplished facts. - -“Oh! my God! my God!” Françoise exclaimed, “they are going to kill him!” - -The miller drew her to him, and took her on his lap as if she had been -a little child. At this juncture the officer came from the room, -followed by two men conducting Dominique between them. - -“Never, never!” the latter exclaimed. “I am ready to die.” - -“You had better think the matter over,” the officer replied. “I shall -have no trouble in finding some one else to render us the service which -you refuse. I am generous with you; I offer you your life. It is simply -a matter of guiding us across the forest to Montredon; there must be -paths.” - -Dominique made no answer. - -“Then you persist in your obstinacy?” - -“Shoot me, and let’s have done with it,” he replied. - -Françoise, in the distance, entreated her lover with clasped hands; -she was forgetful of all considerations save one--she would have had -him commit a treason. But Father Merlier seized her hands, that the -Prussians might not see the wild gestures of a woman whose mind was -disordered by her distress. - -“He is right,” he murmured, “it is best for him to die.” - -The firing-party was in readiness. The officer still had hopes of -bringing Dominique over, and was waiting to see him exhibit some signs -of weakness. Deep silence prevailed. Heavy peals of thunder were -heard in the distance, the fields and woods lay lifeless beneath the -sweltering heat. And it was in the midst of this oppressive silence -that suddenly the cry arose: - -“The French! the French!” - -It was a fact; they were coming. The line of red trousers could be seen -advancing along the Sauval road, at the edge of the forest. In the mill -the confusion was extreme; the Prussian soldiers ran to and fro, giving -vent to guttural cries. Not a shot had been fired as yet. - -“The French! the French!” cried Françoise, clapping her hands for joy. -She was like a woman possessed. She had escaped from her father’s -embrace and was laughing boisterously, her arms raised high in the air. -They had come at last, then, and had come in time, since Dominique was -still there, alive! - -A crash of musketry that rang in her ears like a thunderclap caused her -to suddenly turn her head. The officer had muttered, “We will finish -this business first,” and with his own hands pushing Dominique up -against the wall of a shed, had given the command to the squad to fire. -When Françoise turned, Dominique was lying on the ground, pierced by a -dozen bullets. - -She did not shed a tear; she stood there like one suddenly rendered -senseless. Her eyes were fixed and staring, and she went and seated -herself beneath the shed, a few steps from the lifeless body. She -looked at it wistfully; now and then she would make a movement with -her hand in an aimless, childish way. The Prussians had seized Father -Merlier as a hostage. - -It was a pretty fight. The officer, perceiving that he could not -retreat without being cut to pieces, rapidly made the best disposition -possible of his men; it was as well to sell their lives dearly. The -Prussians were now the defenders of the mill and the French were the -attacking party. The musketry fire began with unparalleled fury; for -half an hour there was no lull in the storm. Then a deep report was -heard, and a ball carried away a main branch of the old elm. The French -had artillery; a battery, in position just beyond the ditch where -Dominique had concealed himself, commanded the main street of Rocreuse. -The conflict could not last long after that. - -Ah! the poor old mill! The cannon-balls raked it from wall to wall. -Half the roof was carried away; two of the walls fell in. But it was on -the side toward the Morelle that the damage was most lamentable. The -ivy, torn from the tottering walls, hung in tatters, débris of every -description floated away upon the bosom of the stream, and through a -great breach Françoise’s chamber was visible, with its little bed, the -snow-white curtains of which were carefully drawn. Two balls struck -the old wheel in quick succession, and it gave one parting groan; the -buckets were carried away down stream, the frame was crushed into a -shapeless mass. It was the soul of the stout old mill parting from the -body. - -Then the French came forward to carry the place by storm. There was -a mad hand-to-hand conflict with the bayonet. Under the dull sky the -pretty valley became a huge slaughter-pen; the broad meadows looked on -in horror, with their great isolated trees and their rows of poplars, -dotting them with shade, while to right and left the forest was like -the walls of a tilting-ground enclosing the combatants, and in Nature’s -universal panic the gentle murmur of the springs and watercourses -sounded like sobs and wails. - -Françoise had not stirred from the shed where she remained hanging -over Dominique’s body. Father Merlier had met his death from a stray -bullet. Then the French captain, the Prussians being exterminated and -the mill on fire, entered the courtyard at the head of his men. It was -the first success that he had gained since the breaking out of the war, -so, all inflamed with enthusiasm, drawing himself up to the full height -of his lofty stature, he laughed pleasantly, as a handsome cavalier -like him might laugh. Then, perceiving poor idiotic Françoise where she -crouched between the corpses of her father and her intended, among the -smoking ruins of the mill, he saluted her gallantly with his sword, and -shouted: - -“Victory! Victory!” - - - - -THREE WARS - - -War! In France, to men of my generation, men who have passed their -fiftieth year, this terrible word awakens three special memories, the -memory of the Crimean expedition, of the campaign in Italy, and of our -disasters in 1870. What victories, what defeats, and what a lesson! - -Assuredly, war is accursed. It is a horrible thing that nations should -cut each other’s throats. According to our progressive humanitarian -ideas, war must disappear on the day when nations come to exchange -a kiss of peace. There are exalted minds which, beyond their native -country, behold humanity, and prophesy universal concord. But how these -theories fall to pieces on the day when the country is threatened! The -philosophers themselves snatch a gun and shoot. All declarations of -fraternity are over; and only a cry for extermination rises from the -breast of the whole nation. For war is a dark necessity, like death. It -may be that we must have something of a dungheap to keep civilisation -in flower. It is necessary that death should affirm life; and war is -like those cataclysms of the antediluvian world which prepared the -world of man. - -We have grown tender; we make moan over every existence that passes -away. And yet, do we know how many existences, more or less, are -needed to balance the life of the earth? We yield to the idea that -an existence is sacred. Perhaps the fatalism of the ancients, which -could behold the massacres of old without leaping to a Utopia of -universal brotherhood, had a truer greatness. To keep ourselves manly, -to accept the dark work wrought by death in that night wherein none -of us can read, to tell ourselves that, after all, people die, and -that there are merely hours in which they die more--this, when all is -said, is the wise man’s attitude. Those who are angry with war should -be angry with all human infirmities. The soft-hearted philosophers -who have been loudest in their curses of war, have been obliged to -perceive that war will be the weapon of progress until the day when, -ideal civilisation being attained, all nations join in the festival of -universal peace. But that ideal civilisation lies so remote in the blue -future, that there will assuredly be fighting for centuries yet. It is -the fashionable thing, just now, to consider war as an old remnant of -barbarism, from which the Republic will one day set us free. To declaim -against war is one way of setting up as a progressive person. But let a -single cry of alarm arise upon the frontier, let a trumpet sound in the -street, and we shall all be shouting for arms. War is in the blood of -man. - -Victor Hugo wrote that only kings desired war, that nations desired -only to exchange marks of affection. Alas! that was but a poetic -aspiration. The poet has been the high-priest of that dream-peace of -which I spoke; he celebrated the _United States_ of Europe, he put -forward the brotherhood of nations, and prophesied the new golden age. -Nothing could be sweeter or larger. But to be brothers is a trifle; the -first thing is to love one another, and the nations do not love one -another at all. A falsehood is bad, merely in that it is a falsehood. -Undoubtedly, a sovereign, when he sees himself in danger, may try the -fortune of war against a neighbour, in the hope of consolidating his -throne by victory. But after the first victory, or the first defeat, -the nation makes the war its own, and fights for itself. If it were -not fighting for itself, it would not go on fighting. And what shall -we say of really national wars? Let us suppose that France and Germany -some day again find themselves face to face. Republic, empire, or -kingdom, the Government will count for nothing; it will be the whole -nation which will rise. A great thrill will run from end to end of the -land. The bugles will sound of themselves to call the people together. -There has been war germinating in our midst, in spite of ourselves, -these twenty years, and if ever the hour strikes, it will rise, an -overflowing harvest, in every furrow. - -Three times in my life, I repeat, have I felt the passage of war over -France; and never shall I forget the particular sound made by her -wings. First of all comes a far-off murmur, heralding the approach of -a great wind. The murmur grows, the tumult bursts, every heart beats: -a dizzy enthusiasm, a need of killing and conquering takes hold of the -nation. Then, when the men are gone and the noise has sunk, an anxious -silence reigns, and every ear is on the stretch for the first cry from -the army. Will it be a cry of triumph or of defeat? It is a terrible -moment. Contradictory news comes; every tiniest indication is seized, -every word is pondered and discussed until the hour when the truth is -known. And what an hour that is, of delirious joy or horrible despair! - - -I. - -I was fourteen at the time of the Crimean war. I was a pupil in the -College of Aix, shut up with two or three hundred other urchins in an -old Benedictine convent, whose long corridors and vast halls retained a -great dreariness. But the two courts were cheerful under the spreading -blue immensity of that glorious Southern sky. It is a tender memory -that I keep of that college, in spite of the sufferings that I endured -there. - -I was fourteen then; I was no longer a small boy, and yet I feel to-day -how complete was the ignorance of the world in which we were living. -In that forgotten corner, even the echo of great events hardly reached -us. The town, a sad, old, dead capital, slumbered in the midst of its -arid landscape; and the college, close to the ramparts, in the deserted -quarter of the town, slumbered even more deeply. I do not remember any -political catastrophe ever passing its walls while I was cloistered -there. The Crimean war alone moved us, and even as to that it is -probable that weeks elapsed before the fame of it reached us. - -When I recall my memories of that time, I smile to think what war -was to us country schoolboys. In the first place, everything was -extremely vague. The theatre of the struggle was so distant, so lost -in a strange and savage country, that we seemed to be looking on at a -story come true out of the “Arabian Nights.” We did not clearly know -where the fighting was; and I do not remember that we had at any time -curiosity enough to consult the atlases in our hands. It must be said -that our teachers kept us in absolute ignorance of modern life. They -themselves read the papers and learned the news; but they never opened -their mouths to us about such things, and if we had questioned them, -they would have dismissed us sternly to our exercises and essays. We -knew nothing precise, except that France was fighting in the East, for -reasons not within our ken. - -Certain points, however, stood out clear. We repeated the classic jokes -about the Cossacks. We knew the names of two or three Russian generals, -and we were not far from attributing to these generals the heads of -child-devouring monsters. Moreover, we did not for one moment admit the -possibility that the French could be beaten. That would have appeared -to us contrary to the laws of nature. Then there were gaps. As the -campaign was prolonged, we would forget, for months at a time, that -there was any fighting, until some day some report came to arouse our -attention again. I cannot tell whether we knew of the battles as they -happened, or whether we felt the thrill which the fall of Sebastopol -gave to France. All these things were confused. Virgil and Homer were -realities which caused us more concern than the contemporary quarrels -of nations. - -I only remember that for a time there was a game greatly in favour -in our playgrounds. We divided ourselves into two camps. We drew two -lines on the ground, and proceeded to fight. It was “prisoners’ base” -simplified. One camp represented the Russian and one the French army. -Naturally, the Russians ought to have been defeated, but the contrary -sometimes occurred; the fury was extraordinary and the riot frightful. -At the end of a week the superintendent was obliged to forbid this -delightful game: two boys had had to be put on the sick list, with -broken heads. - -Among the most distinguished in these conflicts was a tall, fair lad, -who always got chosen General. Louis, who belonged to an old Breton -family that had come to live in the South, assumed victorious airs. I -can see him yet, with a handkerchief tied on his forehead by way of -plume, a leather belt girded round him, leading on his soldiers with -a wave of the hand as if it were the great wave of a sword. He filled -us with admiration; we even felt a sort of respect for him. Strangely -enough he had a twin-brother, Julien, who was much smaller, frail -and delicate, and who greatly disliked these violent games. When we -divided into two camps, he would go apart, sit down on a stone bench, -and thence watch us with his sad and rather frightened eyes. One day, -Louis, hustled and attacked by a whole band, fell under their blows, -and Julien gave a cry, pallid, trembling, half-fainting like a woman. -The two brothers adored each other, and none of us would have dared to -laugh at the little one about his want of courage, for fear of the big -one. - -The memory of these twins is closely involved for me in the memory of -that time. Towards the spring, I became a day-boarder, and no longer -slept at the college, but came in the morning for the seven o’clock -lessons. The two brothers, also, were day-boarders. The three of us -were inseparable. As we lived in the same street we used to wait to go -in to college together. Louis, who was very precocious and dreamed of -adventures, seduced us. We agreed to leave home at six, so as to have -a whole hour of freedom in which we could be men. For us “to be men” -meant to smoke cigars and to go and have drinks at a shabby wine-shop, -which Louis had discovered in an out-of-the-way street. The cigars and -the drinks made us frightfully ill; but, then, what an emotion it was -to step into the wine-shop, casting glances to right and left, and in -terror of being observed. - -These fine doings occurred towards the close of the winter. I remember -there were mornings when the rain fell in torrents. We waded through, -and arrived drenched. After that, the mornings became mild and fair, -and then a mania took hold of us--that of going to see off the -soldiers. Aix is on the road to Marseilles. Regiments came into the -town by the road from Avignon, slept one night, and started off on -the morrow by the road to Marseilles. At that time, fresh troops, -especially cavalry and artillery, were being sent to the Crimea. Not -a week elapsed without troops passing. A local paper even announced -these movements beforehand, for the benefit of the inhabitants with -whom the men lodged. Only we did not read the paper, and we were much -concerned to know overnight whether there would be soldiers leaving in -the morning. As the departure occurred at five in the morning, we were -obliged to get up very early, often to no purpose. - -What a happy time it was! Louis and Julien would come and call me -from the middle of the street, where not a person was yet to be seen. -I hurried down. It would be chilly, notwithstanding the spring-time -mildness of the days, and we three would cross the empty town. When a -regiment was leaving, the soldiers would be assembling on the Cours, -before a hotel where the colonel generally stayed. Therefore, the -moment that we turned into the Cours, our necks were stretched out -eagerly. If the Cours was empty, what a blow! And it was often empty. -On these mornings, though we did not say so, we regretted our beds, and -cooled our heels till seven o’clock, not knowing what to do with our -freedom. But, then, what joy it was, when we turned the street and saw -the Cours full of men and horses! An amazing commotion arose in the -slight morning chill. Soldiers came in from every direction, while the -drums beat and the bugles called. The officers had great difficulty in -forming them on this esplanade. However, order was established, little -by little, the ranks closed up, while we talked to the men and slipped -under the horses legs, at the risk of being crushed. Nor were we the -only people to enjoy this scene. Small proprietors appeared one by -one, early townsfolk, and all that part of the population which rises -betimes. Soon there were crowds. The sun rose. The gold and steel of -the uniforms shone in the clear morning light. - -We thus beheld, on the Cours of that peaceful and still drowsy town, -Dragoons, Cavalry Chasseurs, Lancers, and, in fact, all branches of -light and heavy cavalry. But our favourites, those who aroused our -keenest enthusiasm, were the Cuirassiers. They dazzled us as they -sat square on their stout horses, with the glowing star of their -breastplates before them. Their helmets took fire in the rising -sun; their ranks were like rows of suns, whose rays shone on the -neighbouring houses. When we knew that there were Cuirassiers going, we -got up at four, so eager were we to fill our eyes with their glories. - -At last, however, the colonel would appear. The colours, which had -passed the night with him, were displayed. And all at once, after two -or three words of command cried aloud, the regiment gave way. It went -down the Cours, and with the first fall of the hoofs on the dry earth, -rose a beat of drums which made our hearts leap within us. We ran to -keep at the head of the column, abreast of the band, which was greeting -the town, as it went at a double. First there came three shrill bugle -notes as a summons to the players, then the trumpet call broke out, -and covered everything with its sounds. Outside the gates the “double” -was ended in the open, where the last notes died away. Then there was -a turn to the left along the Marseilles road, a fine road planted with -elms hundreds of years old. The horses went at a foot pace, in rather -open order, on the wide highway, white with dust. We felt as if we were -going, too. The town was remote, college was forgotten; we ran and ran, -delighted with our outbreak. It was like setting out to war ourselves -every week. - -Ah, those lovely mornings! It was six o’clock, the sun, already high, -lighted the country with great sloping rays. A milder warmth breathed -through the little chill breeze of morning. Groups of birds flew up -from the hedges. Far off the meadows were bathed in pink mist; and -amid this smiling landscape these beautiful soldiers, the Cuirassiers -shining like stars, passed with their glowing breasts. The road turned -suddenly at the dip of a deep valley. The curious townsfolk never went -farther; soon we were the only ones persisting. We went down the slope -and reached the bridge crossing the river at the very bottom. It was -only there that uneasiness would fall on us. It must be nearly seven; -we had only just time to run home, if we did not wish to miss college. -Often we suffered ourselves to be carried away; we pushed on farther -still; and on those days we played truant, roaming about till noon, -hiding ourselves in the grassy holes at the edge of the waterfall. At -other times we stopped at the bridge, sitting on the stone parapet, and -never losing sight of the regiment, as it went up the opposite slope -of the valley before us. It was a moving spectacle. The road went up -the hillside in a straight line for rather more than a mile. The horses -slackened their pace yet more, the men grew smaller with the rhythmic -swaying of their steeds. At first, each breastplate and each helmet was -like a sun. Then the suns dwindled, and soon there was only an army of -stars on the march. Finally, the last man disappeared and the road was -bare. Nothing was left of the beautiful regiment that had passed by, -except a memory. - -We were only children; but, all the same, that spectacle made us grave. -As the regiment slowly mounted the steep, we would be taken by a great -silence, our eyes fixed upon the troop, in despair at the thought of -losing it, and when it had disappeared, something tightened in our -throats, and for a moment or two we still watched the distant rock -behind which it had just vanished. Would it ever come back? Would it -some day come down this hillside again? These questions, stirring -sadly within us, made us sad. Good-bye, beautiful regiment. - -Julien, in particular, always came home very tired. He only came so -far in order not to leave his brother. These excursions knocked him -up, and he had a mortal terror of the horses. I remember that one day -we had lingered in the train of an artillery regiment, and spent the -day in the open fields. Louis was wild with enthusiasm. When we had -breakfasted on an omelette, in a village, he took us to a bend of the -river, where he was set upon bathing. Then he talked of going for a -soldier as soon as he was old enough. - -“No, no!” cried Julien, flinging his arms round his neck. He was quite -pale. His brother laughed, and called him a great stupid. But he -repeated: “You would be killed, I know you would.” - -On that day, Julien, excited, and jeered at by us, spoke his mind. He -thought the soldiers horrid, he did not see what there was in them to -attract us. It was all the soldiers’ fault, because if there were not -any soldiers, there would not be any fighting. In fact, he hated war; -it terrified him, and, later on, he would find some way to prevent his -brother from going. It was a sort of morbid, unconquerable aversion -which he felt. - -Weeks and months went by. We had got tired of the regiments; we had -found out another sport, which was to go fishing, of a morning, for -the little fresh-water fish, and to eat what we caught in a third-rate -tavern. The water was icy. Julien got a cold on the chest, of which he -nearly died. In college, war was no longer talked about. We had fallen -back deeper than ever into Homer and Virgil. All at once, we learned -that the French had conquered, which seemed to us quite natural. Then, -regiments again began to pass, but in the other direction. They no -longer interested us; still, we did see two or three. They did not seem -to us so fine, diminished as they were by half--and the rest is lost -in a mist. Such was the Crimean war, in France, for schoolboys shut up -in a country college. - - -II. - -In 1859 I was in Paris, finishing my studies at the Lycée St. Louis. -As it happened, I was there with my two school-fellows from Aix, Louis -and Julien. Louis was preparing for his entrance examination to the -Ecole Polytechnique; Julien had decided to go in for law. We were all -out-students. - -By this time we had ceased to be savages, entirely ignorant of the -contemporary world. Paris had ripened us. Thus, when the war with Italy -broke out, we were abreast of the stream of political events which had -led to it. We even discussed the war in the character of politicians -and military adepts. It was the fashion at college to take interest in -the campaign, and to follow the movements of the troops on the map. -During our college hours we used to mark our positions with pins and -fight and lose battles. In order to be well up to date, we devoured an -enormous supply of newspapers. It was the mission of us out-students -to bring them in. We used to arrive with our pockets stuffed, with -thicknesses of paper under our coats, enclosed from head to foot in an -armour of newspapers. And while lectures were going on these papers -were circulated; lessons and studies were neglected; we drank our fill -of news, shielded by the back of a neighbour. In order to conceal the -big sheets we used to cut them in four, and open them inside our books. -The professors were not always blind, but they let us go our own way -with the tolerance of men resigned to let the idler bear the burden of -his idleness. - -At first, Julien shrugged his shoulders. He was possessed by a fine -adoration of the poets of 1830, and there was always a volume of Musset -or Hugo in his pocket which he used to read at lecture. So when anyone -handed him a newspaper he used to pass it on scornfully without even -condescending to look at it, and would continue reading the poem which -he had begun. To him it seemed monstrous that anybody could care about -men who were fighting one another. But a catastrophe which changed the -whole course of his life caused him to alter his opinion. - -One fine day Louis, who had just failed in his examination, enlisted. -It was a rash step which had long been in his mind. He had an uncle who -was a general, and he thought himself sure of making his way without -passing through the military schools. Besides, when the war was over, -he could still try Saint-Cyr. When Julien heard this news, it came upon -him like a thunderbolt. He was no longer the boy declaiming against war -with missish arguments, but he still had an unconquerable aversion. He -wished to show himself a hardened man; and he succeeded in not shedding -tears before us. But from the time his brother went, he became one of -the most eager devourers of newspapers. We came and went from college -together; and our conversations turned on nothing but possible battles. -I remember that he used to drag me almost every day to the Luxembourg -Gardens. He would lay his books on a bench and trace a whole map of -Northern Italy in the sand. That kept his thoughts with his brother. In -the depths of his heart he was full of terror at the idea that he might -be killed. - -Even now, when I inquire of my memory, I find it difficult to make -clear the elements of this horror of war on Julien’s part. He was by no -means a coward. He merely had a distaste for bodily exercises, to which -he reckoned abstract mental speculations far superior. To live the -life of a learned man or a poet, shut into a quiet room, seemed to him -the real end of man on this earth; while the turmoils of the street, -battles, whether with fist or sword, and everything which develops the -muscles seemed to him only fit for a nation of savages. He despised -athletes and acrobats and wild beast tamers. I must add that he had -no patriotism. On this subject we heaped contempt upon him, and I can -still see the smile and shrug of the shoulders with which he answered -us. - -One of the most vivid memories of that time which remains with me is -the memory of the fine summer day on which the news of the victory of -Magenta became known in Paris. It was June--a splendid June, such as -we seldom have in France. It was Sunday. Julien and I had planned the -evening before to take a walk in the Champs Elysées. He was very uneasy -about his brother, from whom he had had no letter, and I wanted to -distract his thoughts. I called for him at one o’clock, and we strolled -down towards the Seine at the idle pace of schoolboys with no usher -behind them. - -Paris on a holiday in very hot weather is something that deserves -knowing. The black shadow of the houses cuts the white pavement -sharply. Between the shuttered, drowsy house fronts is visible but -a strip of sky of a hard blue. I do not know any place in the world -where, when it is hot, it is hotter than in Paris; it is a furnace, -suffocating, asphyxiating. Some corners of Paris are deserted, among -others the quays, whence the loungers have fled to suburban copses. And -yet, what a delightful walk it is, along the wide, quiet quays, with -their row of little thick trees, and below, the magnificent rush of the -river all alive with its moving populace of vessels. - -Well, we had come to the Seine and were walking along the quays in the -shadow of the trees. Slight sounds came up from the river, whose waters -quivered in the sun and were marked out as with lines of silver into -large wavering patterns. There was something special in the holiday air -of this fine Sunday. Paris was positively being filled already by the -news of which everybody, and even the very houses, seemed expectant. -The Italian campaign, which was, as everybody knows, so rapid, had -opened with successes; but so far there had been no important battle, -and it was this battle which Paris had for two days been feeling. The -great city held her breath and heard the distant cannon. - -I have retained the memory of this impression very clearly. I had just -confided to Julien the strange sensation which I felt, by saying to -him that Paris “looked queer,” when, as we came to the Quai Voltaire, -we saw, afar off, in front of the printing-office of the _Moniteur_, a -little knot of people, standing to read a notice. There were not more -than seven or eight persons. From the pavement where we stood, we could -see them gesticulating, laughing, calling out. We crossed the road -quickly. The notice was a telegram, written, not printed; it announced -the victory of Magenta, in four lines. The wafers which fixed it to the -wall were not yet dry. Evidently we were the first to know in all this -great Paris, that Sunday. People came running, and their enthusiasm was -a sight to see. They fraternised at once, strangers shook hands with -each other. A gentleman, with a ribbon at his button-hole, explained -to a workman how the battle must have occurred; women were laughing -with a pretty laughter and looking as if they were inclined to throw -themselves into the arms of the bystanders. Little by little the crowd -grew; passers-by were beckoned; coachmen stopped their vehicles and -came down from their seats. When we came away there were more than a -thousand people there. - -After that it was a glorious day. In a few minutes the news had spread -to the whole town. We thought to bear it with us, but it out-stripped -us, for we could not turn a corner or pass along a street without at -once understanding by the joy on every face that the thing was known. -It floated in the sunshine; it came on the wind. In half-an-hour the -aspect of Paris was changed; solemn expectancy had given place to an -outburst of triumph. We sauntered for a couple of hours in the Champs -Elysées among crowds who laughed for joy. The eyes of the women had a -special tenderness. And the word “Magenta” was in every mouth. - -But Julien was still very pale; he was much disturbed and I knew what -was his secret terror, when he murmured:-- - -“They laugh to-day, but how many will be crying to-morrow?” - -He was thinking of his brother. I made jokes to try and reassure him, -and told him that Louis was sure to come back a captain. - -“If only he does come back,” he answered, shaking his head. - -As soon as night fell, Paris was illuminated. Venetian lanterns swung -at all the windows. The poorest persons had lighted candles; I even -saw some rooms whose tenants had merely pushed a table to the window -and set their lamp on it. The night was exquisite, and all Paris was -in the streets. There were people sitting all along upon the doorsteps -as if they were waiting for a procession. Crowds were standing in the -squares, the cafés and the wine-shops were thronged, and the urchins -were letting off crackers which scented the air with a fine smell of -powder. - -I repeat I never saw Paris so beautiful. That day, all joys were -united, sunshine, a Sunday, and a victory. Afterwards, when Paris heard -of the decisive battle of Solferino, there was not the same enthusiasm, -even though it brought the immediate conclusion of the war. On the day -when the troops made their entry, the demonstration was more solemn, -but it lacked that spontaneous popular joy. - -We got a two days’ holiday from Magenta. We grew even more eager about -the war, and were among those who thought that peace had been made too -hastily. The school year was drawing to its end. The holidays were -coming, bringing the feverish excitement of liberty; and Italy, the -army, and the victories, all disappeared in the general setting free -of the prize distribution. I remember that I was to go and spend my -holidays in the South that year. When I was just about to start, in -the beginning of August, Julien begged me to stay till the 14th, the -date fixed for the triumphal entry of the troops. He was full of joy. -Louis was coming back with the rank of sergeant, and he wished me to be -present at his brother’s triumph. I promised to stay. - -Great preparations were made for the reception of the army which had -for some days been encamped in the immediate neighbourhood of Paris. -It was to enter by the Place de la Bastille, to follow the line of the -Boulevards, to go down the Rue de la Paix, and cross the Place Vendôme. -The Boulevards were decorated with flags. On the Place Vendôme, immense -stands had been erected for the members of the Government and their -guests. The weather was splendid. When the troops came into sight along -the Boulevards, vast applause burst forth. The crowd thronged on both -sides of the pavement. Heads rose above heads at the windows. Women -waved their handkerchiefs and threw down the flowers from their dresses -to the soldiers. All the while, the soldiers kept on passing with -their regular step, in the midst of frantic hurrahs. The bands played; -the colours fluttered in the sun. Several, which had been pierced by -balls, received applause, and one in particular, which was in rags, and -crowned. At the corner of the Rue du Temple an old woman flung herself -headlong into the ranks and embraced a corporal, her son, no doubt. -They came near to carrying that happy mother in triumph. - -The official ceremony took place in the Place Vendôme. There, ladies -in full dress, magistrates in their robes, and officials in uniform -applauded with more gravity. In the evening, the Emperor gave a banquet -to three hundred persons at the Louvre, in the Salle des Etats. As -he was proposing a toast, which has remained historic, he exclaimed: -“If France has done so much for a friendly people what would she not -do for her own independence?” An imprudent speech which he must have -regretted later. Julien and I had seen the march past from a window in -the Boulevard Poissonière. He had been to the camp the night before -and had told Louis where we should be. Thus when his regiment passed -Louis lifted his head to greet us. He was much older, and his face was -brown and thin. I could hardly recognise him. He looked like a man, -compared with us who were still children, slender and pale like women. -Julien followed him with his eyes as long as he could, and I heard him -murmur, with tears in his eyes, while a nervous emotion shook him: “It -is beautiful after all--it is beautiful.” - -In the evening I met them both again in a little café of the Quartier -Latin. It was a small place at the end of an alley where we generally -went, because we were alone there and could talk at our ease. When I -arrived, Julien, with both elbows on the table, was already listening -to Louis, who was telling him about Solferino. He said that no battle -had ever been less foreseen. The Austrians were thought to be in -retreat and the allied armies were advancing when suddenly, about five -in the morning, on the 24th, they had heard guns--it was the Austrians -who had turned and were attacking us. Then a series of fights had -begun, each division taking its turn. All day long, the different -generals had fought separately, without having any clear idea of -the total form of the struggle. Louis had taken part in a terrible -hand-to-hand conflict in a cemetery, in the midst of graves; and that -was about all he had seen. He also spoke of the terrible storm which -had broken out towards the evening. The heavens took part and the -thunder silenced the guns. The Austrians had to give up the field in a -veritable deluge. They had been firing on each other for sixteen hours, -and the night which followed was full of terrors, for the soldiers did -not exactly know which way the victory had gone, and at every sound in -the darkness they thought that the battle was beginning again. - -During this tale Julien kept on looking at his brother. Perhaps he -was not even listening, but was happy in merely having him before his -eyes. I shall never forget the evening spent thus in that obscure and -peaceful café, whence we heard the murmur of festival Paris, while -Louis was leading us across the bloody fields of Solferino. When he had -finished Julien said quietly:-- - -“Anyway, you are here and what does anything else matter?” - - -III. - -Eleven years later, in 1870, we were grown men. Louis had reached the -rank of captain. Julien, after various beginnings, had settled down to -the idle, ever-occupied life of those wealthy Parisians who frequent -literary and artistic society without themselves ever touching pen or -paint brush. - -There was great excitement at the first report of a war with Germany. -People’s brains were fevered: there was talk about our natural frontier -on the Rhine, and about avenging Waterloo, which had remained a weight -on our hearts. If the campaign had been opened by a victory, France -would certainly have blessed this war which she ought to have cursed. - -Paris certainly would have felt disappointed if peace had been -maintained, after the stormy sittings of the Corps Legislatif. On the -day when conflict became inevitable, all hearts beat high. I am not -speaking now of the scenes which took place in the evenings on the -boulevards, of the shrieking crowds, or the shouts of men who may have -been paid, as, later on, it was declared that they had been. I only -say that, among sober citizens, the greater number were marking out on -maps the different stages of our army as far as Berlin. The Prussians -were to be driven back with the butt end of the rifle. This absolute -confidence of victory was our inheritance from the days in which our -soldiers had passed, always conquering, from one end of Europe to -the other. Nowadays we are thoroughly cured of that very dangerous -patriotic vanity. - -One evening when I was on the Boulevard des Capucines, watching hordes -of men in blouses who passed along, yelling, “_À Berlin! À Berlin_,” -I felt someone touch me on the shoulder. It was Julien. He was very -gloomy. I reproached him with his lack of enthusiasm. - -“We shall be beaten,” said he, quietly. - -I protested, but he shook his head, without giving any reasons. He felt -it, he said. I spoke of his brother. Louis was already at Metz with his -regiment, and Julien showed me a letter which he had received the night -before, a letter full of gaiety, in which the captain declared that he -should have died of barrack-life if the war had not come to lift him -out of it. He vowed that he would come home a colonel, with a medal. - -But when I tried to use this letter as an argument against Julien’s -dark prognostications, he merely repeated: - -“We shall be beaten.” - -Paris’s time of anxiety began once more. I knew that solemn silence -of the great city; I had witnessed it in 1859 before the first -hostilities of the Italian campaign. But this time the silence seemed -more tremulous. No one seemed in doubt about the victory; yet sinister -rumours were current, coming no one knew whence. Surprise was felt that -our army had not taken the initiative and carried the war at once into -the enemy’s territory. - -One afternoon on the Exchange a great piece of news broke forth; we had -gained an immense victory, taken a considerable number of cannons, and -made prisoners a whole division. Houses were actually beginning to be -decorated, people were embracing one another in the street, when the -falsehood of the news had to be acknowledged. There had been no battle. -The victory had not seemed natural in the expected order of events, -but the sudden contradiction, the trick played on a populace that had -been too ready with its rejoicings and had to put off its enthusiasm to -another day, struck a chill to my heart. All at once I felt an immense -sadness, I felt the quivering wing of some unexampled disaster passing -over us. - -I shall always remember that ill-omened Sunday. It was a Sunday again, -and many people must have remembered the radiant Sunday of Magenta. It -was early in August; the sunshine had not the young brightness of June. -The weather was heavy, great flags of stormcloud weighed upon the city. -I was returning from a little town in Normandy, and I was particularly -struck by the funereal aspect of Paris. On the boulevards, people were -standing about in groups of three or four, and talking in low tones. At -last I heard the horrible news: we had been defeated at Wörth, and the -torrent of invasion was flowing into France. - -I never beheld such deep consternation. All Paris was stupefied. -What! Was it possible? We were conquered! The defeat seemed to us -unjust and monstrous. It not only struck a blow at our patriotism; it -destroyed a religion in us. We could not yet measure all the disastrous -consequences of this reverse, we still hoped that our soldiers might -avenge it; and yet we remained as it were annihilated. The despairing -silence of the town was full of a great shame. - -That day and that evening were frightful. The public gaiety of -victorious days was not. Women no longer wore that tender smile, nor -did people pass from group to group making friends. Night fell black on -this despairing populace. Not a firework in the street; not a lamp at a -window. Early on the morrow I saw a regiment going down the boulevard. -People were pausing with sad faces, and the soldiers passed, hanging -their heads, as if they had had their share in the defeat. Nothing -saddened me so much as that regiment, applauded by no one, passing over -the same ground where I had seen the army from Italy marching past amid -rejoicings that shook the houses. - -Then began the days cursed with suspense. Every two or three hours I -used to go to the door of the Mairie in the ninth _arrondissement_, -which is in the Rue Drouot, where the telegrams were put up. There -were always people gathered there, waiting, to the number of a hundred -or so. Often the crowd would extend right to the boulevard. There was -nothing noisy about these crowds. People spoke in low tones, as if -they were in a sick-room. Directly a clerk appeared to put a telegram -on the board, there was a rush. Soon the news ran from mouth to mouth. -But the news had long been persistently bad, and public consternation -grew. Even to-day I cannot pass along the Rue Drouot without thinking -of those days of mourning. There, on that pavement, the people of Paris -had to undergo the most awful of torments. From hour to hour we could -hear the gallop of the German armies drawing nearer to Paris. - -I saw Julien very often. He did not boast to me of having foreseen -the defeat. He only seemed to think what had happened was natural and -in the order of things. Many Parisians shrugged their shoulders when -they heard talk of a siege of Paris. Could there be a siege of Paris? -And others would demonstrate mathematically that Paris could not be -invested. Julien, by a sort of foreknowledge, which struck me later, -declared that we should be surrounded on September 15th. He was still -the schoolboy to whom physical exercises were strangely repulsive. All -this war, upsetting all his customary ways, put him beside himself. -Why, in the name of God, did people want to fight? And he would lift -up his hands with a gesture of supreme protestation. Yet he read the -telegrams greedily. - -“If Louis were not out there,” he would repeat, “I might make verses -while we are waiting for the end of the commotion.” - -At long intervals letters came to him from Louis. The news was -terrible, the army was getting discouraged. On the day when we heard of -the battle of Borny I met Julien at the corner of the Rue Drouot. Paris -had a gleam of hope that day. There was talk of a success. He, on the -other hand, seemed to me gloomier than usual. He had read, somewhere, -that his brother’s regiment had done heroically, and that its losses -had been severe. - -Three days later a common friend came to tell me the terrible news. A -letter had brought word to Julien the night before of his brother’s -death. He had been killed at Borny by the bursting of a shell. I -immediately hurried to go to the poor fellow, but I found no one at his -lodging. The next morning, while I was still in bed, a young man came -in dressed as a _franc-tireur_. It was Julien. At first I hardly knew -him. Then I folded him in my arms and embraced him heartily, while my -eyes were full of tears. He did not weep. He sat down for a moment and -made a sign to stop my condolences. - -“There,” said he, quietly, “I wanted to say ‘good-bye’ to you. Now that -I am alone I could not endure to do nothing.... So as I found that a -company of _franc-tireurs_ was going, I joined yesterday. That will -give me something to do.” - -“When do you leave Paris?” I asked him. - -“Why, in a couple of hours. Good-bye.” - -He embraced me in his turn. I did not dare to ask him any more -questions. He went, and the thought of him was always with me. - -After the catastrophe of Sedan, some days before the surrounding of -Paris, I had news of him. One of his comrades came to tell me that -this young fellow, so pale and slender, fought like a wolf. He kept up -a savage warfare against the Prussians, watching them from behind a -hedge, using a knife rather than his gun. Whole nights long he would -be on the hunt, watching for men as for his prey, and cutting the -throat of anyone who came within his reach. I was stupefied. I could -not think that this was Julien; I asked myself whether it was possible -that the nervous poet could have become a butcher. - -Then Paris was isolated from the rest of the world, and the siege -began with all its fits of sleepiness and of fever. I could not go out -without remembering Aix on a winter evening. The streets were dark -and empty, the houses were shut up early. There were, indeed, distant -sounds of cannon and of shots, but the sounds seemed to get lost in -the dull silence of the vast town. Some days, breaths of hope would -come over, and then the whole population would awake, forgetful of the -long standing at the baker’s door, the rations, the cold chimneys, -the shells showering upon some districts of the left side of the -river. Then the crowd would be struck dumb by some disaster, and the -silence began again--the silence of a capital in the death agony. -Yet, in the course of this long siege, I saw little glimpses of quiet -happiness; people who had a little to live on, who kept up their daily -“constitutional” in the pale wintry sunshine, lovers smiling at each -other in some out of the way nook and never hearing the cannonade. We -lived from day to day. All our illusions had fallen; we counted on some -miracle, help from the provincial armies, or a sortie of the whole -populace, or some prodigious intervention to arise in its due time. - -I was at one of the outposts, one day, when a man was brought in, who -had been found in a trench. I recognised Julien. He insisted on being -taken to a general, and gave him sundry pieces of information. I stayed -with him, and we spent the night together. Since September he had never -slept in a bed, but had given himself up obstinately to his vocation as -a cut-throat. He seemed chary of details, shrugged his shoulders, and -told me that all expeditions were alike; he killed as many Prussians -as he could, and killed them how he could: with a gun or with a knife. -According to him it was after all a very monotonous life, and much less -dangerous than people thought. He had run no real danger, except once -when the French took him for a spy and wanted to shoot him. - -The next day he talked of going off again, across fields and woods. I -entreated him to stay in Paris. He was sitting beside me, but did not -seem to listen to me. Then he said, all at once: - -“You are right, it is enough--I have killed my share.” - -Two days later he announced that he had enlisted in the -Chasseurs-à-pied. I was stupefied. Had he not avenged his brother -enough? Had the idea of his country awakened in him? And, as I smiled -in looking at him, he said quietly: - -“I take Louis’ place. I cannot be anything but a soldier. Oh, powder -intoxicates! And one’s country, you see, is the earth where they lie, -whom we loved.” - - -_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE HANSON & CO. _London and Edinburgh_ - - - - -A Selection - -FROM - -_MR. WM. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: The Attack on the Mill and Other Sketches of War</p> -<p>Author: Émile Zola</p> -<p>Release Date: October 5, 2020 [eBook #63382]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATTACK ON THE MILL AND OTHER SKETCHES OF WAR***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4 class="pgx" title="">E-text prepared by Emmanuel Ackerman<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org">https://archive.org</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/AttackOnTheMillAndOtherSketchesOfWar"> - https://archive.org/details/AttackOnTheMillAndOtherSketchesOfWar</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<h1>THE ATTACK ON THE MILL<br /> -<br /> -AND OTHER SKETCHES OF WAR</h1> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="ad-div"> -<p class="center"><i>Uniform with this Volume. Price 3s. 6d.</i></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="The_Average_Woman"><i>THE AVERAGE WOMAN</i></h2> - -<p class="center"><i>By</i><br /> -<br /> -<i>WOLCOTT BALESTIER</i></p> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="hang-ad"><i><span class="u">World.</span>—“Characteristic, fresh, and simply-pathetic.”</i></p> - -<p class="hang-ad"><i><span class="u">St. James’s Gazette.</span>—“Decidedly good stories and well -told.”</i></p> - -<p class="hang-ad"><i><span class="u">Scotsman.</span>—“The book will interest every one who takes it up.”</i></p> - -<p class="hang-ad"><i><span class="u">Morning Post.</span>—“Considerable freshness of inspiration ... -touches both of humour and pathos.”</i></p></div> - - -<p class="center"><i>LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN</i></p> -</div> -</div> -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"> - - - -<p class="fake-h1"><span class="smcap">The Attack -on the Mill</span><br /> -<br /> - -<span class="smaller">AND OTHER -SKETCHES -OF WAR</span></p> -</div> -<p class="center"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -<span class="smcap bigger">Émile Zola</span></p> - -<p class="p2 center">WITH AN ESSAY ON THE<br /> -SHORT STORIES OF M. ZOLA<br /> -BY EDMUND GOSSE</p> - -<p class="p2 center">LONDON<br /> -WILLIAM HEINEMANN<br /> -BEDFORD STREET W.C.<br /> -MDCCCXCII -</p> - - -<p class="p2 center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - - - -<table id="ToC" summary="Table of Contents"> -<tr><td></td><td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#THE_SHORT_STORIES">ESSAY BY MR. GOSSE</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#THE_ATTACK_ON_THE_MILL">THE ATTACK ON THE MILL</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#THREE_WARS">THREE WARS</a></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#A_Selection">PUBLISHER’S CATALOG</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#TN">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE</a></td></tr> -</table> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[Pg 1]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SHORT_STORIES">THE SHORT STORIES -OF M. ZOLA</h2> -</div> - - -<p>It is by his huge novels, and principally by -those of the <i>Rougon-Macquart</i> series, that -M. Zola is known to the public and to the -critics. Nevertheless, he has found time -during the thirty years of his busy literary -career to publish about as many small stories, -now comprised in four separate volumes. It -is natural that his novels should present so -very much wider and more attractive a -subject for analysis that, so far as I can -discover, even in France no critic has -hitherto taken the shorter productions separately, -and discussed M. Zola as a maker of -<i>contes</i>. Yet there is a very distinct interest<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[Pg 2]</span> -in seeing how such a thunderer or bellower -on the trumpet can breathe through silver, -and, as a matter of fact, the short stories -reveal a M. Zola considerably dissimilar to -the author of “Nana” and of “La Terre”—a -much more optimistic, romantic, and gentle -writer. If, moreover, he had nowhere assailed -the decencies more severely than he does in -these thirty or forty short stories, he would -never have been named among the enemies -of Mrs. Grundy, and the gates of the Palais -Mazarin would long ago have been opened -to receive him. It is, indeed, to a lion with -his mane <i>en papillotes</i> that I here desire to -attract the attention of English readers; to a -man-eating monster, indeed, but to one who -is on his best behaviour and blinking in the -warm sunshine of Provence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[Pg 3]</span></p> - - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>The first public appearance of M. Zola in -any form was made as a writer of a short -story. A southern journal, <i>La Provence</i>, -published at Aix, brought out in 1859 a -little <i>conte</i> entitled “La Fée Amoureuse.” -When this was written, in 1858, the future -novelist was a student of eighteen, attending -the rhetoric classes at the Lycée St. Louis; -when it was printed, life in Paris, far from -his delicious South, was beginning to open -before him, harsh, vague, with a threat of -poverty and failure. “La Fée Amoureuse” -may still be read by the curious in the <i>Contes -à Ninon</i>. It is a fantastic little piece, in the -taste of the eighteenth-century trifles of Crébillon -or Boufflers, written with considerable -care in an over-luscious vein—a fairy tale<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[Pg 4]</span> -about an enchanted bud of sweet marjoram, -which expands and reveals the amorous fay, -guardian of the loves of Prince Loïs and the -fair Odette. This is a moonlight-coloured -piece of unrecognisable Zola, indeed, belonging -to the period of his lost essay on -“The Blind Milton dictating to his Elder -Daughter, while the Younger accompanies -him upon the Harp,” a piece which many -have sighed in vain to see.</p> - -<p>He was twenty when, in 1860, during the -course of blackening reams of paper with -poems <i>à la Musset</i>, he turned, in the aërial -garret, or lantern above the garret of 35 Rue -St. Victor, to the composition of a second -story—“Le Carnet de Danse.” This is -addressed to Ninon, the ideal lady of all -M. Zola’s early writings—the fleet and -jocund virgin of the South, in whom he -romantically personifies the Provence after<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[Pg 5]</span> -which his whole soul was thirsting in the -desert of Paris. This is an exquisite piece -of writing—a little too studied, perhaps, too -full of opulent and voluptuous adjectives; -written, as we may plainly see, under the -influence of Théophile Gautier. The story, -such as it is, is a conversation between -Georgette and the programme-card of her -last night’s ball. What interest “Le Carnet -de Danse” possesses it owes to the style, -especially that of the opening pages, in -which the joyous Provençal life is elegantly -described. The young man, still stumbling -in the wrong path, had at least become a -writer.</p> - -<p>For the next two years M. Zola was -starving, and vainly striving to be a poet. -Another “belvédère,” as M. Aléxis calls it, -another glazed garret above the garret, received -him in the Rue Neuve St. Étienne<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[Pg 6]</span> -du Mont. Here the squalor of Paris was -around him; the young idealist from the -forests and lagoons of Provence found -himself lost in a loud and horrid world of -quarrels, oaths, and dirt, of popping beer-bottles -and yelling women. A year, at the -age of two-and-twenty, spent in this atmosphere -of sordid and noisy vice, left its mark -for ever on the spirit of the young observer. -He lived on bread and coffee, with two sous’ -worth of apples upon gala days. He had, -on one occasion, even to make an Arab of -himself, sitting with the bed-wraps draped -about him, because he had pawned his -clothes. All the time, serene and ardent, -he was writing modern imitations of Dante’s -“Divina Commedia,” epics on the genesis of -the world, didactic hymns to Religion, and -love-songs by the gross. Towards the close -of 1861 this happy misery, this wise folly,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[Pg 7]</span> -came to an end; he obtained a clerkship -in the famous publishing house of M. -Hachette.</p> - -<p>But after these two years of poverty and -hardship he began to write a few things -which were not in verse. Early in 1862 he -again addressed to the visionary Ninon a -short story called “Le Sang.” He confesses -himself weary, as Ninon also must be, of the -coquettings of the rose and the infidelities of -the butterfly. He will tell her a terrible tale -of real life. But, in fact, he is absolutely in -the clouds of the worst romanticism. Four -soldiers, round a camp-fire, suffer agonies of -ghostly adventure, in the manner of Hofmann -or of Petrus Borel. We seem to have returned -to the age of 1830, with its vampires -and its ghouls. “Simplice,” which comes -next in point of date, is far more characteristic, -and here, indeed, we find one talent of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[Pg 8]</span> -the future novelist already developed. Simplice -is the son of a worldly king, who -despises him for his innocence; the prince -slips away into the primæval forest and lives -with dragon-flies and water-lilies. In the -personal life given to the forest itself, as well -as to its inhabitants, we have something -very like the future idealisations in <i>L’Abbé -Mouret</i>, although the touch is yet timid -and the flashes of romantic insight fugitive. -“Simplice” is an exceedingly pretty fairy -story, curiously like what Mrs. Alfred Gatty -used to write for sentimental English girls -and boys: it was probably inspired to some -extent by George Sand.</p> - -<p>On a somewhat larger scale is “Les -Voleurs et l’Âne,” which belongs to the -same period of composition. It is delightful -to find M. Zola describing his garret as -“full of flowers and of light, and so high<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[Pg 9]</span> -up that sometimes one hears the angels -talking on the roof.” His story describes a -summer day’s adventure on the Seine, an -improvised picnic of strangers on a grassy -island of elms, a siesta disturbed by the -somewhat stagey trick of a fantastic coquette. -According to his faithful biographer, M. Paul -Aléxis, the author, towards the close of 1862, -chose another lodging, again a romantic -chamber, overlooking this time the whole -extent of the cemetery of Montparnasse. -In this elegiacal retreat he composed two -short stories, “Sœur des Pauvres” and -“Celle qui m’Aime.” Of these, the former -was written as a commission for the young -Zola’s employer, M. Hachette, who wanted -a tale appropriate for a children’s newspaper -which his firm was publishing. After reading -what his clerk submitted to him, the -publisher is said to have remarked, “Vous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[Pg 10]</span> -êtes un révolté,” and to have returned him -the manuscript as “too revolutionary.” -“Sœur des Pauvres” is a tiresome fable, -and it is difficult to understand why M. Zola -has continued to preserve it among his -writings. It belongs to the class of semi-realistic -stories which Tolstoi has since then -composed with such admirable skill. But -M. Zola is not happy among saintly visitants -to little holy girls, nor among pieces of gold -that turn into bats and rats in the hands of -selfish peasants. Why this anodyne little -religious fable should ever have been considered -revolutionary, it is impossible to conceive.</p> - -<p>Of a very different order is “Celle qui -m’Aime,” a story of real power. Outside a -tent, in the suburbs of Paris, a man in a -magician’s dress stands beating a drum and -inviting the passers-by to enter and gaze on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[Pg 11]</span> -the realisation of their dreams, the face of -her who loves you. The author is persuaded -to go in, and he finds himself in the midst of -an assemblage of men and boys, women and -girls, who pass up in turn to look through a -glass trap in a box. In the description of the -various types, as they file by, of the aspect -of the interior of the tent, there is the touch -of a new hand. The vividness of the study -is not maintained; it passes off into romanesque -extravagance, but for a few moments -the attentive listener, who goes back to -these early stories, is conscious that he has -heard the genuine accent of the master of -Naturalism.</p> - -<p>Months passed, and the young Provençal -seemed to be making but little progress in -the world. His poems definitely failed to -find a publisher, and for a while he seems -to have flagged even in the production of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[Pg 12]</span> -prose. Towards the beginning of 1864, however, -he put together the seven stories which -I have already mentioned, added to them a -short novel entitled “Aventures du Grand -Sidoine,” prefixed a fanciful and very prettily -turned address “À Ninon,” and carried off -the collection to a new publisher, M. Hetzel. -It was accepted, and issued in October of the -same year. M. Zola’s first book appeared -under the title of <i>Contes à Ninon</i>. This -volume was very well received by the reviewers, -but ten years passed before the -growing fame of its author carried it beyond -its first edition of one thousand copies.</p> - -<p>There is no critical impropriety in considering -these early stories, since M. Zola -has never allowed them, as he has allowed -several of his subsequent novels, to pass out -of print. Nor, from the point of view of -style, is there anything to be ashamed of in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[Pg 13]</span> -them. They are written with an uncertain -and an imitative, but always with a careful -hand, and some passages of natural description, -if a little too precious, are excellently -modulated. What is really very -curious in the first <i>Contes à Ninon</i> is the -optimistic tone, the sentimentality, the luscious -idealism. The young man takes a -cobweb for his canvas, and paints upon -it in rainbow-dew with a peacock’s feather. -Except, for a brief moment, in “Celle qui -m’Aime,” there is not a phrase that suggests -the naturalism of the Rougon-Macquart -novels, and it is an amusing circumstance -that, while M. Zola has not only been -practising, but very sternly and vivaciously -preaching, the gospel of Realism, this innocent -volume of fairy stories should all the -time have been figuring among his works. -The humble student who should turn from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[Pg 14]</span> -the master’s criticism to find an example in -his writings, and who should fall by chance -on the <i>Contes à Ninon</i>, would be liable to no -small distress of bewilderment.</p> - - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>Ten years later, in 1874, M. Zola published -a second volume of short stories, entitled -<i>Nouveaux Contes à Ninon</i>. His position, his -literary character, had in the meantime undergone -a profound modification. In 1874 -he was no longer unknown to the public or -to himself. He had already published four -of the Rougon-Macquart novels, embodying -the natural and social history of a French -family during the Second Empire. He was -scandalous and famous, and already bore -a great turbulent name in literature and -criticism. The <i>Nouveaux Contes à Ninon</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[Pg 15]</span> -composed at intervals during that period -of stormy evolution, have the extraordinary -interest which attends the incidental work -thrown off by a great author during the early -and noisy manhood of his talent. After -1864 M. Zola had written one unsuccessful -novel after another, until at last, in <i>Thérèse -Raquin</i>, with its magnificent study of crime -chastised by its own hideous after-gust, he -produced a really remarkable performance. -The scene in which the paralytic mother -tries to denounce the domestic murderess -was in itself enough to prove that France -possessed one novelist the more.</p> - -<p>This was late in 1867, when M. Zola -was in his twenty-eighth year. A phrase of -Louis Ulbach’s, in reviewing <i>Thérèse Raquin</i>, -which he called “littérature putride,” is -regarded as having stated the question of -Naturalism and M. Zola who had not, up<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[Pg 16]</span> -to that time, had any notion of founding a -school, or even of moving in any definite -direction, was led to adopt the theories -which we identify with his name during the -angry dispute with Ulbach. In 1865 he had -begun to be drawn towards Edmond and -Jules de Goncourt, and to feel, as he puts it, -that in the <i>salons</i> of the Parnassians he was -growing more and more out of his element -“among so many impenitent <i>romantiques</i>.” -Meanwhile he was for ever feeding the -furnaces of journalism, scorched and desiccated -by the blaze of public life, by the -daily struggle for bread. He was roughly -affronting the taste of those who differed -from him, with rude hands he was thrusting -out of his path the timid, the dull, the old-fashioned. -The spectacle of these years of -M. Zola’s life is not altogether a pleasant -one, but it leaves on us the impression of a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[Pg 17]</span> -colossal purpose pursued with force and -courage. In 1870 the first of the <i>Rougon -Macquart</i> novels appeared, and the author -was fairly launched on his career. He was -writing books of large size, in which he was -endeavouring to tell the truth about modern -life with absolute veracity, no matter how -squalid, or ugly, or venomous that truth -might be.</p> - -<p>But during the whole of this tempestuous -decade M. Zola, in his hot battle-field of -Paris, heard the voice of Ninon calling to -him from the leafy hollows, from behind the -hawthorn hedges, of his own dewy Provence—the -cool Provence of earliest flowery -spring. When he caught these accents -whistling to his memory from the past, -and could no longer resist answering them, -he was accustomed to write a little <i>conte</i>, -light and innocent, and brief enough to be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[Pg 18]</span> -the note of a caged bird from indoors -answering its mate in the trees of the garden. -This is the real secret of the utterly incongruous -tone of the <i>Nouveaux Contes</i> -when we compare them with the <i>Curée</i> -and <i>Madeleine Férat</i> of the same period. -It would be utterly to misunderstand the -nature of M. Zola to complain, as Pierre -Loti did the other day, that the coarseness -and cynicism of the naturalistic novel, the -tone of a ball at Belleville, could not sincerely -co-exist with a love of beauty, or with a -nostalgia for youth and country pleasures. -In the short stories of the period of which -we are speaking, that poet which dies in -every middle-aged man lived on for M. Zola, -artificially, in a crystal box carefully addressed -“à Ninon là-bas,” a box into which, at intervals, -the master of the Realists slipped a -document of the most refined ideality.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[Pg 19]</span></p> - -<p>Of these tiny stories—there are twelve of -them within one hundred pages—not all are -quite worthy of his genius. He grimaces a -little too much in “Les Epaules de la Marquise,” -and M. Bourget has since analysed -the little self-indulgent <i>dévote</i> of quality -more successfully than M. Zola did in “Le -Jeûne.” But most of them are very charming. -Here is “Le Grand Michu,” a study of -gallant, stupid boyhood; here “Les Paradis -des Chats,” one of the author’s rare escapes -into humour. In “Le Forgeron,” with its -story of the jaded and cynical town-man, -who finds health and happiness by retiring -to a lodging within the very thunders of a -village blacksmith, we have a profound criticism -of life. “Le Petit Village” is interesting -to us here, because, with its pathetic -picture of Woerth in Alsace, it is the earliest -of M. Zola’s studies of war. In other of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[Pg 20]</span> -these stories the spirit of Watteau seems to -inspire the sooty Vulcan of Naturalism. He -prattles of moss-grown fountains, of alleys of -wild strawberries, of rendezvous under the -wings of the larks, of moonlight strolls in -the bosquets of a château. In every one, -without exception, is absent that tone of -brutality which we associate with the notion -of M. Zola’s genius. All is gentle irony and -pastoral sweetness, or else downright pathetic -sentiment.</p> - -<p>The volume of <i>Nouveaux Contes à Ninon</i> -closes with a story which is much longer -and considerably more important than the -rest. “Les Quatre Journées de Jean Gourdon” -deserves to rank among the very best -things to which M. Zola has signed his -name. It is a study of four typical days -in the life of a Provençal peasant of the -better sort, told by the man himself. In<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[Pg 21]</span> -the first of these it is spring: Jean Gourdon -is eighteen years of age, and he steals away -from the house of his uncle Lazare, a country -priest, that he may meet his coy sweetheart -Babet by the waters of the broad Durance. -His uncle follows and captures him, but the -threatened sermon turns into a benediction, -the priestly malediction into an impassioned -song to the blossoming springtide. Babet -and Jean receive the old man’s blessing on -their betrothal.</p> - -<p>Next follows a day in summer, five years -later; Jean, as a soldier in the Italian war, -goes through the horrors of a battle and -is wounded, but not dangerously, in the -shoulder. Just as he marches into action -he receives a letter from Uncle Lazare and -Babet, full of tender fears and tremors; he -reads it when he recovers consciousness -after the battle. Presently he creeps off to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[Pg 22]</span> -help his excellent colonel, and they support -one another till both are carried off to -hospital. This episode, which has something -in common with the “Sevastopol” of -Tolstoi, is exceedingly ingenious in its observation -of the sentiments of a common man -under fire.</p> - -<p>The third part of the story occurs fifteen -years later. Jean and Babet have now long -been married, and Uncle Lazare, in extreme -old age, has given up his cure, and lives with -them in their farm by the river. All things -have prospered with them save one. They are -rich, healthy, devoted to one another, respected -by all their neighbours; but there is a single -happiness lacking—they have no child. And -now, in the high autumn splendour—when the -corn and the grapes are ripe, and the lovely -Durance winds like a riband of white satin -through the gold and purple of the land<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[Pg 23]</span>scape—this -gift also is to be theirs. A little -son is born to them in the midst of the -vintage weather, and the old uncle, to whom -life has now no further good thing to offer, -drops painlessly from life, shaken down like a -blown leaf by his access of joy, on the evening -of the birthday of the child.</p> - -<p>The optimistic tone has hitherto been so -consistently preserved, that we must almost -resent the tragedy of the fourth day. This -is eighteen years later, and Jean is now an -elderly man. His son Jacques is in early -manhood. In the midst of their felicity, on -a winter’s night, the Durance rises in spate, -and all are swept away. It is impossible, in a -brief sketch, to give an impression of the -charm and romantic sweetness of this little -masterpiece, a veritable hymn to the Ninon -of Provence; but it raises many curious reflections -to consider that this exquisitely pathetic<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[Pg 24]</span> -pastoral, with all its gracious and tender -personages, should have been written by the -master of Naturalism, the author of <i>Germinal</i> -and of <i>Pot-Bouille</i>.</p> - - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>In 1878, M. Zola, who had long been wishing -for a place whither to escape from the roar -of Paris, bought a little property on the right -bank of the Seine, between Poissy and Meulan, -where he built himself the house which -he still inhabits, and which he has made so -famous. Médan, the village in which this -property is placed, is a very quiet hamlet of -less than two hundred inhabitants, absolutely -unillustrious, save that, according to tradition, -Charles the Bold was baptised in the font of -its parish church. The river lies before it, -with its rich meadows, its poplars, its willow<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[Pg 25]</span> -groves; a delicious and somnolent air of -peace hangs over it, though so close to Paris. -Thither the master’s particular friends and -disciples soon began to gather: that enthusiastic -Boswell, M. Paul Aléxis; M. Guy de -Maupassant, a stalwart oarsman, in his skiff, -from Rouen; others, whose names were soon -to come prominently forward in connection -with that naturalistic school of which M. Zola -was the leader.</p> - -<p>It was in 1880 that the little hamlet on -the Poissy Road awoke to find itself made -famous by the publication of a volume which -marks an epoch in French literature, and still -more in the history of the short story. <i>Les -Soirées de Médan</i> was a manifesto by the -naturalists, the most definite and the most -defiant which had up to that time been made. -It consisted of six short stories, several of -which were of remarkable excellence, and all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[Pg 26]</span> -of which awakened an amount of discussion -almost unprecedented. M. Zola came first -with “L’Attaque du Moulin,” of which a -translation is here offered to the English -public. The next story was “Boule de Suif,” -a veritable masterpiece in a new vein, by an -entirely new writer, a certain M. Guy de Maupassant, -thirty years of age, who had been -presented to M. Zola, with warm recommendations, -by Gustave Flaubert. The other contributors -were M. Henri Céard, who also had -as yet published nothing, a man who seems to -have greatly impressed all his associates, but -who has done little or nothing to justify their -hopes. M. Joris Karel Huysmans, older than -the rest, and already somewhat distinguished -for picturesque, malodorous novels; M. Léon -Hennique, a youth from Guadeloupe, who -had attracted attention by a very odd and -powerful novel, <i>La Dévouée</i>, the story of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[Pg 27]</span> -an inventor who murders his daughter that -he may employ her fortune on perfecting his -machine; and finally, the faithful Paul Aléxis, -a native, like M. Zola himself, of Aix in -Provence, and full of the perfervid extravagance -of the South. The thread on which the -whole book is hung is the supposition that -these stories are brought to Médan to be -read of an evening to M. Zola, and that he -leads off by telling a tale of his own.</p> - -<p>Nothing need be said here, however, of the -works of those disciples who placed themselves -under the flag of Médan, and little of -that story in which, with his accustomed -<i>bonhomie</i> of a good giant, M. Zola accepted -their comradeship and consented to march -with them. “The Attack on the Windmill” -is here offered to those who have not already -met with it in the original, and it is for our -readers to estimate its force and truth. When<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[Pg 28]</span>ever -M. Zola writes of war, he writes seriously -and well. Like the Julien of his late reminiscences, -he has never loved war for its -own sake. He has little of the mad and -pompous chivalry of the typical Frenchman -in his nature. He sees war as the disturber, -the annihilator; he recognises in it mainly a -destructive, stupid, unintelligible force, set in -motion by those in power for the discomfort -of ordinary beings, of workers like himself. -But in the course of three European wars—those -of his childhood, of his youth, of his -maturity—he has come to see beneath the -surface, and in his latest novel, <i>La Débâcle</i>, -he almost agrees with our young Jacobin -poets of one hundred years ago, that Slaughter -is God’s daughter.</p> - -<p>In this connection, and as a commentary -on “The Attack on the Windmill,” we may -commend the three short papers appended<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[Pg 29]</span> -to this story to the earnest attention of -readers. Nothing on the subject has been -written more picturesque, nor, in its simple -way, more poignant, than the chain of reminiscences -called “Three Wars.” Whether -Louis and Julien existed under those forms, -or whether the episodes which they illustrate -are fictitious, matters little or nothing. The -brothers are natural enough, delightful -enough, to belong to the world of fiction, -and if their story is, in the historical sense, -true, it is one of those rare instances in -which fact is better than fancy. The crisis -under which the timid Julien, having learned -the death of his spirited martial brother, is -not broken down, but merely frozen into a -cold soldierly passion, and spends the remainder -of the campaign—he, the poet, the -nestler by the fireside, the timid club-man—in -watching behind hedges for Prussians to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[Pg 30]</span> -shoot or stab, is one of the most extraordinary -and most interesting that a novelist has ever -tried to describe. And the light that it -throws on war as a disturber of the moral -nature, as a dynamitic force exploding in the -midst of an elaborately co-related society, -is unsurpassed, even by the studies which -Count Lyof Tolstoi has made in a similar -direction. It is unsurpassed, because it is -essentially without prejudice. It admits the -discomfort, the horrible vexation and shame -of war, and it tears aside the conventional -purple and tinsel of it; but at the same time -it admits, not without a sigh, that even this -clumsy artifice may be the only one available -for the cleansing of the people.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[Pg 31]</span></p> - - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>In 1883, M. Zola published a third volume -of short stories, under the title of the opening -one, <i>Le Capitaine Burle</i>. This collection -contains the delicate series of brief -semi-autobiographical essays called “Aux -Champs,” little studies of past impression, -touched with a charm which is almost kindred -to that of Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson’s -memories. With this exception, the volume -consists of four short stories, and of a set of -little death-bed anecdotes, called “Comment -on Meurt.” This latter is hardly in the -writer’s best style, and suffers by suggesting -the immeasurably finer and deeper studies of -the same kind which the genius of Tolstoi -has elaborated. Of these little sketches of -death, one alone, that of Madame Rousseau,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[Pg 32]</span> -the stationer’s wife, is quite of the best class. -This is an excellent episode from the sort of -Parisian life which M. Zola seems to understand -best, the lower middle class, the small -and active shopkeeper, who just contrives to -be respectable and no more. The others -seem to be invented rather than observed.</p> - -<p>The four stories which make up the bulk -of this book are almost typical examples of -M. Zola’s mature style. They are worked -out with extreme care, they display in every -turn the skill of the practised narrator, they -are solid and yet buoyant in style, and the -construction of each may be said to be faultless. -It is faultless to a fault; in other words, -the error of the author is to be mechanically -and inevitably correct. It is difficult to define -wherein the over-elaboration shows itself, -but in every case the close of the story leaves -us sceptical and cold. The <i>dénouement</i> is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[Pg 33]</span> -too brilliant and conclusive, the threads are -drawn together with too much evidence -of preoccupation. The impression is not so -much of a true tale told as of an extraordinary -situation frigidly written up to and -accounted for. In each case a certain social -condition is described at the beginning, and -a totally opposite condition is discovered at -the end of the story. We are tempted to -believe that the author determined to do -this, to turn the whole box of bricks absolutely -topsy-turvy. This disregard of the -soft and supple contours of nature, this -rugged air of molten metal, takes away from -the pleasure we should otherwise legitimately -receive from the exhibition of so much fancy, -so much knowledge, so many proofs of observation.</p> - -<p>The story which gives its name to the -book, “Le Capitaine Burle” is perhaps the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[Pg 34]</span> -best, because it has least of this air of artifice. -In a military county town, a captain, -who lives with his anxious mother and his -little pallid, motherless son, sinks into -vicious excesses, and pilfers from the regiment -to pay for his vices. It is a great -object with the excellent major, who discovers -this condition, to save his friend the -captain in some way which will prevent an -open scandal, and leave the child free for -ultimate success in the army. After trying -every method, and discovering that the -moral nature of the captain is altogether -too soft and too far sunken to be redeemed, -as the inevitable hour of publicity approaches, -the major insults his friend in a -café, so as to give him an opportunity of -fighting a duel and dying honourably. This -is done, and the scandal is evaded, without, -however, any good being thereby secured to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[Pg 35]</span> -the family, for the little boy dies of weakness -and his grandmother starves. Still, the name -of Burle has not been dragged through the -mud.</p> - -<p>M. Zola has rarely displayed the quality of -humour, but it is present in the story called -“La Fête à Coqueville.” Coqueville is the -name given to a very remote Norman fishing-village, -set in a gorge of rocks, and almost -inaccessible except from the sea. Here a -sturdy population of some hundred and -eighty souls, all sprung from one or other -of two rival families, live in the condition -of a tiny Verona, torn between contending -interests. A ship laden with liqueurs is -wrecked on the rocks outside, and one -precious cask after another comes riding -into Coqueville over the breakers. The -villagers, to whom brandy itself has hitherto -been the rarest of luxuries, spend a glorious<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[Pg 36]</span> -week of perfumed inebriety, sucking splinters -that drip with bénédictine, catching noyeau -in iron cups, and supping up curaçao from -the bottom of a boat. Upon this happy -shore chartreuse flows like cider, and trappistine -is drunk out of a mug. The rarest -drinks of the world—Chios mastic and -Servian sliwowitz, Jamaica rum and arrack, -crême de moka and raki drip among the -mackerel nets and deluge the seaweed. In -the presence of this extraordinary and -fantastic bacchanal all the disputes of the -rival families are forgotten, class prejudices -are drowned, and the mayor’s rich daughter -marries the poorest of the fisher-sons of the -enemy’s camp. It is very amusingly and -very picturesquely told, but spoiled a little -by M. Zola’s pet sin—the overcrowding of -details, the theatrical completeness and -orchestral big-drum of the final scene. Too<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[Pg 37]</span> -many barrels of liqueur come in, the village -becomes too universally drunk, the scene at -last becomes too Lydian for credence.</p> - -<p>In the two remaining stories of this collection—“Pour -une Nuit d’Amour” and -“L’Inondation”—the fault of mechanical -construction is still more plainly obvious. -Each of these narratives begins with a carefully -accentuated picture of a serene life: -in the first instance, that of a timid lad -sequestered in a country town; in the second, -that of a prosperous farmer, surrounded by -his family and enjoying all the delights of -material and moral success. In each case -this serenity is but the prelude to events of -the most appalling tragedy—a tragedy which -does not merely strike or wound, but positively -annihilates. The story called “L’Inondation,” -which describes the results of a bore -on the Garonne, would be as pathetic as it is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[Pg 38]</span> -enthralling, exciting, and effective, if the destruction -were not so absolutely complete, if -the persons so carefully enumerated at the -opening of the piece were not all of them -sacrificed, and, as in the once popular song -called “An ’Orrible Tale,” each by some -different death of peculiar ingenuity. As to -“Pour une Nuit d’Amour,” it is not needful -to do more than say that it is one of the -most repulsive productions ever published -by its author, and a vivid exception to the -general innocuous character of his short -stories.</p> - -<p>No little interest, to the practical student -of literature, attaches to the fact that in -“L’Inondation” M. Zola is really re-writing, -in a more elaborate form, the fourth section -of his “Jean Gourdon.” Here, as there, a -farmer who has lived in the greatest prosperity, -close to a great river, is stripped of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[Pg 39]</span> -everything—of his house, his wealth, and his -family—by a sudden rising of the waters. It -is unusual for an author thus to re-edit a -work, or tell the same tale a second time -at fuller length, but the sequences of incidents -will be found to be closely identical, -although the later is by far the larger and -the more populous story. It is not uninteresting -to the technical student to compare -the two pieces, the composition of which -was separated by about ten years.</p> - - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>Finally, in 1884, M. Zola published a -fourth collection, named, after the first of -the series, <i>Naïs Micoulin</i>. This volume -contained in all six stories, each of considerable -extent. I do not propose to dwell at -any length on the contents of this book,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[Pg 40]</span> -partly because they belong to the finished -period of naturalism, and seem more like -castaway fragments of the <i>Rougon-Macquart</i> -epos than like independent creations, but -also because they clash with the picture I -have sought to draw of an optimistic and -romantic Zola returning from time to time to -the short story as a shelter from his theories. -Of these tales, one or two are trifling and -passably insipid; the Parisian sketches -called “Nantas” and “Madame Neigon” -have little to be said in favour of their -existence. Here M. Zola seems desirous -to prove to us that he could write as good -Octave Feuillet, if he chose, as the author of -<i>Monsieur de Camors</i> himself. In “Les -Coquillages de M. Chabre,” which I confess -I read when it first appeared, and have now -re-read, with amusement, we see the heavy -M. Zola endeavouring to sport as gracefully<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[Pg 41]</span> -as M. de Maupassant, and in the same style. -The impression of buoyant Atlantic seas and -hollow caverns is well rendered in this most -unedifying story. “Naïs Micoulin,” which -gives its name to the book, is a disagreeable -tale of seduction and revenge in Provence, -narrated with the usual ponderous conscientiousness. -In each of the last mentioned -the background of landscape is so -vivid that we half forgive the faults of the -narrative.</p> - -<p>The two remaining stories in the book are -more remarkable, and one of them, at least, -is of positive value. It is curious that in -“Le Mort d’Olivier Bécaille” and “Jacques -Damour” M. Zola should in the same -volume present versions of the Enoch Arden -story, the now familiar episode of the man -who is supposed to be dead, and comes back -to find his wife re-married. Olivier Bécaille<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[Pg 42]</span> -is a poor clerk, lately arrived in Paris with -his wife; he is in wretched health, and has -always been subject to cataleptic seizures. -In one of these he falls into a state of -syncope so prolonged that they believe him -to be dead, and bury him. He manages to -break out of his coffin in the cemetery, and -is picked up fainting by a philanthropic -doctor. He has a long illness, at the end -of which he cannot discover what has become -of his wife. After a long search, he -finds that she has married a very excellent -young fellow, a neighbour; and in the face -of her happiness, Olivier Bécaille has not -the courage to disturb her. Like Tennyson’s -“strong, heroic soul,” he passes out into the -silence and the darkness.</p> - -<p>The exceedingly powerful story called -“Jacques Damour” treats the same idea, -but with far greater mastery, and in a less<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[Pg 43]</span> -conventional manner. Jacques Damour is a -Parisian artisan, who becomes demoralised -during the siege, and joins the Commune. He -is captured by the Versailles army, and sentenced -to penal servitude in New Caledonia, -leaving a wife and a little girl behind him in -Paris. After some years, in company with -two or three other convicts, he makes an -attempt to escape. He, in fact, succeeds in -escaping, with one companion, the rest being -drowned before they get out of the colony. -One of the dead men being mistaken for -him, Jacques Damour is reported home -deceased. When, after credible adventures, -and at the declaration of the amnesty, he -returns to Paris, his wife and daughter have -disappeared. At length he finds the former -married to a prosperous butcher in the -Batignolles, and he summons up courage, -egged on by a rascally friend, to go to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[Pg 44]</span> -shop in midday and claim his lawful wife. -The successive scenes in the shop, and the -final one, in which the ruddy butcher, sure -of his advantage over this squalid and prematurely -wasted ex-convict, bids Félicie take -her choice, are superb. M. Zola has done -nothing more forcible or life-like. The poor -old Damour retires, but he still has a daughter -to discover. The finale of the tale is excessively -unfitted for the young person, and no -serious critic could do otherwise than blame -it. But, at the same time, I am hardened -enough to admit that I think it very true to -life and not a little humorous, which, I hope, -is not equivalent to a moral commendation. -We may, if we like, wish that M. Zola had -never written “Jacques Damour,” but nothing -can prevent it from being a superbly constructed -and supported piece of narrative,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[Pg 45]</span> -marred by unusually few of the mechanical -faults of his later work.</p> - -<p>Since 1884 M. Zola, more and more -absorbed in the completion of his huge -central edifice, has not found time to build -many arbours or pavilions in his literary -garden. No one can possibly say what such -an active and forcible talent, still in the prime -of life, will or will not do in the future. But -it is very probable that the day of his sentimental -short stories is over, and that those -who like the oddity of studying a moonlight-coloured -Zola are already in full possession -of the materials for so doing.</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse.</span><br /> -</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[Pg 47]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_ATTACK_ON_THE_MILL">THE ATTACK ON THE MILL</h2> -</div> - - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>It was high holiday at Father Merlier’s mill on -that pleasant summer afternoon. Three tables -had been brought out into the garden and placed -end to end in the shadow of the great elm, and -now they were awaiting the arrival of the guests. -It was known throughout the length and breadth -of the land that that day was to witness the -betrothal of old Merlier’s daughter, Françoise, -to Dominique, a young man who was said to be -not overfond of work, but whom never a woman -for three leagues of the country around could -look at without sparkling eyes, such a well-favoured -young fellow was he.</p> - -<p>That mill of Father Merlier’s was truly a very<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[Pg 48]</span> -pleasant spot. It was situated right in the heart -of Rocreuse, at the place where the main road -makes a sharp bend. The village has but a -single street, bordered on either side by a row -of low, whitened cottages, but just there, where -the road curves, there are broad stretches of -meadow-land, and huge trees, which follow the -course of the Morelle, cover the low grounds -of the valley with a most delicious shade. All -Lorraine has no more charming bit of nature to -show. To right and left dense forests, great -monarchs of the wood, centuries old, rise from -the gentle slopes and fill the horizon with a sea -of verdure, while away toward the south extends -the plain, of wondrous fertility and checkered -almost to infinity with its small inclosures, -divided off from one another by their live hedges. -But what makes the crowning glory of Rocreuse -is the coolness of this verdurous nook, even in -the hottest days of July and August. The -Morelle comes down from the woods of Gagny, -and it would seem as if it gathered to itself on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[Pg 49]</span> -the way all the delicious freshness of the foliage -beneath which it glides for many a league; it -brings down with it the murmuring sounds, the -glacial, solemn shadows of the forest. And that -is not the only source of coolness; there are -running waters of all kinds singing among the -copses; one cannot take a step without coming -on a gushing spring, and as he makes his way -along the narrow paths he seems to be treading -above subterranean lakes that seek the air and -sunshine through the moss above and profit by -every smallest crevice, at the roots of trees or -among the chinks and crannies of the rocks, to -burst forth in fountains of crystalline clearness. -So numerous and so loud are the whispering -voices of these streams that they silence the -song of the bullfinches. It is as if one were in -an enchanted park, with cascades falling on -every side.</p> - -<p>The meadows below are never athirst. The -shadows beneath the gigantic chestnut trees are -of inky blackness, and along the edges of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[Pg 50]</span> -fields long rows of poplars stand like walls of -rustling foliage. There is a double avenue of -huge plane trees ascending across the fields toward -the ancient castle of Gagny, now gone to -rack and ruin. In this region, where drought is -never known, vegetation of all kinds is wonderfully -rank; it is like a flower garden down there -in the low ground between those two wooded -hills, a natural garden, where the lawns are -broad meadows and the giant trees represent -colossal beds. When the noonday sun pours -down his scorching rays the shadows lie blue -upon the ground, the glowing vegetation slumbers -in the heat, while every now and then a breath -of icy coldness passes under the foliage.</p> - -<p>Such was the spot where Father Merlier’s -mill enlivened with its cheerful clack nature run -riot. The building itself, constructed of wood -and plaster, looked as if it might be coeval with -our planet. Its foundations were in part washed -by the Morelle, which here expands into a clear -pool. A dam, a few feet in height, afforded<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[Pg 51]</span> -sufficient head of water to drive the old wheel, -which creaked and groaned as it revolved, with -the asthmatic wheezing of a faithful servant who -has grown old in her place. Whenever Father -Merlier was advised to change it, he would shake -his head and say that like as not a young wheel -would be lazier and not so well acquainted with -its duties, and then he would set to work and -patch up the old one with anything that came -to hand, old hogshead-staves, bits of rusty iron, -zinc, or lead. The old wheel only seemed the -gayer for it, with its odd profile, all plumed and -feathered with tufts of moss and grass, and when -the water poured over it in a silvery tide its -gaunt black skeleton was decked out with a -gorgeous display of pearls and diamonds.</p> - -<p>That portion of the mill which was bathed by -the Morelle had something of the look of a barbaric -arch that had been dropped down there by -chance. A good half of the structure was built -on piles; the water came in under the floor, and -there were deep holes, famous throughout the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[Pg 52]</span> -whole country for the eels and the huge crawfish -that were to be caught there. Below the -fall the pool was as clear as a mirror, and when -it was not clouded by foam from the wheel one -could see troops of great fish swimming about -in it with the slow, majestic movements of a -squadron. There was a broken stairway leading -down to the stream, near a stake to which a boat -was fastened, and over the wheel was a gallery -of wood. Such windows as there were were -arranged without any attempt at order. The -whole was a quaint conglomeration of nooks -and corners, bits of wall, additions made here -and there as afterthoughts, beams and roofs, -that gave the mill the aspect of an old dismantled -citadel, but ivy and all sorts of creeping plants -had grown luxuriantly and kindly covered up -such crevices as were too unsightly, casting a -mantle of green over the old dwelling. Young -ladies who passed that way used to stop and -sketch Father Merlier’s mill in their albums.</p> - -<p>The side of the house that faced the road was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[Pg 53]</span> -less irregular. A gateway in stone afforded -access to the principal courtyard, on the right -and left hand of which were sheds and stables. -Beside a well stood an immense elm that threw -its shade over half the court. At the further -end, opposite the gate, stood the house, surmounted -by a dovecote, the four windows of its -first floor in a symmetrical line. The only vanity -that Father Merlier ever allowed himself was to -paint this façade every ten years. It had just -been freshly whitened at the time of our story, -and dazzled the eyes of all the village when -the sun lighted it up in the middle of the day.</p> - -<p>For twenty years had Father Merlier been -mayor of Rocreuse. He was held in great consideration -on account of his fortune; he was -supposed to be worth something like eighty -thousand francs, the result of patient saving. -When he married Madeleine Guillard, who -brought him the mill as her dowry, his entire -capital lay in his two strong arms, but Madeleine -had never repented of her choice, so manfully<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[Pg 54]</span> -had he conducted their joint affairs. Now his -wife was dead, and he was left a widower with -his daughter Françoise. Doubtless he might -have sat himself down to take his rest and -suffered the old mill-wheel to sleep among its -moss, but he would have found idleness too irksome -and the house would have seemed dead to -him. He kept on working still, for the pleasure -of it. In those days Father Merlier was a tall -old man, with a long, silent face, on which a -laugh was never seen, but beneath which there -lay, none the less, a large fund of good-humour. -He had been elected mayor on account of his -money, and also for the impressive air that he -knew how to assume when it devolved on him -to marry a couple.</p> - -<p>Françoise Merlier had just completed her -eighteenth year. She was small, and for that -reason was not accounted one of the beauties of -the country. Until she reached the age of -fifteen she had been even homely; the good -folks of Rocreuse could not see how it was that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[Pg 55]</span> -the daughter of Father and Mother Merlier, -such a hale, vigorous couple, had such a hard -time of it in getting her growth. When she was -fifteen, however, though still remaining delicate, -a change came over her and she took on the -prettiest little face imaginable. She had black -hair, black eyes, and was red as a rose withal; -her mouth was always smiling, there were -delicious dimples in her cheeks, and a crown of -sunshine seemed to be ever resting on her fair, -candid forehead. Although small as girls went -in that region, she was far from being thin; she -might not have been able to raise a sack of -wheat to her shoulder, but she became quite -plump as she grew older, and gave promise of -becoming eventually as well-rounded and -appetising as a partridge. Her father’s habits -of taciturnity had made her reflective while yet -a young girl; if she always had a smile on her -lips it was in order to give pleasure to others. -Her natural disposition was serious.</p> - -<p>As was no more than to be expected, she had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[Pg 56]</span> -every young man in the countryside at her heels -as a suitor, more even for her money than for -her attractiveness, and she had made a choice -at last, a choice that had been the talk and -scandal of the entire neighbourhood. On the -other side of the Morelle lived a strapping -young fellow who went by the name of -Dominique Penquer. He was not to the manor -born; ten years previously he had come to -Rocreuse from Belgium to receive the inheritance -of an uncle who had owned a small -property on the very borders of the forest of -Gagny, just facing the mill and distant from it -only a few musket-shots. His object in coming -was to sell the property, so he said, and return -to his own home again; but he must have -found the land to his liking, for he made no -move to go away. He was seen cultivating his -bit of a field and gathering the few vegetables -that afforded him an existence. He fished, he -hunted; more than once he was near coming in -contact with the law through the intervention of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[Pg 57]</span> -the keepers. This independent way of living, of -which the peasants could not very clearly see -the resources, had in the end given him a bad -name. He was vaguely looked on as nothing -better than a poacher. At all events he was -lazy, for he was frequently found sleeping in the -grass at hours when he should have been at -work. Then, too, the hut in which he lived, in -the shade of the last trees of the forest, did not -seem like the abode of an honest young man; -the old women would not have been surprised at -any time to hear that he was on friendly terms -with the wolves in the ruins of Gagny. Still, -the young girls would now and then venture to -stand up for him, for he was altogether a -splendid specimen of manhood, was this individual -of doubtful antecedents, tall and -straight as a young poplar, with a milk-white -skin and ruddy hair and beard that seemed to -be of gold when the sun shone on them. Now -one fine morning it came to pass that Françoise -told Father Merlier that she loved Dominique,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[Pg 58]</span> -and that never, never would she consent to -marry any other young man.</p> - -<p>It may be imagined what a knockdown blow -it was that Father Merlier received that day! -As was his wont, he said never a word; his -countenance wore its usual reflective look, only -the fun that used to bubble up from within no -longer shone in his eyes. Françoise, too, was -very serious, and for a week father and daughter -scarcely spoke to each other. What troubled -Father Merlier was to know how that rascal -of a poacher had succeeded in bewitching his -daughter. Dominique had never shown himself -at the mill. The miller played the spy a little, and -was rewarded by catching sight of the gallant, -on the other side of the Morelle, lying among the -grass and pretending to be asleep. Françoise -could see him from her chamber window. The -thing was clear enough; they had been making -sheep’s eyes at each other over the old mill-wheel, -and so had fallen in love.</p> - -<p>A week slipped by; Françoise became more<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[Pg 59]</span> -and more serious. Father Merlier still continued -to say nothing. Then, one evening, of -his own accord, he brought Dominique to the -house, without a word. Françoise was just -setting the table. She made no demonstration -of surprise; all she did was to add another -plate, but her laugh had come back to her, and -the little dimples appeared again upon her -cheeks. Father Merlier had gone that morning -to look for Dominique at his hut on the -edge of the forest, and there the two men had -had a conference, with closed doors and windows -that lasted three hours. No one ever knew -what they said to each other; the only thing -certain is that when Father Merlier left the hut -he already treated Dominique as a son. Doubtless -the old man had discovered that he whom -he had gone to visit was a worthy young fellow, -even though he did lie in the grass to gain the -love of young girls.</p> - -<p>All Rocreuse was up in arms. The women -gathered at their doors, and could not find words<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[Pg 60]</span> -strong enough to characterise Father Merlier’s -folly in thus receiving a ne’er-do-well into his -family. He let them talk. Perhaps he thought -of his own marriage. Neither had he possessed -a penny to his name at the time he married -Madeleine and her mill, and yet that had not -prevented him from being a good husband to -her. Moreover, Dominique put an end to their -tittle-tattle by setting to work in such strenuous -fashion that all the countryside was amazed. -It so happened just then that the boy of the mill -drew an unlucky number and had to go for a -soldier, and Dominique would not hear of their -engaging another. He lifted sacks, drove the -cart, wrestled with the old wheel when it took -an obstinate fit and refused to turn, and all so -pluckily and cheerfully that people came from -far and near merely for the pleasure of seeing -him. Father Merlier laughed his silent laugh. -He was highly elated that he had read the -youngster aright. There is nothing like love to -hearten up young men.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[Pg 61]</span></p> - -<p>In the midst of all that laborious toil Françoise -and Dominique fairly worshipped each other. -They had not much to say, but their tender -smiles conveyed a world of meaning. Father -Merlier had not said a word thus far on the -subject of their marriage, and they had both -respected his silence, waiting until the old man -should see fit to give expression to his will. At -last, one day along toward the middle of July, -he had had three tables laid in the courtyard, -in the shade of the big elm, and had invited his -friends of Rocreuse to come that afternoon and -drink a glass of wine with him. When the -courtyard was filled with people, and every -one there had a full glass in his hand, Father -Merlier raised his own high above his head, -and said:</p> - -<p>“I have the pleasure of announcing to you -that Françoise and this lad will be married -in a month from now, on Saint Louis’ fête-day.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a universal touching of glasses,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[Pg 62]</span> -attended by a tremendous uproar; every one was -laughing. But Father Merlier, raising his voice -above the din, again spoke:</p> - -<p>“Dominique, kiss your wife that is to be. It is -no more than customary.”</p> - -<p>And they kissed, very red in the face, both of -them, while the company laughed louder still. -It was a regular fête; they emptied a small cask. -Then, when only the intimate friends of the house -remained, conversation went on in a calmer -strain. Night had fallen, a starlit night, and -very clear. Dominique and Françoise sat on a -bench, side by side, and said nothing. An old -peasant spoke of the war that the Emperor had -declared against Prussia. All the lads of the -village were already gone off to the army. -Troops had passed through the place only the -night before. There were going to be hard -knocks.</p> - -<p>“Bah!” said Father Merlier, with the selfishness -of a man who is quite happy, “Dominique -is a foreigner; he won’t have to go—and if the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[Pg 63]</span> -Prussians come this way, he will be here to -defend his wife.”</p> - -<p>The idea of the Prussians coming there seemed -to the company an exceedingly good joke. -The army would give them one good conscientious -thrashing, and the affair would be -quickly ended.</p> - -<p>“I have seen them before, I have seen them -before,” the old peasant repeated, in a low -voice.</p> - -<p>There was silence for a little, then they all -touched glasses once again. Françoise and -Dominique had heard nothing; they had -managed to clasp hands behind the bench in -such a way as not to be seen by the others, and -this condition of affairs seemed so beatific to -them that they sat there, mute, their gaze lost in -the darkness of the night.</p> - -<p>What a magnificent, balmy night! The -village lay slumbering on either side of the -white road as peacefully as a little child. The -deep silence was undisturbed save by the occa<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[Pg 64]</span>sional -crow of a cock in some distant barnyard -acting on a mistaken impression that dawn was at -hand. Perfumed breaths of air, like long-drawn -sighs, came down from the great woods that -lay around and above, sweeping softly over -the roofs, as if caressing them. The meadows, -with their black intensity of shadow, took on a -dim, mysterious majesty of their own, while all -the springs, all the brooks and watercourses that -gurgled in the darkness, might have been taken -for the cool and rhythmical breathing of the sleeping -country. Every now and then the old dozing -mill-wheel seemed to be dreaming like a watch-dog -that barks uneasily in his slumber; it creaked, -it talked to itself, rocked by the fall of the Morelle, -whose current gave forth the deep, sustained -music of an organ-pipe. Never was there a more -charming or happier nook, never did a deeper -peace came down to cover it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[Pg 65]</span></p> - - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>One month later to a day, on the eve of the fête -of Saint Louis, Rocreuse was in a state of alarm -and dismay. The Prussians had beaten the -Emperor, and were advancing on the village by -forced marches. For a week past people passing -along the road had brought tidings of the -enemy: “They are at Lormières, they are at -Nouvelles;” and by dint of hearing so many -stories of the rapidity of their advance, Rocreuse -woke up every morning in the full expectation -of seeing them swarming down out of Gagny -wood. They did not come, however, and that -only served to make the affright the greater. -They would certainly fall upon the village in -the night-time, and put every soul to the sword.</p> - -<p>There had been an alarm the night before, a -little before daybreak. The inhabitants had -been aroused by a great noise of men tramping -upon the road. The women were already throw<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[Pg 66]</span>ing -themselves upon their knees and making the -sign of the cross, when some one, to whom it -happily occurred to peep through a half-opened -window, caught sight of red trousers. It was a -French detachment. The captain had forthwith -asked for the mayor, and, after a long conversation -with Father Merlier, had remained at -the mill.</p> - -<p>The sun shone bright and clear that morning, -giving promise of a warm day. There was a -golden light floating over the woodland, while -in the low grounds white mists were rising from -the meadows. The pretty village, so neat and -trim, awoke in the cool dawning, and the country, -with its streams and its fountains, was as -gracious as a freshly plucked bouquet. But the -beauty of the day brought gladness to the face -of no one; the villagers had watched the captain, -and seen him circle round and round the -old mill; examine the adjacent houses, then pass -to the other bank of the Morelle, and from thence -scan the country with a field-glass; Father<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[Pg 67]</span> -Merlier, who accompanied him, appeared to be -giving explanations. After that the captain -had posted some of his men behind walls, behind -trees, or in hollows. The main body of -the detachment had encamped in the courtyard -of the mill. So there was going to be a fight, -then? And when Father Merlier returned, -they questioned him. He spoke no word, but -slowly and sorrowfully nodded his head. Yes, -there was going to be a fight.</p> - -<p>Françoise and Dominique were there in the -courtyard, watching him. He finally took his -pipe from his lips and gave utterance to these -few words:</p> - -<p>“Ah! my poor children, I shall not be able to -marry you to-day!”</p> - -<p>Dominique, with lips tight set and an angry -frown upon his forehead, raised himself on tiptoe -from time to time and stood with eyes bent on -Gagny wood, as if he would have been glad to -see the Prussians appear and end the suspense -they were in. Françoise, whose face was grave<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[Pg 68]</span> -and very pale, was constantly passing back and -forth, supplying the needs of the soldiers. They -were preparing their soup in a corner of the -courtyard, joking and chaffing one another while -awaiting their meal.</p> - -<p>The captain appeared to be highly pleased. -He had visited the chambers and the great hall -of the mill that looked out on the stream. Now, -seated beside the well, he was conversing with -Father Merlier.</p> - -<p>“You have a regular fortress here,” he was -saying. “We shall have no trouble in holding -it until evening. The bandits are late; they -ought to be here by this time.”</p> - -<p>The miller looked very grave. He saw his -beloved mill going up in flame and smoke, but -uttered no word of remonstrance or complaint, -considering that it would be useless. He only -opened his mouth to say:</p> - -<p>“You ought to take steps to hide the boat; -there is a hole behind the wheel fitted to hold it. -Perhaps you may find it of use to you.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[Pg 69]</span></p> - -<p>The captain gave an order to one of his men. -This captain was a tall, fine-looking man of -about forty, with an agreeable expression of -countenance. The sight of Dominique and -Françoise seemed to afford him much pleasure; -he watched them as if he had forgotten all about -the approaching conflict. He followed Françoise -with his eyes as she moved about the -courtyard, and his manner showed clearly -enough that he thought her charming. Then, -turning to Dominique:</p> - -<p>“You are not with the army, I see, my boy?” -he abruptly asked.</p> - -<p>“I am a foreigner,” the young man replied.</p> - -<p>The captain did not seem particularly pleased -with the answer; he winked his eyes and smiled. -Françoise was doubtless a more agreeable companion -than a musket would have been. Dominique, -noticing his smile, made haste to add:</p> - -<p>“I am a foreigner, but I can lodge a rifle-bullet -in an apple at five hundred yards. See, -there’s my rifle, behind you.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[Pg 70]</span></p> - -<p>“You may find use for it,” the captain dryly -answered.</p> - -<p>Françoise had drawn near; she was trembling -a little, and Dominique, regardless of the bystanders, -took and held firmly clasped in his -own the two hands that she held forth to him, -as if committing herself to his protection. The -captain smiled again, but said nothing more. -He remained seated, his sword between his legs, -his eyes fixed on space, apparently lost in dreamy -reverie.</p> - -<p>It was ten o’clock. The heat was already -oppressive. A deep silence prevailed. The -soldiers had sat down in the shade of the sheds -in the courtyard and begun to eat their soup. -Not a sound came from the village, where the -inhabitants had all barricaded their houses, -doors and windows. A dog, abandoned by his -master, howled mournfully upon the road. -From the woods and the near-by meadows, that -lay fainting in the heat, came a long-drawn, -whispering, soughing sound, produced by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[Pg 71]</span> -union of what wandering breaths of air there -were. A cuckoo called. Then the silence -became deeper still.</p> - -<p>And all at once, upon that lazy, sleepy air, a -shot rang out. The captain rose quickly to his -feet, the soldiers left their half-emptied plates. -In a few seconds all were at their posts; the -mill was occupied from top to bottom. And yet -the captain, who had gone out through the gate, -saw nothing; to right and left the road stretched -away, desolate and blindingly white in the fierce -sunshine. A second report was heard, and still -nothing to be seen, not even so much as a -shadow; but just as he was turning to re-enter -he chanced to look over toward Gagny and -there beheld a little puff of smoke floating away -on the tranquil air, like thistle-down. The deep -peace of the forest was apparently unbroken.</p> - -<p>“The rascals have occupied the wood,” the -officer murmured. “They know we are here.”</p> - -<p>Then the firing went on, and became more -and more continuous, between the French<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[Pg 72]</span> -soldiers posted about the mill and the Prussians -concealed among the trees. The bullets -whistled over the Morelle without doing any -mischief on either side. The firing was -irregular; every bush seemed to have its marksman, -and nothing was to be seen save those -bluish smoke wreaths that hung for a moment -on the wind before they vanished. It lasted -thus for nearly two hours. The officer hummed -a tune with a careless air. Françoise and -Dominique, who had remained in the courtyard, -raised themselves to look out over a low wall. -They were more particularly interested in a little -soldier who had his post on the bank of the -Morelle, behind the hull of an old boat; he -would lie face downward on the ground, watch -his chance, deliver his fire, then slip back into a -ditch a few steps in his rear to reload, and his -movements were so comical, he displayed such -cunning and activity, that it was difficult for any -one watching him to refrain from smiling. He -must have caught sight of a Prussian, for he rose<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[Pg 73]</span> -quickly and brought his piece to the shoulder, -but before he could discharge it he uttered a -loud cry, whirled completely around in his tracks -and fell backward into the ditch, where for an -instant his legs moved convulsively, just as the -claws of a fowl do when it is beheaded. The -little soldier had received a bullet directly -through his heart. It was the first casualty of -the day. Françoise instinctively seized Dominique’s -hand and held it tight in a convulsive -grasp.</p> - -<p>“Come away from there,” said the captain. -“The bullets reach us here.”</p> - -<p>As if to confirm his words a slight, sharp sound -was heard up in the old elm, and the end of a -branch came to the ground, turning over and -over as it fell, but the two young people never -stirred, riveted to the spot as they were by the -interest of the spectacle. On the edge of the wood -a Prussian had suddenly emerged from behind -a tree, as an actor comes upon the stage from -the wings, beating the air with his arms and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[Pg 74]</span> -falling over upon its back. And beyond that -there was no movement; the two dead men appeared -to be sleeping in the bright sunshine; there -was not a soul to be seen in the fields on which -the heat lay heavy. Even the sharp rattle of the -musketry had ceased. Only the Morelle kept -on whispering to itself with its low, musical -murmur.</p> - -<p>Father Merlier looked at the captain with an -astonished air, as if to inquire whether that were -the end of it.</p> - -<p>“Here comes their attack,” the officer murmured. -“Look out for yourself! Don’t stand -there!”</p> - -<p>The words were scarcely out of his mouth -when a terrible discharge of musketry ensued. -The great elm was riddled, its leaves came -eddying down as thick as snowflakes. Fortunately -the Prussians had aimed too high. -Dominique dragged, almost carried Françoise -from the spot, while Father Merlier followed -them, shouting:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[Pg 75]</span></p> - -<p>“Get into the small cellar, the walls are -thicker there.”</p> - -<p>But they paid no attention to him; they made -their way to the main hall, where ten or a -dozen soldiers were silently waiting, watching -events outside through the chinks of the closed -shutters. The captain was left alone in the -courtyard, where he sheltered himself behind -the low wall, while the furious fire was maintained -uninterruptedly. The soldiers whom he -had posted outside only yielded their ground -inch by inch; they came crawling in, however, -one after another, as the enemy dislodged them -from their positions. Their instructions were to -gain all the time they could, taking care not to -show themselves, in order that the Prussians -might remain in ignorance of the force they had -opposed to them. Another hour passed, and as -a sergeant came in, reporting that there were -now only two or three men left outside, the -officer took his watch from his pocket, murmuring:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[Pg 76]</span></p> - -<p>“Half-past two. Come, we must hold out for -four hours yet.”</p> - -<p>He caused the great gate of the courtyard to -be tightly secured, and everything was made -ready for an energetic defence. The Prussians -were on the other side of the Morelle, consequently -there was no reason to fear an assault -at the moment. There was a bridge, indeed, a -mile and a quarter away, but they were probably -unaware of its existence, and it was hardly to be -supposed that they would attempt to cross the -stream by fording. The officer, therefore, simply -caused the road to be watched; the attack, when -it came, was to be looked for from the direction -of the fields.</p> - -<p>The firing had ceased again. The mill appeared -to lie there in the sunlight, void of all -life. Not a shutter was open, not a sound came -from within. Gradually, however, the Prussians -began to show themselves at the edge of Gagny -wood. Heads were protruded here and there; -they seemed to be mustering up their courage.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[Pg 77]</span> -Several of the soldiers within the mill brought -up their pieces to an aim, but the captain -shouted:</p> - -<p>“No, no; not yet; wait. Let them come -nearer.”</p> - -<p>They displayed a great deal of prudence in -their advance, looking at the mill with a distrustful -air; they seemed hardly to know what -to make of the old structure, so lifeless and -gloomy, with its curtain of ivy. Still they kept -on advancing. When there were fifty of them -or so in the open, directly opposite, the officer -uttered one word:</p> - -<p>“Now!”</p> - -<p>A crashing, tearing discharge burst from the -position, succeeded by an irregular, dropping -fire. Françoise, trembling violently, involuntarily -raised her hands to her ears. Dominique, -from his position behind the soldiers, peered out -upon the field, and when the smoke drifted away -a little, counted three Prussians extended on -their backs in the middle of the meadow. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[Pg 78]</span> -others had sought shelter among the willows -and the poplars. And then commenced the -siege.</p> - -<p>For more than an hour the mill was riddled -with bullets; they beat and rattled on its old -walls like hail. The noise they made was plainly -audible as they struck the stonework, were flattened, -and fell back into the water; they buried -themselves in the woodwork with a dull thud. -Occasionally a creaking sound would announce -that the wheel had been hit. Within the building -the soldiers husbanded their ammunition, -firing only when they could see something to -aim at. The captain kept consulting his watch -every few minutes, and as a ball split one of -the shutters in halves and then lodged in the -ceiling:</p> - -<p>“Four o’clock,” he murmured. “We shall -never be able to hold the position.”</p> - -<p>The old mill, in truth, was gradually going to -pieces beneath that terrific fire. A shutter that -had been perforated again and again, until it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[Pg 79]</span> -looked like a piece of lace, fell off its hinges into -the water, and had to be replaced by a mattress. -Every moment, almost, Father Merlier exposed -himself to the fire in order to take account of the -damage sustained by his poor wheel, every wound -of which was like a bullet in his own heart. Its -period of usefulness was ended this time for certain; -he would never be able to patch it up -again. Dominique had besought Françoise to -retire to a place of safety, but she was determined -to remain with him; she had taken a seat behind -a great oaken clothes-press, which afforded -her protection. A ball struck the press, however, -the sides of which gave out a dull, hollow -sound, whereupon Dominique stationed himself -in front of Françoise. He had as yet taken no -part in the firing, although he had his rifle in his -hand; the soldiers occupied the whole breadth -of the windows, so that he could not get near -them. At every discharge the floor trembled.</p> - -<p>“Look out! look out!” the captain suddenly -shouted.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[Pg 80]</span></p> - -<p>He had just descried a dark mass emerging -from the wood. As soon as they gained the -open they set up a telling platoon fire. It struck -the mill like a tornado. Another shutter parted -company, and the bullets came whistling in -through the yawning aperture. Two soldiers -rolled upon the floor; one lay where he fell and -never moved a limb; his comrades pushed him -up against the wall because he was in their -way. The other writhed and twisted, beseeching -some one to end his agony, but no one had -ears for the poor wretch; the bullets were still -pouring in, and every one was looking out for -himself and searching for a loophole whence he -might answer the enemy’s fire. A third soldier -was wounded; that one said not a word, but -with staring, haggard eyes sank down beneath a -table. Françoise, horror-stricken by the dreadful -spectacle of the dead and dying men, -mechanically pushed away her chair and seated -herself on the floor, against the wall; it seemed -to her that she would be smaller there and less<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[Pg 81]</span> -exposed. In the meantime men had gone and -secured all the mattresses in the house; the -opening of the window was partially closed again. -The hall was filled with débris of every description, -broken weapons, dislocated furniture.</p> - -<p>“Five o’clock,” said the captain. “Stand -fast, boys. They are going to make an attempt -to pass the stream.”</p> - -<p>Just then Françoise gave a shriek. A bullet -had struck the floor, and, rebounding, grazed -her forehead on the ricochet. A few drops of -blood appeared. Dominique looked at her, then -went to the window and fired his first shot, and -from that time kept on firing uninterruptedly. -He kept on loading and discharging his piece -mechanically, paying no attention to what was -passing at his side, only pausing from time to -time to cast a look at Françoise. He did not -fire hurriedly or at random, moreover, but took -deliberate aim. As the captain had predicted, -the Prussians were skirting the belt of poplars -and attempting the passage of the Morelle, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[Pg 82]</span> -each time that one of them showed himself he -fell with one of Dominique’s bullets in his brain. -The captain, who was watching the performance, -was amazed; he complimented the young -man, telling him that he would like to have -many more marksmen of his skill. Dominique -did not hear a word he said. A ball struck him -in the shoulder, another raised a contusion on -his arm. And still he kept on firing.</p> - -<p>There were two more deaths. The mattresses -were torn to shreds and no longer availed to -stop the windows. The last volley that was -poured in seemed as if it would carry away the -mill bodily, so fierce it was. The position was -no longer tenable. Still, the officer kept repeating:</p> - -<p>“Stand fast. Another half-hour yet.”</p> - -<p>He was counting the minutes, one by one, -now. He had promised his commanders that -he would hold the enemy there until nightfall, -and he would not budge a hair’s-breadth before -the moment that he had fixed on for his with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[Pg 83]</span>drawal. -He maintained his pleasant air of -good-humour, smiling at Françoise by way of -reassuring her. He had picked up the musket -of one of the dead soldiers and was firing away -with the rest.</p> - -<p>There were but four soldiers left in the room. -The Prussians were showing themselves <i>en masse</i> -on the other bank of the Morelle, and it was -evident that they might now pass the stream at -any moment. A few moments more elapsed; -the captain was as determined as ever, and -would not give the order to retreat, when a -sergeant came running into the room, saying:</p> - -<p>“They are on the road; they are going to -take us in rear.”</p> - -<p>The Prussians must have discovered the -bridge. The captain drew out his watch again.</p> - -<p>“Five minutes more,” he said. “They won’t -be here within five minutes.”</p> - -<p>Then exactly at six o’clock he at last withdrew -his men through a little postern that -opened on a narrow lane, whence they threw<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[Pg 84]</span> -themselves into the ditch, and in that way -reached the forest of Sauval. The captain took -leave of Father Merlier with much politeness, -apologising profusely for the trouble he had -caused. He even added:</p> - -<p>“Try to keep them occupied for a while. We -shall return.”</p> - -<p>While this was occurring Dominique had remained -alone in the hall. He was still firing -away, hearing nothing, conscious of nothing; -his sole thought was to defend Françoise. The -soldiers were all gone, and he had not the -remotest idea of the fact; he aimed and brought -down his man at every shot. All at once there -was a great tumult. The Prussians had entered -the courtyard from the rear. He fired his last -shot, and they fell upon him with his weapon -still smoking in his hand.</p> - -<p>It required four men to hold him; the rest of -them swarmed about him, vociferating like madmen -in their horrible dialect. Françoise rushed -forward to intercede with her prayers. They<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[Pg 85]</span> -were on the point of killing him on the spot, but -an officer came in and made them turn the -prisoner over to him. After exchanging a few -words in German with his men he turned to -Dominique and said to him roughly, in very good -French:</p> - -<p>“You will be shot in two hours from now.”</p> - - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>It was the standing regulation, laid down by -the German staff, that every Frenchman, not -belonging to the regular army, taken with arms -in his hands, should be shot. Even the -<i>compagnies franches</i> were not recognised as -belligerents. It was the intention of the Germans, -in making such terrible examples of the -peasants who attempted to defend their firesides, -to prevent a rising <i>en masse</i>, which they -greatly dreaded.</p> - -<p>The officer, a tall, spare man about fifty years -old, subjected Dominique to a brief examination.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[Pg 86]</span> -Although he spoke French fluently, he was unmistakably -Prussian in the stiffness of his -manner.</p> - -<p>“You are a native of this country?”</p> - -<p>“No, I am a Belgian.”</p> - -<p>“Why did you take up arms? These are -matters with which you have no concern.”</p> - -<p>Dominique made no reply. At this moment -the officer caught sight of Françoise where she -stood listening, very pale; her slight wound had -marked her white forehead with a streak of red. -He looked from one to the other of the young -people and appeared to understand the situation; -he merely added:</p> - -<p>“You do not deny having fired on my -men?”</p> - -<p>“I fired as long as I was able to do so,” -Dominique quietly replied.</p> - -<p>The admission was scarcely necessary, for he -was black with powder, wet with sweat, and the -blood from the wound in his shoulder had trickled -down and stained his clothing.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[Pg 87]</span></p> - -<p>“Very well,” the officer repeated. “You will -be shot two hours hence.”</p> - -<p>Françoise uttered no cry. She clasped her -hands and raised them above her head in a -gesture of mute despair. Her action was not -lost upon the officer. Two soldiers had led -Dominique away to an adjacent room, where -their orders were to guard him and not lose -sight of him. The girl had sunk upon a chair; -her strength had failed her, her legs refused to -support her; she was denied the relief of tears, -it seemed as if her emotion was strangling her. -The officer continued to examine her attentively, -and finally addressed her:</p> - -<p>“Is that young man your brother?” he -inquired.</p> - -<p>She shook her head in negation. He was as -rigid and unbending as ever, without the -suspicion of a smile on his face. Then, after an -interval of silence, he spoke again:</p> - -<p>“Has he been living in the neighbourhood -long?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[Pg 88]</span></p> - -<p>She answered yes, by another motion of the -head.</p> - -<p>“Then he must be well acquainted with the -woods about here?”</p> - -<p>This time she made a verbal answer. “Yes, -sir,” she said, looking at him with some astonishment.</p> - -<p>He said nothing more, but turned on his heel, -requesting that the mayor of the village should -be brought before him. But Françoise had -risen from her chair, a faint tinge of colour on -her cheeks, believing that she had caught the -significance of his questions, and with renewed -hope she ran off to look for her father.</p> - -<p>As soon as the firing had ceased Father -Merlier had hurriedly descended by the wooden -gallery to have a look at his wheel. He adored -his daughter and had a strong feeling of affection -for Dominique, his son-in-law who was to be; -but his wheel also occupied a large space in his -heart. Now that the two little ones, as he -called them, had come safe and sound out of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[Pg 89]</span> -fray, he thought of his other love, which must -have suffered sorely, poor thing, and bending -over the great wooden skeleton he was scrutinising -its wounds with a heart-broken air. Five -of the buckets were reduced to splinters, the -central framework was honeycombed. He was -thrusting his fingers into the cavities that the -bullets had made to see how deep they were, -and reflecting how he was ever to repair all that -damage. When Françoise found him he was -already plugging up the crevices with moss and -such débris as he could lay hands on.</p> - -<p>“They are asking for you, father,” said she.</p> - -<p>And at last she wept as she told him what she -had just heard. Father Merlier shook his head. -It was not customary to shoot people like that. -He would have to look into the matter. And he -re-entered the mill with his usual placid, silent -air. When the officer made his demand for -supplies for his men, he answered that the -people of Rocreuse were not accustomed to be -ridden roughshod, and that nothing would be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[Pg 90]</span> -obtained from them through violence; he was -willing to assume all the responsibility, but only -on condition that he was allowed to act -independently. The officer at first appeared to -take umbrage at this easy way of viewing -matters, but finally gave way before the old -man’s brief and distinct representations. As -the latter was leaving the room the other recalled -him to ask:</p> - -<p>“Those woods there, opposite, what do you -call them?”</p> - -<p>“The woods of Sauval.”</p> - -<p>“And how far do they extend?”</p> - -<p>The miller looked him straight in the face. “I -do not know,” he replied.</p> - -<p>And he withdrew. An hour later the subvention -in money and provisions that the officer had -demanded was in the courtyard of the mill. -Night was closing in; Françoise followed every -movement of the soldiers with an anxious eye. -She never once left the vicinity of the room in -which Dominique was imprisoned. About seven<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[Pg 91]</span> -o’clock she had a harrowing emotion; she saw -the officer enter the prisoner’s apartment, and for -a quarter of an hour heard their voices raised in -violent discussion. The officer came to the door -for a moment and gave an order in German -which she did not understand, but when twelve -men came and formed in the courtyard with -shouldered muskets, she was seized with a fit of -trembling and felt as if she should die. It was -all over, then; the execution was about to take -place. The twelve men remained there ten -minutes; Dominique’s voice kept rising higher -and higher in a tone of vehement denial. -Finally the officer came out, closing the door -behind him with a vicious bang and saying:</p> - -<p>“Very well; think it over. I give you until -to-morrow morning.”</p> - -<p>And he ordered the twelve men to break ranks -by a motion of his hand. Françoise was stupefied. -Father Merlier, who had continued to puff away -at his pipe while watching the platoon with a -simple, curious air, came and took her by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[Pg 92]</span> -arm with fatherly gentleness. He led her to her -chamber.</p> - -<p>“Don’t fret,” he said to her; “try to get some -sleep. To-morrow it will be light and we shall -see more clearly.”</p> - -<p>He locked the door behind him as he left the -room. It was a fixed principle with him that -women are good for nothing, and that they spoil -everything whenever they meddle in important -matters. Françoise did not lie down, however; -she remained a long time seated on her bed, -listening to the various noises in the house. The -German soldiers quartered in the courtyard were -singing and laughing; they must have kept up -their eating and drinking until eleven o’clock, -for the riot never ceased for an instant. Heavy -footsteps resounded from time to time through -the mill itself, doubtless the tramp of the guards -as they were relieved. What had most interest -for her was the sounds that she could catch in -the room that lay directly under her own; -several times she threw herself prone upon the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[Pg 93]</span> -floor and applied her ear to the boards. That -room was the one in which they had locked up -Dominique. He must have been pacing the -apartment, for she could hear for a long time -his regular, cadenced tread passing from the -wall to the window and back again; then there -was a deep silence; doubtless he had seated -himself. The other sounds ceased too; everything -was still. When it seemed to her that the -house was sunk in slumber she raised her -window as noiselessly as possible and leaned -out.</p> - -<p>Without, the night was serene and balmy. -The slender crescent of the moon, which was -just setting behind Sauval wood, cast a dim -radiance over the landscape. The lengthening -shadows of the great trees stretched far athwart -the fields in bands of blackness, while in such -spots as were unobscured the grass appeared of -a tender green, soft as velvet. But Françoise -did not stop to consider the mysterious charm -of night. She was scrutinising the country and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[Pg 94]</span> -looking to see where the Germans had posted -their sentinels. She could clearly distinguish -their dark forms outlined along the course of the -Morelle. There was only one stationed opposite -the mill, on the far bank of the stream, by a -willow whose branches dipped in the water—Françoise -had an excellent view of him; he was -a tall young man, standing quite motionless with -face upturned toward the sky, with the meditative -air of a shepherd.</p> - -<p>When she had completed her careful inspection -of localities she returned and took her former -seat upon the bed. She remained there an hour, -absorbed in deep thought. Then she listened -again; there was not a breath to be heard in the -house. She went again to the window and took -another look outside, but one of the moon’s horns -was still hanging above the edge of the forest, -and this circumstance doubtless appeared to her -unpropitious, for she resumed her waiting. At -last the moment seemed to have arrived; the -night was now quite dark; she could no longer<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[Pg 95]</span> -discern the sentinel opposite her, the landscape -lay before her black as a sea of ink. She listened -intently for a moment, then formed her -resolve. Close beside her window was an iron -ladder made of bars set in the wall, which -ascended from the mill-wheel to the granary at -the top of the building, and had formerly served -the miller as a means of inspecting certain portions -of the gearing, but a change having been -made in the machinery the ladder had long since -become lost to sight beneath the thick ivy that -covered all that side of the mill.</p> - -<p>Françoise bravely climbed over the balustrade -of the little balcony in front of her window, -grasped one of the iron bars and found herself -suspended in space. She commenced the descent; -her skirts were a great hindrance to her. -Suddenly a stone became loosened from the wall, -and fell into the Morelle with a loud splash. -She stopped, benumbed with fear, but reflection -quickly told her that the waterfall, with its continuous -roar, was sufficient to deaden any noise<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[Pg 96]</span> -that she could make, and then she descended -more boldly, putting aside the ivy with her foot, -testing each round of her ladder. When she -was on a level with the room that had been converted -into a prison for her lover she stopped. -An unforeseen difficulty came near depriving her -of all her courage; the window of the room beneath -was not situated directly under the window -of her bedroom; there was a wide space between -it and the ladder, and when she extended her -hand it only encountered the naked wall.</p> - -<p>Would she have to go back the way she came -and leave her project unaccomplished? Her -arms were growing very tired; the murmuring of -the Morelle, far down below, was beginning to -make her dizzy. Then she broke off bits of -plaster from the wall and threw them against -Dominique’s window. He did not hear; perhaps -he was asleep. Again she crumbled fragments -from the wall, until the skin was peeled -from her fingers. Her strength was exhausted; -she felt that she was about to fall backward into<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[Pg 97]</span> -the stream, when at last Dominique softly raised -his sash.</p> - -<p>“It is I,” she murmured. “Take me quick; I -am about to fall.” Leaning from the window he -grasped her and drew her into the room, where -she had a paroxysm of weeping, stifling her -sobs in order that she might not be heard. -Then, by a supreme effort of the will she overcame -her emotion.</p> - -<p>“Are you guarded?” she asked in a low voice.</p> - -<p>Dominique, not yet recovered from his stupefaction -at seeing her there, made answer by -simply pointing toward his door. There was a -sound of snoring audible on the outside; it was -evident that the sentinel had been overpowered -by sleep and had thrown himself upon the floor -close against the door in such a way that it could -not be opened without arousing him.</p> - -<p>“You must fly,” she continued earnestly. “I -came here to bid you fly and say farewell.”</p> - -<p>But he seemed not to hear her. He kept repeating:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[Pg 98]</span></p> - -<p>“What, is it you, is it you? Oh, what a fright -you gave me! You might have killed yourself.” -He took her hands, he kissed them again and -again. “How I love you, Françoise! You are -as courageous as you are good. The only thing -I feared was that I might die without seeing -you again; but you are here, and now they -may shoot me when they will. Let me but -have a quarter of an hour with you and I am -ready.”</p> - -<p>He had gradually drawn her to him; her head -was resting on his shoulder. The peril that -was so near at hand brought them closer to each -other, and they forgot everything in that long -embrace.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Françoise!” Dominique went on in low, -caressing tones, “to-day is the fête of Saint Louis, -our wedding-day, that we have been waiting for -so long. Nothing has been able to keep us -apart, for we are both here, faithful to our appointment, -are we not? It is now our wedding -morning.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[Pg 99]</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” she repeated after him, “our -wedding morning.”</p> - -<p>They shuddered as they exchanged a kiss. -But suddenly she tore herself from his arms; the -terrible reality arose before her eyes.</p> - -<p>“You must fly, you must fly,” she murmured -breathlessly. “There is not a moment to lose.” -And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness -to draw her to him again, she went on in tender, -beseeching tones: “Oh! listen to me, I entreat -you. If you die, I shall die. In an hour it will -be daylight. Go, go at once; I command you to -go.”</p> - -<p>Then she rapidly explained her plan to him. -The iron ladder extended downward to the -wheel; once he had got so far he could climb -down by means of the buckets and get into the -boat, which was hidden in a recess. Then it -would be an easy matter for him to reach -the other bank of the stream and make his -escape.</p> - -<p>“But are there no sentinels?” said he.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[Pg 100]</span></p> - -<p>“Only one, directly opposite here, at the foot -of the first willow.”</p> - -<p>“And if he sees me, if he gives the alarm?”</p> - -<p>Françoise shuddered. She placed in his hand -a knife that she had brought down with her. -They were silent.</p> - -<p>“And your father—and you?” Dominique -continued. “But no, it is not to be thought of; -I must not fly. When I am no longer here those -soldiers are capable of murdering you. You do -not know them. They offered to spare my life -if I would guide them into <span class="correction" title="In the original book: Sauvel">Sauval</span> forest. When -they discover that I have escaped, their fury -will be such that they will be ready for every -atrocity.”</p> - -<p>The girl did not stop to argue the question. -To all the considerations that he adduced her -one simple answer was: “Fly. For the love of -me, fly. If you love me, Dominique, do not -linger here a single moment longer.”</p> - -<p>She promised that she would return to her bedroom; -no one should know that she had helped<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[Pg 101]</span> -him. She concluded by folding him in her -arms and smothering him with kisses, in an -extravagant outburst of passion. He was vanquished. -He put only one more question to her:</p> - -<p>“Will you swear to me that your father -knows what you are doing, and that he counsels -my flight?”</p> - -<p>“It was my father who sent me to you,” Françoise -unhesitatingly replied.</p> - -<p>She told a falsehood. At that moment she -had but one great, overmastering longing, to -know that he was in safety, to escape from the -horrible thought that the morning’s sun was to be -the signal for his death. When he should be far -away, then calamity and evil might burst upon -her head; whatever fate might be in store for -her would seem endurable, so that only his life -might be spared. Before and above all other -considerations, the selfishness of her love demanded -that he should be saved.</p> - -<p>“It is well,” said Dominique; “I will do as -you desire.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[Pg 102]</span></p> - -<p>No further word was spoken. Dominique -went to the window to raise it again. But suddenly -there was a noise that chilled them with -affright. The door was shaken violently; they -thought that some one was about to open it; -it was evidently a party going the rounds who -had heard their voices. They stood by the -window, close locked in each other’s arms, -awaiting the event with anguish unspeakable. -Again there came the rattling at the door, but -it did not open. Each of them drew a deep -sigh of relief; they saw how it was. The -soldier lying across the threshold had turned -over in his sleep. Silence was restored indeed, -and presently the snoring began again.</p> - -<p>Dominique insisted that Françoise should -return to her room first of all. He took her in -his arms, he bade her a silent farewell, then -helped her to grasp the ladder, and himself -climbed out on it in turn. He refused to descend -a single step, however, until he knew that -she was in her chamber. When she was safe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[Pg 103]</span> -in her room she let fall, in a voice scarce louder -than a whisper, the words:</p> - -<p>“<i>Au revoir.</i> I love you!”</p> - -<p>She kneeled at the window, resting her elbows -on the sill, straining her eyes to follow Dominique. -The night was still very dark. She looked for -the sentinel, but could see nothing of him; -the willow alone was dimly visible, a pale spot -upon the surrounding blackness. For a moment -she heard the rustling of the ivy as Dominique -descended, then the wheel creaked, and there -was a faint plash which told that the young man -had found the boat. This was confirmed when, -a minute later, she descried the shadowy outline -of the skiff on the grey bosom of the Morelle. -Then a horrible feeling of dread seemed to -clutch her by the throat. Every moment she -thought she heard the sentry give the alarm; -every faintest sound among the dusky shadows -seemed to her overwrought imagination to be -the hurrying tread of soldiers, the clash of steel, -the click of musket-locks. The seconds slipped<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[Pg 104]</span> -by, however, the landscape still preserved its -solemn peace. Dominique must have landed -safely on the other bank. Françoise no longer -had eyes for anything. The silence was oppressive. -And she heard the sound of trampling -feet, a hoarse cry, the dull thud of a heavy body -falling. This was followed by another silence, -even deeper than that which had gone before. -Then, as if conscious that Death had passed -that way, she became very cold in presence of -the impenetrable night.</p> - - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>At early daybreak the repose of the mill was -disturbed by the clamour of angry voices. -Father Merlier had gone and unlocked Françoise’s -door. She descended to the courtyard, -pale and very calm, but when there, could not -repress a shudder upon being brought face to -face with the body of a Prussian soldier that lay<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[Pg 105]</span> -on the ground beside the well, stretched out -upon a cloak.</p> - -<p>Around the corpse soldiers were shouting and -gesticulating angrily. Several of them shook -their fists threateningly in the direction of the -village. The officer had just sent a summons -to Father Merlier to appear before him in his -capacity as mayor of the commune.</p> - -<p>“Here is one of our men,” he said, in a voice -that was almost unintelligible from anger, “who -was found murdered on the bank of the stream. -The murderer must be found, so that we may -make a salutary example of him, and I shall -expect you to co-operate with us in finding -him.”</p> - -<p>“Whatever you desire,” the miller replied, -with his customary impassiveness. “Only it -will be no easy matter.”</p> - -<p>The officer stooped down and drew aside the -skirt of the cloak which concealed the dead -man’s face, disclosing as he did so a frightful -wound. The sentinel had been struck in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[Pg 106]</span> -throat and the weapon had not been withdrawn -from the wound. It was a common kitchen-knife, -with a black handle.</p> - -<p>“Look at that knife,” the officer said to Father -Merlier. “Perhaps it will assist us in our investigation.”</p> - -<p>The old man had started violently, but recovered -himself at once; not a muscle of his -face moved as he replied:</p> - -<p>“Every one about here has knives like that. -Like enough your man was tired of fighting and -did the business himself. Such things have -happened before now.”</p> - -<p>“Be silent!” the officer shouted in a fury. -“I don’t know what it is that keeps me from -setting fire to the four corners of your village.”</p> - -<p>His anger fortunately kept him from noticing -the great change that had come over Françoise’s -countenance. Her feelings had compelled her -to sit down upon the stone bench beside the -well. Do what she would she could not remove -her eyes from the body that lay stretched upon<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[Pg 107]</span> -the ground, almost at her feet. He had been a -tall, handsome young man in life, very like -Dominique in appearance, with blue eyes and -yellow hair. The resemblance went to her -heart. She thought that perhaps the dead man -had left behind him in his German home some -sweetheart who would weep for his loss. And -she recognised her knife in the dead man’s -throat. She had killed him.</p> - -<p>The officer, meantime, was talking of visiting -Rocreuse with some terrible punishment, when -two or three soldiers came running in. The -guard had just that moment ascertained the fact -of Dominique’s escape. The agitation caused -by the tidings was extreme. The officer went -to inspect the locality, looked out through the -still open window, saw at once how the event -had happened, and returned in a state of exasperation.</p> - -<p>Father Merlier appeared greatly vexed by -Dominique’s flight. “The idiot!” he murmured; -“he has upset everything.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[Pg 108]</span></p> - -<p>Françoise heard him, and was in an agony of -suffering. Her father, moreover, had no suspicion -of her complicity. He shook his head, -saying to her in an undertone:</p> - -<p>“We are in a nice box, now!”</p> - -<p>“It was that scoundrel! it was that scoundrel!” -cried the officer. “He has got away to the -woods; but he must be found, or the village -shall stand the consequences.” And addressing -himself to the miller: “Come, you must know -where he is hiding?”</p> - -<p>Father Merlier laughed in his silent way, and -pointed to the wide stretch of wooded hills.</p> - -<p>“How can you expect to find a man in that -wilderness?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh! there are plenty of hiding-places that -you are acquainted with. I am going to give -you ten men; you shall act as guide to them.”</p> - -<p>“I am perfectly willing. But it will take a -week to beat up all the woods of the neighbourhood.”</p> - -<p>The old man’s serenity enraged the officer;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[Pg 109]</span> -he saw, indeed, what a ridiculous proceeding -such a hunt would be. It was at that moment -that he caught sight of Françoise where she sat, -pale and trembling, on her bench. His attention -was aroused by the girl’s anxious attitude. -He was silent for a moment, glancing suspiciously -from father to daughter and back -again.</p> - -<p>“Is not that man,” he at last coarsely asked -the old man, “your daughter’s lover?”</p> - -<p>Father Merlier’s face became ashy pale, and -he appeared for a moment as if about to throw -himself on the officer and throttle him. He -straightened himself up and made no reply. -Françoise had hidden her face in her hands.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is how it is,” the Prussian continued; -“you or your daughter have helped him -to escape. You are his accomplices. For the -last time, will you surrender him?”</p> - -<p>The miller did not answer. He had turned -away and was looking at the distant landscape -with an air of indifference, just as if the officer<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[Pg 110]</span> -were talking to some other person. That put -the finishing touch to the latter’s wrath.</p> - -<p>“Very well, then!” he declared, “you shall be -shot in his stead.”</p> - -<p>And again he ordered out the firing-party. -Father Merlier was as imperturbable as ever. -He scarcely did so much as shrug his shoulders; -the whole drama appeared to him to be in very -doubtful taste. He probably believed that they -would not take a man’s life in that unceremonious -manner. When the platoon was on the -ground he gravely said:</p> - -<p>“So, then, you are in earnest? Very well, I -am willing it should be so. If you feel you must -have a victim, it may as well be I as another.”</p> - -<p>But Françoise arose, greatly troubled, stammering: -“Have mercy, sir; do not harm my -father. Kill me instead of him. It was I who -helped Dominique to escape; I am the only -guilty one.”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, my girl,” Father Merlier -exclaimed. “Why do you tell such a falsehood?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[Pg 111]</span> -She passed the night locked in her room, sir; -I assure you that she does not speak the -truth.”</p> - -<p>“I <i>am</i> speaking the truth,” the girl eagerly -replied. “I got down by the window; I incited -Dominique to fly. It is the truth, the whole -truth.”</p> - -<p>The old man’s face was very white. He could -read in her eyes that she was not lying, and her -story terrified him. Ah, those children! those -children! how they spoiled everything, with -their hearts and their feelings! Then he said -angrily:</p> - -<p>“She is crazy; do not listen to her. It is a -lot of trash she is telling you. Come, let us get -through with this business.”</p> - -<p>She persisted in her protestations; she kneeled, -she raised her clasped hands in supplication. -The officer stood tranquilly by and watched the -harrowing scene.</p> - -<p>“<i>Mon Dieu!</i>” he said at last, “I take your -father because the other has escaped me. Bring<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[Pg 112]</span> -me back the other man, and your father shall -have his liberty.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him for a moment with eyes -dilated by the horror which his proposal inspired -in her.</p> - -<p>“It is dreadful,” she murmured. “Where -can I look for Dominique now? He is gone; I -know nothing beyond that.”</p> - -<p>“Well, make your choice between them; him -or your father.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my God! how can I choose? Even if -I knew where to find Dominique I could not -choose. You are breaking my heart. I would -rather die at once. Yes, it would be more -quickly ended thus. Kill me, I beseech you, kill -me——”</p> - -<p>The officer finally became weary of this scene -of despair and tears. He cried:</p> - -<p>“Enough of this! I wish to treat you kindly; -I will give you two hours. If your lover is not -here within two hours, your father shall pay the -penalty that he has incurred.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[Pg 113]</span></p> - -<p>And he ordered Father Merlier away to the -room that had served as a prison for Dominique. -The old man asked for tobacco, and began to -smoke. There was no trace of emotion to be -descried on his impassive face. Only when he -was alone he wept two big tears that coursed -slowly down his cheeks. His poor, dear child, -what a fearful trial she was enduring!</p> - -<p>Françoise remained in the courtyard. Prussian -soldiers passed back and forth, laughing. -Some of them addressed her with coarse -pleasantries which she did not understand. -Her gaze was bent upon the door through -which her father had disappeared, and with a -slow movement she raised her hand to her forehead, -as if to keep it from bursting. The officer -turned sharply on his heel, and said to her:</p> - -<p>“You have two hours. Try to make good -use of them.”</p> - -<p>She had two hours. The words kept buzzing, -buzzing in her ears. Then she went forth -mechanically from the courtyard; she walked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[Pg 114]</span> -straight ahead with no definite end. Where -was she to go? what was she to do? She did -not even endeavour to arrive at any decision, -for she felt how utterly useless were her efforts. -And yet she would have liked to see Dominique; -they could have come to some understanding -together, perhaps they might have hit on some -plan to extricate them from their difficulties. -And so, amid the confusion of her whirling -thoughts, she took her way downward to the -bank of the Morelle, which she crossed below -the dam by means of some stepping-stones -which were there. Proceeding onward, still -involuntarily, she came to the first willow, at the -corner of the meadow, and stooping down, -beheld a sight that made her grow deathly pale—a -pool of blood. It was the spot. And she -followed the track that Dominique had left in -the tall grass; it was evident that he had run, -for the footsteps that crossed the meadow in a -diagonal line were separated from one another -by wide intervals. Then, beyond that point,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[Pg 115]</span> -she lost the trace, but thought she had discovered -it again in an adjoining field. It led -her onward to the border of the forest, where -the trail came abruptly to an end.</p> - -<p>Though conscious of the futility of the proceeding, -Françoise penetrated into the wood. -It was a comfort to her to be alone. She sat -down for a moment, then, reflecting that time -was passing, rose again to her feet. How long -was it since she left the mill? Five minutes, -or a half-hour? She had lost all idea of time. -Perhaps Dominique had sought concealment in -a clearing that she knew of, where they had -gone together one afternoon and eaten hazelnuts. -She directed her steps toward the clearing; -she searched it thoroughly. A blackbird -flew out, whistling his sweet and melancholy -note; that was all. Then she thought that he -might have taken refuge in a hollow among the -rocks where he went sometimes with his gun, -but the spot was untenanted. What use was -there in looking for him? She would never find<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[Pg 116]</span> -him, and little by little the desire to discover -his hiding-place became a passionate longing. -She proceeded at a more rapid pace. The idea -suddenly took possession of her that he had -climbed into a tree, and thenceforth she went -along with eyes raised aloft and called him by -name every fifteen or twenty steps, so that he -might know she was near him. The cuckoos -answered her; a breath of air that rustled the -leaves made her think that he was there and was -coming down to her. Once she even imagined -that she saw him; she stopped with a sense of -suffocation, with a desire to run away. What -was she to say to him? Had she come there to -take him back with her and have him shot? -Oh! no, she would not mention those things; -she would tell him that he must fly, that he must -not remain in the neighbourhood. Then she -thought of her father awaiting her return, and the -reflection caused her most bitter anguish. She -sank upon the turf, weeping hot tears, crying -aloud:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[Pg 117]</span></p> - -<p>“My God! My God! why am I here!”</p> - -<p>It was a mad thing for her to have come. -And as if seized with sudden panic, she ran -hither and thither, she sought to make her way -out of the forest. Three times she lost her way, -and had begun to think she was never to see the -mill again, when she came out into a meadow, -directly opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she -caught sight of the village she stopped. Was -she going to return alone?</p> - -<p>She was standing there when she heard a -voice calling her by name, softly:</p> - -<p>“Françoise! Françoise!”</p> - -<p>And she beheld Dominique raising his head -above the edge of a ditch. Just God! she had -found him.</p> - -<p>Could it be, then, that Heaven willed his -death? She suppressed a cry that rose to her -lips, and slipped into the ditch beside him.</p> - -<p>“You were looking for me?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she replied bewilderedly, scarce knowing -what she was saying.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[Pg 118]</span></p> - -<p>“Ah! what has happened?”</p> - -<p>She stammered, with eyes downcast: “Why, -nothing; I was anxious, I wanted to see you.”</p> - -<p>Thereupon, his fears alleviated, he went on to -tell her how it was that he had remained in the -vicinity. He was alarmed for them. Those rascally -Prussians were not above wreaking their -vengeance on women and old men. All had -ended well, however, and he added, laughing:</p> - -<p>“The wedding will be put off for a week, that’s -all.”</p> - -<p>He became serious, however, upon noticing -that her dejection did not pass away.</p> - -<p>“But what is the matter? You are concealing -something from me.”</p> - -<p>“No, I give you my word I am not. I am -tired; I ran all the way here.”</p> - -<p>He kissed her, saying it was imprudent for -them both to talk there any longer, and was -about to climb out of the ditch in order to return -to the forest. She stopped him; she was -trembling violently.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[Pg 119]</span></p> - -<p>“Listen, Dominique; perhaps it will be as -well for you to stay here, after all. There is -no one looking for you; you have nothing to -fear.”</p> - -<p>“Françoise, you are concealing something -from me,” he said again.</p> - -<p>Again she protested that she was concealing -nothing. She only liked to know that he was -near her. And there were other reasons still -that she gave in stammering accents. Her -manner was so strange that no consideration -could now have induced him to go away. -He believed, moreover, that the French would -return presently. Troops had been seen over -toward Sauval.</p> - -<p>“Ah! let them make haste; let them come -as quickly as possible,” she murmured fervently.</p> - -<p>At that moment the clock of the church at -Rocreuse struck eleven; the strokes reached -them, clear and distinct. She arose in terror; -it was two hours since she had left the mill.</p> - -<p>“Listen,” she said, with feverish rapidity,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[Pg 120]</span> -“should we need you, I will go up to my room -and wave my handkerchief from the window.”</p> - -<p>And she started off homeward on a run, while -Dominique, greatly disturbed in mind, stretched -himself at length beside the ditch to watch the -mill. Just as she was about to enter the village -Françoise encountered an old beggar man, -Father Bontemps, who knew every one and -everything in that part of the country. He -saluted her; he had just seen the miller, he -said, surrounded by a crowd of Prussians; -then, making numerous signs of the Cross -and mumbling some inarticulate words, he went -his way.</p> - -<p>“The two hours are up,” the officer said when -Françoise made her appearance.</p> - -<p>Father Merlier was there, seated on the bench -beside the well. He was smoking still. The -young girl again proffered her supplication -kneeling before the officer and weeping. Her -wish was to gain time. The hope that she -might yet behold the return of the French had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[Pg 121]</span> -been gaining strength in her bosom, and amid -her tears and sobs she thought she could distinguish -in the distance the cadenced tramp -of an advancing army. Oh! if they would but -come and deliver them all from their fearful -trouble!</p> - -<p>“Hear me, sir: grant us an hour, just one -little hour. Surely you will not refuse to grant -us an hour!”</p> - -<p>But the officer was inflexible. He even -ordered two men to lay hold of her and take -her away, in order that they might proceed undisturbed -with the execution of the old man. -Then a dreadful conflict took place in Françoise’s -heart. She could not allow her father to -be murdered in that manner; no, no, she would -die in company with Dominique rather; and she -was just darting away in the direction of her -room in order to signal to her <i>fiancé</i>, when -Dominique himself entered the courtyard.</p> - -<p>The officer and his soldiers gave a great -shout of triumph, but he, as if there had been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[Pg 122]</span> -no soul there but Françoise, walked straight up -to her; he was perfectly calm, and his face wore -a slight expression of sternness.</p> - -<p>“You did wrong,” he said. “Why did you -not bring me back with you? Had it not been for -Father Bontemps I should have known nothing -of all this. Well, I am here, at all events.”</p> - - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>It was three o’clock. The heavens were piled -high with great black clouds, the tail-end of a -storm that had been raging somewhere in the -vicinity. Beneath the coppery sky and ragged -scud the valley of Rocreuse, so bright and -smiling in the sunlight, became a grim chasm, -full of sinister shadows. The Prussian officer -had done nothing with Dominique beyond -placing him in confinement, giving no indication -of his ultimate purpose in regard to him. -Françoise, since noon, had been suffering unendurable -agony; notwithstanding her fathe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[Pg 123]</span>r’s -entreaties, she would not leave the courtyard. -She was waiting for the French troops to -appear, but the hours slipped by, night was -approaching, and she suffered all the more since -it appeared as if the time thus gained would -have no effect on the final result.</p> - -<p>About three o’clock, however, the Prussians -began to make their preparations for departure. -The officer had gone to Dominique’s room and -remained closeted with him for some minutes, -as he had done the day before. Françoise -knew that the young man’s life was hanging in -the balance; she clasped her hands and put up -fervent prayers. Beside her sat Father Merlier, -rigid and silent, declining, like the true peasant -he was, to attempt any interference with accomplished -facts.</p> - -<p>“Oh! my God! my God!” Françoise exclaimed, -“they are going to kill him!”</p> - -<p>The miller drew her to him, and took her on -his lap as if she had been a little child. At -this juncture the officer came from the room,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[Pg 124]</span> -followed by two men conducting Dominique -between them.</p> - -<p>“Never, never!” the latter exclaimed. “I -am ready to die.”</p> - -<p>“You had better think the matter over,” the -officer replied. “I shall have no trouble in finding -some one else to render us the service which -you refuse. I am generous with you; I offer -you your life. It is simply a matter of guiding -us across the forest to Montredon; there must -be paths.”</p> - -<p>Dominique made no answer.</p> - -<p>“Then you persist in your obstinacy?”</p> - -<p>“Shoot me, and let’s have done with it,” he -replied.</p> - -<p>Françoise, in the distance, entreated her -lover with clasped hands; she was forgetful of -all considerations save one—she would have had -him commit a treason. But Father Merlier -seized her hands, that the Prussians might not -see the wild gestures of a woman whose mind -was disordered by her distress.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[Pg 125]</span></p> - -<p>“He is right,” he murmured, “it is best for -him to die.”</p> - -<p>The firing-party was in readiness. The officer -still had hopes of bringing Dominique over, and -was waiting to see him exhibit some signs of -weakness. Deep silence prevailed. Heavy -peals of thunder were heard in the distance, -the fields and woods lay lifeless beneath the -sweltering heat. And it was in the midst of -this oppressive silence that suddenly the cry -arose:</p> - -<p>“The French! the French!”</p> - -<p>It was a fact; they were coming. The line -of red trousers could be seen advancing along -the Sauval road, at the edge of the forest. -In the mill the confusion was extreme; the -Prussian soldiers ran to and fro, giving vent -to guttural cries. Not a shot had been fired as -yet.</p> - -<p>“The French! the French!” cried Françoise, -clapping her hands for joy. She was like -a woman possessed. She had escaped from her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[Pg 126]</span> -father’s embrace and was laughing boisterously, -her arms raised high in the air. They had -come at last, then, and had come in time, since -Dominique was still there, alive!</p> - -<p>A crash of musketry that rang in her ears like -a thunderclap caused her to suddenly turn her -head. The officer had muttered, “We will -finish this business first,” and with his own -hands pushing Dominique up against the wall -of a shed, had given the command to the squad -to fire. When Françoise turned, Dominique -was lying on the ground, pierced by a dozen -bullets.</p> - -<p>She did not shed a tear; she stood there like -one suddenly rendered senseless. Her eyes -were fixed and staring, and she went and seated -herself beneath the shed, a few steps from the -lifeless body. She looked at it wistfully; now -and then she would make a movement with -her hand in an aimless, childish way. The -Prussians had seized Father Merlier as a -hostage.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[Pg 127]</span></p> - -<p>It was a pretty fight. The officer, perceiving -that he could not retreat without being cut to -pieces, rapidly made the best disposition possible -of his men; it was as well to sell their -lives dearly. The Prussians were now the -defenders of the mill and the French were the -attacking party. The musketry fire began -with unparalleled fury; for half an hour there -was no lull in the storm. Then a deep report -was heard, and a ball carried away a main -branch of the old elm. The French had -artillery; a battery, in position just beyond the -ditch where Dominique had concealed himself, -commanded the main street of Rocreuse. The -conflict could not last long after that.</p> - -<p>Ah! the poor old mill! The cannon-balls -raked it from wall to wall. Half the roof was -carried away; two of the walls fell in. But it -was on the side toward the Morelle that the -damage was most lamentable. The ivy, torn -from the tottering walls, hung in tatters, débris -of every description floated away upon the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[Pg 128]</span> -bosom of the stream, and through a great -breach Françoise’s chamber was visible, with its -little bed, the snow-white curtains of which -were carefully drawn. Two balls struck the old -wheel in quick succession, and it gave one -parting groan; the buckets were carried away -down stream, the frame was crushed into a -shapeless mass. It was the soul of the stout old -mill parting from the body.</p> - -<p>Then the French came forward to carry the -place by storm. There was a mad hand-to-hand -conflict with the bayonet. Under the dull -sky the pretty valley became a huge slaughter-pen; -the broad meadows looked on in horror, -with their great isolated trees and their rows of -poplars, dotting them with shade, while to -right and left the forest was like the walls of a -tilting-ground enclosing the combatants, and in -Nature’s universal panic the gentle murmur of -the springs and watercourses sounded like sobs -and wails.</p> - -<p>Françoise had not stirred from the shed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[Pg 129]</span> -where she remained hanging over Dominique’s -body. Father Merlier had met his death from -a stray bullet. Then the French captain, the -Prussians being exterminated and the mill on -fire, entered the courtyard at the head of his -men. It was the first success that he had -gained since the breaking out of the war, so, -all inflamed with enthusiasm, drawing himself -up to the full height of his lofty stature, he -laughed pleasantly, as a handsome cavalier like -him might laugh. Then, perceiving poor -idiotic Françoise where she crouched between -the corpses of her father and her intended, -among the smoking ruins of the mill, he saluted -her gallantly with his sword, and shouted:</p> - -<p>“Victory! Victory!”</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[Pg 131]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THREE_WARS">THREE WARS</h2> -</div> - - -<p>War! In France, to men of my generation, -men who have passed their fiftieth year, this -terrible word awakens three special memories, -the memory of the Crimean expedition, of the -campaign in Italy, and of our disasters in 1870. -What victories, what defeats, and what a -lesson!</p> - -<p>Assuredly, war is accursed. It is a horrible -thing that nations should cut each other’s -throats. According to our progressive humanitarian -ideas, war must disappear on the day -when nations come to exchange a kiss of peace. -There are exalted minds which, beyond their -native country, behold humanity, and prophesy -universal concord. But how these theories fall<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[Pg 132]</span> -to pieces on the day when the country is -threatened! The philosophers themselves -snatch a gun and shoot. All declarations of -fraternity are over; and only a cry for extermination -rises from the breast of the whole nation. -For war is a dark necessity, like death. It may -be that we must have something of a dungheap -to keep civilisation in flower. It is necessary -that death should affirm life; and war is like -those cataclysms of the antediluvian world which -prepared the world of man.</p> - -<p>We have grown tender; we make moan over -every existence that passes away. And yet, do -we know how many existences, more or less, -are needed to balance the life of the earth? -We yield to the idea that an existence is sacred. -Perhaps the fatalism of the ancients, which -could behold the massacres of old without leaping -to a Utopia of universal brotherhood, -had a truer greatness. To keep ourselves -manly, to accept the dark work wrought by -death in that night wherein none of us can<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[Pg 133]</span> -read, to tell ourselves that, after all, people die, -and that there are merely hours in which they -die more—this, when all is said, is the wise -man’s attitude. Those who are angry with war -should be angry with all human infirmities. -The soft-hearted philosophers who have been -loudest in their curses of war, have been -obliged to perceive that war will be the weapon -of progress until the day when, ideal civilisation -being attained, all nations join in the festival -of universal peace. But that ideal civilisation -lies so remote in the blue future, that there will -assuredly be fighting for centuries yet. It is -the fashionable thing, just now, to consider war -as an old remnant of barbarism, from which the -Republic will one day set us free. To declaim -against war is one way of setting up as a progressive -person. But let a single cry of alarm -arise upon the frontier, let a trumpet sound in -the street, and we shall all be shouting for arms. -War is in the blood of man.</p> - -<p>Victor Hugo wrote that only kings desired<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[Pg 134]</span> -war, that nations desired only to exchange -marks of affection. Alas! that was but a -poetic aspiration. The poet has been the high-priest -of that dream-peace of which I spoke; -he celebrated the <i>United States</i> of Europe, he -put forward the brotherhood of nations, and -prophesied the new golden age. Nothing could -be sweeter or larger. But to be brothers is a -trifle; the first thing is to love one another, and -the nations do not love one another at all. A -falsehood is bad, merely in that it is a falsehood. -Undoubtedly, a sovereign, when he sees himself -in danger, may try the fortune of war against a -neighbour, in the hope of consolidating his -throne by victory. But after the first victory, or -the first defeat, the nation makes the war its -own, and fights for itself. If it were not fighting -for itself, it would not go on fighting. And -what shall we say of really national wars? Let -us suppose that France and Germany some day -again find themselves face to face. Republic, -empire, or kingdom, the Government will count<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[Pg 135]</span> -for nothing; it will be the whole nation which -will rise. A great thrill will run from end to -end of the land. The bugles will sound of -themselves to call the people together. There -has been war germinating in our midst, in spite -of ourselves, these twenty years, and if ever the -hour strikes, it will rise, an overflowing harvest, -in every furrow.</p> - -<p>Three times in my life, I repeat, have I felt the -passage of war over France; and never shall I -forget the particular sound made by her wings. -First of all comes a far-off murmur, heralding -the approach of a great wind. The murmur -grows, the tumult bursts, every heart beats: a -dizzy enthusiasm, a need of killing and conquering -takes hold of the nation. Then, when the -men are gone and the noise has sunk, an -anxious silence reigns, and every ear is on the -stretch for the first cry from the army. Will it -be a cry of triumph or of defeat? It is a -terrible moment. Contradictory news comes; -every tiniest indication is seized, every word is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[Pg 136]</span> -pondered and discussed until the hour when the -truth is known. And what an hour that is, of -delirious joy or horrible despair!</p> - - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>I was fourteen at the time of the Crimean war. -I was a pupil in the College of Aix, shut up -with two or three hundred other urchins in an -old Benedictine convent, whose long corridors -and vast halls retained a great dreariness. -But the two courts were cheerful under the -spreading blue immensity of that glorious -Southern sky. It is a tender memory that I -keep of that college, in spite of the sufferings -that I endured there.</p> - -<p>I was fourteen then; I was no longer a small -boy, and yet I feel to-day how complete was the -ignorance of the world in which we were living. -In that forgotten corner, even the echo of great -events hardly reached us. The town, a sad, -old, dead capital, slumbered in the midst of its<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[Pg 137]</span> -arid landscape; and the college, close to the -ramparts, in the deserted quarter of the town, -slumbered even more deeply. I do not remember -any political catastrophe ever passing its -walls while I was cloistered there. The Crimean -war alone moved us, and even as to that it is -probable that weeks elapsed before the fame of -it reached us.</p> - -<p>When I recall my memories of that time, I -smile to think what war was to us country schoolboys. -In the first place, everything was extremely -vague. The theatre of the struggle was so distant, -so lost in a strange and savage country, -that we seemed to be looking on at a story come -true out of the “Arabian Nights.” We did not -clearly know where the fighting was; and I do -not remember that we had at any time curiosity -enough to consult the atlases in our hands. It -must be said that our teachers kept us in absolute -ignorance of modern life. They themselves -read the papers and learned the news; but they -never opened their mouths to us about such<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[Pg 138]</span> -things, and if we had questioned them, they -would have dismissed us sternly to our exercises -and essays. We knew nothing precise, except -that France was fighting in the East, for reasons -not within our ken.</p> - -<p>Certain points, however, stood out clear. We -repeated the classic jokes about the Cossacks. -We knew the names of two or three Russian -generals, and we were not far from attributing -to these generals the heads of child-devouring -monsters. Moreover, we did not for one -moment admit the possibility that the French -could be beaten. That would have appeared to -us contrary to the laws of nature. Then there -were gaps. As the campaign was prolonged, -we would forget, for months at a time, that there -was any fighting, until some day some report -came to arouse our attention again. I cannot tell -whether we knew of the battles as they happened, -or whether we felt the thrill which the fall of -Sebastopol gave to France. All these things<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[Pg 139]</span> -were confused. Virgil and Homer were realities -which caused us more concern than the contemporary -quarrels of nations.</p> - -<p>I only remember that for a time there was a -game greatly in favour in our playgrounds. We -divided ourselves into two camps. We drew -two lines on the ground, and proceeded to fight. -It was “prisoners’ base” simplified. One camp -represented the Russian and one the French -army. Naturally, the Russians ought to have -been defeated, but the contrary sometimes -occurred; the fury was extraordinary and the -riot frightful. At the end of a week the superintendent -was obliged to forbid this delightful -game: two boys had had to be put on the sick -list, with broken heads.</p> - -<p>Among the most distinguished in these conflicts -was a tall, fair lad, who always got chosen -General. Louis, who belonged to an old Breton -family that had come to live in the South, -assumed victorious airs. I can see him yet,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[Pg 140]</span> -with a handkerchief tied on his forehead by -way of plume, a leather belt girded round him, -leading on his soldiers with a wave of the hand -as if it were the great wave of a sword. He -filled us with admiration; we even felt a sort of -respect for him. Strangely enough he had a -twin-brother, Julien, who was much smaller, -frail and delicate, and who greatly disliked -these violent games. When we divided into -two camps, he would go apart, sit down on a -stone bench, and thence watch us with his sad -and rather frightened eyes. One day, Louis, -hustled and attacked by a whole band, fell -under their blows, and Julien gave a cry, pallid, -trembling, half-fainting like a woman. The -two brothers adored each other, and none of us -would have dared to laugh at the little one -about his want of courage, for fear of the big one.</p> - -<p>The memory of these twins is closely involved -for me in the memory of that time. -Towards the spring, I became a day-boarder, -and no longer slept at the college, but came in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[Pg 141]</span> -the morning for the seven o’clock lessons. The -two brothers, also, were day-boarders. The -three of us were inseparable. As we lived in -the same street we used to wait to go in to -college together. Louis, who was very precocious -and dreamed of adventures, seduced us. -We agreed to leave home at six, so as to have a -whole hour of freedom in which we could be -men. For us “to be men” meant to smoke -cigars and to go and have drinks at a shabby -wine-shop, which Louis had discovered in an -out-of-the-way street. The cigars and the -drinks made us frightfully ill; but, then, what -an emotion it was to step into the wine-shop, -casting glances to right and left, and in terror -of being observed.</p> - -<p>These fine doings occurred towards the close -of the winter. I remember there were mornings -when the rain fell in torrents. We waded -through, and arrived drenched. After that, the -mornings became mild and fair, and then a -mania took hold of us—that of going to see off<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[Pg 142]</span> -the soldiers. Aix is on the road to Marseilles. -Regiments came into the town by the road from -Avignon, slept one night, and started off on the -morrow by the road to Marseilles. At that -time, fresh troops, especially cavalry and artillery, -were being sent to the Crimea. Not a -week elapsed without troops passing. A local -paper even announced these movements beforehand, -for the benefit of the inhabitants with -whom the men lodged. Only we did not read -the paper, and we were much concerned to -know overnight whether there would be soldiers -leaving in the morning. As the departure -occurred at five in the morning, we were -obliged to get up very early, often to no -purpose.</p> - -<p>What a happy time it was! Louis and -Julien would come and call me from the middle -of the street, where not a person was yet to be -seen. I hurried down. It would be chilly, notwithstanding -the spring-time mildness of the -days, and we three would cross the empty town.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[Pg 143]</span> -When a regiment was leaving, the soldiers -would be assembling on the Cours, before a -hotel where the colonel generally stayed. -Therefore, the moment that we turned into the -Cours, our necks were stretched out eagerly. -If the Cours was empty, what a blow! And it -was often empty. On these mornings, though -we did not say so, we regretted our beds, and -cooled our heels till seven o’clock, not knowing -what to do with our freedom. But, then, what -joy it was, when we turned the street and saw -the Cours full of men and horses! An amazing -commotion arose in the slight morning chill. -Soldiers came in from every direction, while the -drums beat and the bugles called. The officers -had great difficulty in forming them on this -esplanade. However, order was established, -little by little, the ranks closed up, while we -talked to the men and slipped under the horses -legs, at the risk of being crushed. Nor were -we the only people to enjoy this scene. Small -proprietors appeared one by one, early towns<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[Pg 144]</span>folk, -and all that part of the population which -rises betimes. Soon there were crowds. The -sun rose. The gold and steel of the uniforms -shone in the clear morning light.</p> - -<p>We thus beheld, on the Cours of that peaceful -and still drowsy town, Dragoons, Cavalry -Chasseurs, Lancers, and, in fact, all branches of -light and heavy cavalry. But our favourites, -those who aroused our keenest enthusiasm, -were the Cuirassiers. They dazzled us as they -sat square on their stout horses, with the glowing -star of their breastplates before them. Their -helmets took fire in the rising sun; their ranks -were like rows of suns, whose rays shone on the -neighbouring houses. When we knew that -there were Cuirassiers going, we got up at four, -so eager were we to fill our eyes with their -glories.</p> - -<p>At last, however, the colonel would appear. -The colours, which had passed the night with -him, were displayed. And all at once, after two -or three words of command cried aloud, the re<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[Pg 145]</span>giment -gave way. It went down the Cours, and -with the first fall of the hoofs on the dry earth, -rose a beat of drums which made our hearts -leap within us. We ran to keep at the head of -the column, abreast of the band, which was -greeting the town, as it went at a double. -First there came three shrill bugle notes as a -summons to the players, then the trumpet call -broke out, and covered everything with its -sounds. Outside the gates the “double” was -ended in the open, where the last notes died -away. Then there was a turn to the left along -the Marseilles road, a fine road planted with -elms hundreds of years old. The horses went -at a foot pace, in rather open order, on the wide -highway, white with dust. We felt as if we -were going, too. The town was remote, college -was forgotten; we ran and ran, delighted with -our outbreak. It was like setting out to war -ourselves every week.</p> - -<p>Ah, those lovely mornings! It was six -o’clock, the sun, already high, lighted the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[Pg 146]</span> -country with great sloping rays. A milder -warmth breathed through the little chill breeze -of morning. Groups of birds flew up from the -hedges. Far off the meadows were bathed in -pink mist; and amid this smiling landscape -these beautiful soldiers, the Cuirassiers shining -like stars, passed with their glowing breasts. -The road turned suddenly at the dip of a deep -valley. The curious townsfolk never went farther; -soon we were the only ones persisting. -We went down the slope and reached the -bridge crossing the river at the very bottom. -It was only there that uneasiness would fall on -us. It must be nearly seven; we had only just -time to run home, if we did not wish to miss -college. Often we suffered ourselves to be -carried away; we pushed on farther still; and -on those days we played truant, roaming about -till noon, hiding ourselves in the grassy holes at -the edge of the waterfall. At other times we -stopped at the bridge, sitting on the stone -parapet, and never losing sight of the regiment,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[Pg 147]</span> -as it went up the opposite slope of the valley -before us. It was a moving spectacle. The -road went up the hillside in a straight line for -rather more than a mile. The horses slackened -their pace yet more, the men grew smaller with -the rhythmic swaying of their steeds. At first, -each breastplate and each helmet was like a -sun. Then the suns dwindled, and soon there -was only an army of stars on the march. Finally, -the last man disappeared and the road was bare. -Nothing was left of the beautiful regiment that -had passed by, except a memory.</p> - -<p>We were only children; but, all the same, -that spectacle made us grave. As the regiment -slowly mounted the steep, we would be taken -by a great silence, our eyes fixed upon the -troop, in despair at the thought of losing it, and -when it had disappeared, something tightened -in our throats, and for a moment or two we still -watched the distant rock behind which it had -just vanished. Would it ever come back? -Would it some day come down this hillside<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[Pg 148]</span> -again? These questions, stirring sadly within -us, made us sad. Good-bye, beautiful regiment.</p> - -<p>Julien, in particular, always came home very -tired. He only came so far in order not to -leave his brother. These excursions knocked -him up, and he had a mortal terror of the horses. -I remember that one day we had lingered in -the train of an artillery regiment, and spent the -day in the open fields. Louis was wild with -enthusiasm. When we had breakfasted on an -omelette, in a village, he took us to a bend of -the river, where he was set upon bathing. Then -he talked of going for a soldier as soon as he was -old enough.</p> - -<p>“No, no!” cried Julien, flinging his arms -round his neck. He was quite pale. His -brother laughed, and called him a great stupid. -But he repeated: “You would be killed, I -know you would.”</p> - -<p>On that day, Julien, excited, and jeered at by -us, spoke his mind. He thought the soldiers<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[Pg 149]</span> -horrid, he did not see what there was in them to -attract us. It was all the soldiers’ fault, because -if there were not any soldiers, there would not be -any fighting. In fact, he hated war; it terrified -him, and, later on, he would find some way to -prevent his brother from going. It was a sort of -morbid, unconquerable aversion which he felt.</p> - -<p>Weeks and months went by. We had got -tired of the regiments; we had found out -another sport, which was to go fishing, of a -morning, for the little fresh-water fish, and to -eat what we caught in a third-rate tavern. The -water was icy. Julien got a cold on the -chest, of which he nearly died. In college, war -was no longer talked about. We had fallen -back deeper than ever into Homer and Virgil. -All at once, we learned that the French had -conquered, which seemed to us quite natural. -Then, regiments again began to pass, but in the -other direction. They no longer interested us; -still, we did see two or three. They did not -seem to us so fine, diminished as they were by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[Pg 150]</span> -half—and the rest is lost in a mist. Such was -the Crimean war, in France, for schoolboys shut -up in a country college.</p> - - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>In 1859 I was in Paris, finishing my studies at -the Lycée St. Louis. As it happened, I was -there with my two school-fellows from Aix, -Louis and Julien. Louis was preparing for his -entrance examination to the Ecole Polytechnique; -Julien had decided to go in for law. -We were all out-students.</p> - -<p>By this time we had ceased to be savages, -entirely ignorant of the contemporary world. -Paris had ripened us. Thus, when the war -with Italy broke out, we were abreast of the -stream of political events which had led to it. -We even discussed the war in the character of -politicians and military adepts. It was the -fashion at college to take interest in the campaign, -and to follow the movements of the troops<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[Pg 151]</span> -on the map. During our college hours we used -to mark our positions with pins and fight and -lose battles. In order to be well up to date, we -devoured an enormous supply of newspapers. -It was the mission of us out-students to bring -them in. We used to arrive with our pockets -stuffed, with thicknesses of paper under our -coats, enclosed from head to foot in an armour -of newspapers. And while lectures were going -on these papers were circulated; lessons and -studies were neglected; we drank our fill of -news, shielded by the back of a neighbour. In -order to conceal the big sheets we used to cut -them in four, and open them inside our books. -The professors were not always blind, but they -let us go our own way with the tolerance of men -resigned to let the idler bear the burden of his -idleness.</p> - -<p>At first, Julien shrugged his shoulders. He -was possessed by a fine adoration of the poets of -1830, and there was always a volume of Musset -or Hugo in his pocket which he used to read at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[Pg 152]</span> -lecture. So when anyone handed him a newspaper -he used to pass it on scornfully without -even condescending to look at it, and would -continue reading the poem which he had begun. -To him it seemed monstrous that anybody could -care about men who were fighting one another. -But a catastrophe which changed the whole -course of his life caused him to alter his opinion.</p> - -<p>One fine day Louis, who had just failed in his -examination, enlisted. It was a rash step which -had long been in his mind. He had an uncle -who was a general, and he thought himself sure -of making his way without passing through the -military schools. Besides, when the war was over, -he could still try Saint-Cyr. When Julien heard -this news, it came upon him like a thunderbolt. -He was no longer the boy declaiming against -war with missish arguments, but he still had -an unconquerable aversion. He wished to show -himself a hardened man; and he succeeded -in not shedding tears before us. But from the -time his brother went, he became one of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[Pg 153]</span> -most eager devourers of newspapers. We came -and went from college together; and our conversations -turned on nothing but possible battles. -I remember that he used to drag me almost -every day to the Luxembourg Gardens. He -would lay his books on a bench and trace a -whole map of Northern Italy in the sand. That -kept his thoughts with his brother. In the -depths of his heart he was full of terror at the -idea that he might be killed.</p> - -<p>Even now, when I inquire of my memory, I -find it difficult to make clear the elements of -this horror of war on Julien’s part. He was by -no means a coward. He merely had a distaste -for bodily exercises, to which he reckoned abstract -mental speculations far superior. To live -the life of a learned man or a poet, shut into a -quiet room, seemed to him the real end of man -on this earth; while the turmoils of the street, -battles, whether with fist or sword, and everything -which develops the muscles seemed to him -only fit for a nation of savages. He despised<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[Pg 154]</span> -athletes and acrobats and wild beast tamers. -I must add that he had no patriotism. On this -subject we heaped contempt upon him, and I -can still see the smile and shrug of the shoulders -with which he answered us.</p> - -<p>One of the most vivid memories of that time -which remains with me is the memory of the -fine summer day on which the news of the victory -of Magenta became known in Paris. It -was June—a splendid June, such as we seldom -have in France. It was Sunday. Julien and I -had planned the evening before to take a walk -in the Champs Elysées. He was very uneasy -about his brother, from whom he had had no -letter, and I wanted to distract his thoughts. I -called for him at one o’clock, and we strolled -down towards the Seine at the idle pace of -schoolboys with no usher behind them.</p> - -<p>Paris on a holiday in very hot weather is -something that deserves knowing. The black -shadow of the houses cuts the white pavement -sharply. Between the shuttered, drowsy house<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[Pg 155]</span> -fronts is visible but a strip of sky of a hard blue. -I do not know any place in the world where, -when it is hot, it is hotter than in Paris; it is a -furnace, suffocating, asphyxiating. Some corners -of Paris are deserted, among others the -quays, whence the loungers have fled to suburban -copses. And yet, what a delightful <span class="correction" title="In the original book: wall">walk</span> it -is, along the wide, quiet quays, with their row of -little thick trees, and below, the magnificent rush -of the river all alive with its moving populace of -vessels.</p> - -<p>Well, we had come to the Seine and were -walking along the quays in the shadow of the -trees. Slight sounds came up from the river, -whose waters quivered in the sun and were -marked out as with lines of silver into large -wavering patterns. There was something special -in the holiday air of this fine Sunday. Paris -was positively being filled already by the news -of which everybody, and even the very houses, -seemed expectant. The Italian campaign, which -was, as everybody knows, so rapid, had opened<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[Pg 156]</span> -with successes; but so far there had been no -important battle, and it was this battle which -Paris had for two days been feeling. The great -city held her breath and heard the distant -cannon.</p> - -<p>I have retained the memory of this impression -very clearly. I had just confided to Julien the -strange sensation which I felt, by saying to -him that Paris “looked queer,” when, as we -came to the Quai Voltaire, we saw, afar off, in -front of the printing-office of the <i>Moniteur</i>, a -little knot of people, standing to read a notice. -There were not more than seven or eight persons. -From the pavement where we stood, we could -see them gesticulating, laughing, calling out. -We crossed the road quickly. The notice was a -telegram, written, not printed; it announced the -victory of Magenta, in four lines. The wafers -which fixed it to the wall were not yet dry. -Evidently we were the first to know in all this -great Paris, that Sunday. People came running, -and their enthusiasm was a sight to see. They<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[Pg 157]</span> -fraternised at once, strangers shook hands with -each other. A gentleman, with a ribbon at his -button-hole, explained to a workman how the -battle must have occurred; women were laughing -with a pretty laughter and looking as if they -were inclined to throw themselves into the arms -of the bystanders. Little by little the crowd -grew; passers-by were beckoned; coachmen -stopped their vehicles and came down from -their seats. When we came away there were -more than a thousand people there.</p> - -<p>After that it was a glorious day. In a few -minutes the news had spread to the whole town. -We thought to bear it with us, but it out-stripped -us, for we could not turn a corner or pass along -a street without at once understanding by the -joy on every face that the thing was known. It -floated in the sunshine; it came on the wind. -In half-an-hour the aspect of Paris was changed; -solemn expectancy had given place to an outburst -of triumph. We sauntered for a couple of -hours in the Champs Elysées among crowds<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[Pg 158]</span> -who laughed for joy. The eyes of the women -had a special tenderness. And the word -“Magenta” was in every mouth.</p> - -<p>But Julien was still very pale; he was much -disturbed and I knew what was his secret -terror, when he murmured:—</p> - -<p>“They laugh to-day, but how many will be -crying to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>He was thinking of his brother. I made jokes -to try and reassure him, and told him that Louis -was sure to come back a captain.</p> - -<p>“If only he does come back,” he answered, -shaking his head.</p> - -<p>As soon as night fell, Paris was illuminated. -Venetian lanterns swung at all the windows. -The poorest persons had lighted candles; I -even saw some rooms whose tenants had -merely pushed a table to the window and set -their lamp on it. The night was exquisite, and -all Paris was in the streets. There were people -sitting all along upon the doorsteps as if they -were waiting for a procession. Crowds were<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[Pg 159]</span> -standing in the squares, the cafés and the wine-shops -were thronged, and the urchins were -letting off crackers which scented the air with -a fine smell of powder.</p> - -<p>I repeat I never saw Paris so beautiful. That -day, all joys were united, sunshine, a Sunday, -and a victory. Afterwards, when Paris heard -of the decisive battle of Solferino, there was not -the same enthusiasm, even though it brought -the immediate conclusion of the war. On the -day when the troops made their entry, the -demonstration was more solemn, but it lacked -that spontaneous popular joy.</p> - -<p>We got a two days’ holiday from Magenta. -We grew even more eager about the war, and -were among those who thought that peace had -been made too hastily. The school year was -drawing to its end. The holidays were coming, -bringing the feverish excitement of liberty; and -Italy, the army, and the victories, all disappeared -in the general setting free of the prize distribution. -I remember that I was to go and spend<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[Pg 160]</span> -my holidays in the South that year. When I -was just about to start, in the beginning of -August, Julien begged me to stay till the 14th, -the date fixed for the triumphal entry of the -troops. He was full of joy. Louis was coming -back with the rank of sergeant, and he wished -me to be present at his brother’s triumph. I -promised to stay.</p> - -<p>Great preparations were made for the reception -of the army which had for some days been -encamped in the immediate neighbourhood of -Paris. It was to enter by the Place de la Bastille, -to follow the line of the Boulevards, to go -down the Rue de la Paix, and cross the Place -Vendôme. The Boulevards were decorated -with flags. On the Place Vendôme, immense -stands had been erected for the members of the -Government and their guests. The weather -was splendid. When the troops came into -sight along the Boulevards, vast applause burst -forth. The crowd thronged on both sides of the -pavement. Heads rose above heads at the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[Pg 161]</span> -windows. Women waved their handkerchiefs -and threw down the flowers from their dresses -to the soldiers. All the while, the soldiers kept -on passing with their regular step, in the midst -of frantic hurrahs. The bands played; the -colours fluttered in the sun. Several, which had -been pierced by balls, received applause, and one -in particular, which was in rags, and crowned. -At the corner of the Rue du Temple an old -woman flung herself headlong into the ranks and -embraced a corporal, her son, no doubt. They -came near to carrying that happy mother in -triumph.</p> - -<p>The official ceremony took place in the Place -Vendôme. There, ladies in full dress, magistrates -in their robes, and officials in uniform -applauded with more gravity. In the evening, -the Emperor gave a banquet to three hundred -persons at the Louvre, in the Salle des Etats. -As he was proposing a toast, which has remained -historic, he exclaimed: “If France has done so -much for a friendly people what would she not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[Pg 162]</span> -do for her own independence?” An imprudent -speech which he must have regretted later. -Julien and I had seen the march past from a -window in the Boulevard Poissonière. He had -been to the camp the night before and had told -Louis where we should be. Thus when his -regiment passed Louis lifted his head to greet -us. He was much older, and his face was -brown and thin. I could hardly recognise him. -He looked like a man, compared with us who -were still children, slender and pale like -women. Julien followed him with his eyes as -long as he could, and I heard him murmur, -with tears in his eyes, while a nervous emotion -shook him: “It is beautiful after all—it is -beautiful.”</p> - -<p>In the evening I met them both again in a little -café of the Quartier Latin. It was a small -place at the end of an alley where we generally -went, because we were alone there and could -talk at our ease. When I arrived, Julien, with -both elbows on the table, was already listening<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[Pg 163]</span> -to Louis, who was telling him about Solferino. -He said that no battle had ever been less foreseen. -The Austrians were thought to be in retreat and -the allied armies were advancing when suddenly, -about five in the morning, on the 24th, they had -heard guns—it was the Austrians who had -turned and were attacking us. Then a series of -fights had begun, each division taking its turn. -All day long, the different generals had fought -separately, without having any clear idea of the -total form of the struggle. Louis had taken part -in a terrible hand-to-hand conflict in a cemetery, -in the midst of graves; and that was about all -he had seen. He also spoke of the terrible -storm which had broken out towards the evening. -The heavens took part and the thunder -silenced the guns. The Austrians had to give -up the field in a veritable deluge. They had -been firing on each other for sixteen hours, and -the night which followed was full of terrors, for -the soldiers did not exactly know which way the -victory had gone, and at every sound in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[Pg 164]</span> -darkness they thought that the battle was beginning -again.</p> - -<p>During this tale Julien kept on looking at his -brother. Perhaps he was not even listening, -but was happy in merely having him before his -eyes. I shall never forget the evening spent -thus in that obscure and peaceful café, whence -we heard the murmur of festival Paris, while -Louis was leading us across the bloody fields of -Solferino. When he had finished Julien said -quietly:—</p> - -<p>“Anyway, you are here and what does -anything else matter?”</p> - - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>Eleven years later, in 1870, we were grown -men. Louis had reached the rank of captain. -Julien, after various beginnings, had settled -down to the idle, ever-occupied life of those -wealthy Parisians who frequent literary and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[Pg 165]</span> -artistic society without themselves ever touching -pen or paint brush.</p> - -<p>There was great excitement at the first report -of a war with Germany. People’s brains were -fevered: there was talk about our natural -frontier on the Rhine, and about avenging -Waterloo, which had remained a weight on our -hearts. If the campaign had been opened by a -victory, France would certainly have blessed -this war which she ought to have cursed.</p> - -<p>Paris certainly would have felt disappointed if -peace had been maintained, after the stormy -sittings of the Corps Legislatif. On the day -when conflict became inevitable, all hearts beat -high. I am not speaking now of the scenes -which took place in the evenings on the -boulevards, of the shrieking crowds, or the -shouts of men who may have been paid, as, later -on, it was declared that they had been. I only -say that, among sober citizens, the greater -number were marking out on maps the different -stages of our army as far as Berlin. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[Pg 166]</span> -Prussians were to be driven back with the butt -end of the rifle. This absolute confidence of -victory was our inheritance from the days in -which our soldiers had passed, always conquering, -from one end of Europe to the other. Nowadays -we are thoroughly cured of that very -dangerous patriotic vanity.</p> - -<p>One evening when I was on the Boulevard des -Capucines, watching hordes of men in blouses -who passed along, yelling, “<i>À Berlin! À -Berlin</i>,” I felt someone touch me on the shoulder. -It was Julien. He was very gloomy. I reproached -him with his lack of enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“We shall be beaten,” said he, quietly.</p> - -<p>I protested, but he shook his head, without -giving any reasons. He felt it, he said. I spoke -of his brother. Louis was already at Metz with -his regiment, and Julien showed me a letter -which he had received the night before, a letter -full of gaiety, in which the captain declared that -he should have died of barrack-life if the war -had not come to lift him out of it. He vowed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[Pg 167]</span> -that he would come home a colonel, with a -medal.</p> - -<p>But when I tried to use this letter as an argument -against Julien’s dark prognostications, he -merely repeated:</p> - -<p>“We shall be beaten.”</p> - -<p>Paris’s time of anxiety began once more. I -knew that solemn silence of the great city; I had -witnessed it in 1859 before the first hostilities of -the Italian campaign. But this time the silence -seemed more tremulous. No one seemed in -doubt about the victory; yet sinister rumours -were current, coming no one knew whence. -Surprise was felt that our army had not taken -the initiative and carried the war at once into -the enemy’s territory.</p> - -<p>One afternoon on the Exchange a great piece -of news broke forth; we had gained an immense -victory, taken a considerable number of cannons, -and made prisoners a whole division. Houses -were actually beginning to be decorated, people -were embracing one another in the street, when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[Pg 168]</span> -the falsehood of the news had to be acknowledged. -There had been no battle. The victory -had not seemed natural in the expected order of -events, but the sudden contradiction, the trick -played on a populace that had been too ready -with its rejoicings and had to put off its enthusiasm -to another day, struck a chill to my heart. All -at once I felt an immense sadness, I felt the -quivering wing of some unexampled disaster -passing over us.</p> - -<p>I shall always remember that ill-omened Sunday. -It was a Sunday again, and many people -must have remembered the radiant Sunday of -Magenta. It was early in August; the sunshine -had not the young brightness of June. The -weather was heavy, great flags of stormcloud -weighed upon the city. I was returning from a -little town in Normandy, and I was particularly -struck by the funereal aspect of Paris. On the -boulevards, people were standing about in groups -of three or four, and talking in low tones. At -last I heard the horrible news: we had been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[Pg 169]</span> -defeated at Wörth, and the torrent of invasion -was flowing into France.</p> - -<p>I never beheld such deep consternation. All -Paris was stupefied. What! Was it possible? -We were conquered! The defeat seemed to us -unjust and monstrous. It not only struck a blow -at our patriotism; it destroyed a religion in us. -We could not yet measure all the disastrous -consequences of this reverse, we still hoped that -our soldiers might avenge it; and yet we -remained as it were annihilated. The despairing -silence of the town was full of a great shame.</p> - -<p>That day and that evening were frightful. -The public gaiety of victorious days was not. -Women no longer wore that tender smile, nor -did people pass from group to group making -friends. Night fell black on this despairing -populace. Not a firework in the street; not a -lamp at a window. Early on the morrow I saw -a regiment going down the boulevard. People -were pausing with sad faces, and the soldiers -passed, hanging their heads, as if they had had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[Pg 170]</span> -their share in the defeat. Nothing saddened me -so much as that regiment, applauded by no -one, passing over the same ground where I had -seen the army from Italy marching past amid -rejoicings that shook the houses.</p> - -<p>Then began the days cursed with suspense. -Every two or three hours I used to go to the -door of the Mairie in the ninth <i>arrondissement</i>, -which is in the Rue Drouot, where the telegrams -were put up. There were always people gathered -there, waiting, to the number of a hundred or so. -Often the crowd would extend right to the -boulevard. There was nothing noisy about -these crowds. People spoke in low tones, as if -they were in a sick-room. Directly a clerk -appeared to put a telegram on the board, there -was a rush. Soon the news ran from mouth to -mouth. But the news had long been persistently -bad, and public consternation grew. Even to-day -I cannot pass along the Rue Drouot without -thinking of those days of mourning. There, on -that pavement, the people of Paris had to undergo<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[Pg 171]</span> -the most awful of torments. From hour to hour -we could hear the gallop of the German armies -drawing nearer to Paris.</p> - -<p>I saw Julien very often. He did not boast to -me of having foreseen the defeat. He only -seemed to think what had happened was natural -and in the order of things. Many Parisians -shrugged their shoulders when they heard talk -of a siege of Paris. Could there be a siege of -Paris? And others would demonstrate mathematically -that Paris could not be invested. -Julien, by a sort of foreknowledge, which struck -me later, declared that we should be surrounded -on September 15th. He was still the schoolboy -to whom physical exercises were strangely repulsive. -All this war, upsetting all his customary -ways, put him beside himself. Why, in the name -of God, did people want to fight? And he would -lift up his hands with a gesture of supreme -protestation. Yet he read the telegrams -greedily.</p> - -<p>“If Louis were not out there,” he would repeat,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[Pg 172]</span> -“I might make verses while we are waiting for -the end of the commotion.”</p> - -<p>At long intervals letters came to him from -Louis. The news was terrible, the army was -getting discouraged. On the day when we -heard of the battle of Borny I met Julien at the -corner of the Rue Drouot. Paris had a gleam -of hope that day. There was talk of a success. -He, on the other hand, seemed to me gloomier -than usual. He had read, somewhere, that his -brother’s regiment had done heroically, and that -its losses had been severe.</p> - -<p>Three days later a common friend came to -tell me the terrible news. A letter had brought -word to Julien the night before of his brother’s -death. He had been killed at Borny by the -bursting of a shell. I immediately hurried to go -to the poor fellow, but I found no one at his -lodging. The next morning, while I was still in -bed, a young man came in dressed as a <i>franc-tireur</i>. -It was Julien. At first I hardly knew -him. Then I folded him in my arms and em<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[Pg 173]</span>braced -him heartily, while my eyes were full of -tears. He did not weep. He sat down for -a moment and made a sign to stop my condolences.</p> - -<p>“There,” said he, quietly, “I wanted to say -‘good-bye’ to you. Now that I am alone I -could not endure to do nothing.... So as I -found that a company of <i>franc-tireurs</i> was -going, I joined yesterday. That will give me -something to do.”</p> - -<p>“When do you leave Paris?” I asked him.</p> - -<p>“Why, in a couple of hours. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>He embraced me in his turn. I did not dare -to ask him any more questions. He went, and -the thought of him was always with me.</p> - -<p>After the catastrophe of Sedan, some days -before the surrounding of Paris, I had news of -him. One of his comrades came to tell me that -this young fellow, so pale and slender, fought -like a wolf. He kept up a savage warfare -against the Prussians, watching them from behind -a hedge, using a knife rather than his gun.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[Pg 174]</span> -Whole nights long he would be on the hunt, -watching for men as for his prey, and cutting -the throat of anyone who came within his -reach. I was stupefied. I could not think that -this was Julien; I asked myself whether it was -possible that the nervous poet could have become -a butcher.</p> - -<p>Then Paris was isolated from the rest of the -world, and the siege began with all its fits of -sleepiness and of fever. I could not go out -without remembering Aix on a winter evening. -The streets were dark and empty, the houses -were shut up early. There were, indeed, distant -sounds of cannon and of shots, but the -sounds seemed to get lost in the dull silence of -the vast town. Some days, breaths of hope -would come over, and then the whole population -would awake, forgetful of the long standing -at the baker’s door, the rations, the cold chimneys, -the shells showering upon some districts -of the left side of the river. Then the crowd<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[Pg 175]</span> -would be struck dumb by some disaster, and -the silence began again—the silence of a capital -in the death agony. Yet, in the course of this -long siege, I saw little glimpses of quiet happiness; -people who had a little to live on, who -kept up their daily “constitutional” in the pale -wintry sunshine, lovers smiling at each other in -some out of the way nook and never hearing -the cannonade. We lived from day to day. All -our illusions had fallen; we counted on some -miracle, help from the provincial armies, or a -sortie of the whole populace, or some prodigious -intervention to arise in its due time.</p> - -<p>I was at one of the outposts, one day, when a -man was brought in, who had been found in a -trench. I recognised Julien. He insisted on -being taken to a general, and gave him sundry -pieces of information. I stayed with him, and -we spent the night together. Since September -he had never slept in a bed, but had given -himself up obstinately to his vocation as a cut<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[Pg 176]</span>-throat. -He seemed chary of details, shrugged -his shoulders, and told me that all expeditions -were alike; he killed as many Prussians as he -could, and killed them how he could: with a -gun or with a knife. According to him it was -after all a very monotonous life, and much -less dangerous than people thought. He had -run no real danger, except once when the -French took him for a spy and wanted to shoot -him.</p> - -<p>The next day he talked of going off again, -across fields and woods. I entreated him to -stay in Paris. He was sitting beside me, but -did not seem to listen to me. Then he said, all -at once:</p> - -<p>“You are right, it is enough—I have killed -my share.”</p> - -<p>Two days later he announced that he had enlisted -in the Chasseurs-à-pied. I was stupefied. -Had he not avenged his brother enough? -Had the idea of his country awakened in him?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[Pg 177]</span> -And, as I smiled in looking at him, he said -quietly:</p> - -<p>“I take Louis’ place. I cannot be anything -but a soldier. Oh, powder intoxicates! And -one’s country, you see, is the earth where they -lie, whom we loved.”</p> - - -<p class="p2 center"><i>Printed by</i> <span class="smcap">Ballantyne Hanson & Co.</span><br /> -<i>London and Edinburgh</i></p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_p1"></a></span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_Selection">A Selection<br /> - - -<span class="smaller">FROM</span><br /> - -<i>MR. WM. HEINEMANN’S LIST</i></h2> - -<p class="center">June 1892.</p> -</div> - -<h3>The Great Educators.</h3> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="center"><i>Each subject will form a complete volume of about -300 pages, crown 8vo.</i></p></div> - - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>ARISTOTLE, and the Ancient Educational -Ideals.</b> By <span class="smcap">Thomas Davidson</span>, M.A., LL.D. 5<i>s.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>LOYOLA, and the Educational System of the -Jesuits.</b> By Rev. <span class="smcap">Thomas Hughes</span>, S.J. 5<i>s.</i></p> - - -<p class="center"><i>In preparation.</i></p> - - - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>ALCUIN, and the Rise of the Christian -Schools.</b> By Professor <span class="smcap">Andrew F. West</span>, Ph.D.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>ABELARD, and the Origin and Early History -of Universities.</b> By <span class="smcap">Jules Gabriel Compayre</span>, Professor -in the Faculty of Toulouse.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>ROUSSEAU; or, Education according to -Nature.</b></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>HERBART; or Modern German Education.</b></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>PESTALOZZI; or, the Friend and Student -of Children.</b></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>FROEBEL.</b> By <span class="smcap">H. Courthope Bowen</span>, M.A.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>HORACE MANN, and Public Education in -the United States.</b> By <span class="smcap">Nicholas Murray Butler</span>, Ph.D.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>BELL, LANCASTER, and ARNOLD; or, -the English Education of To-Day.</b> By <span class="smcap">J. G. Fitch</span>, LL.D., -Her Majesty’s Inspector of Schools.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_p2"></a>[Pg 2]</span></p> - - -<h3>The Crown Copyright Series.</h3> - -<p><i>Mr. Heinemann has made arrangements with a number -of the first and most popular authors of to-day,</i></p> - -<p class="center"><i>ENGLISH, AMERICAN, AND COLONIAL,</i></p> - -<p><i>which will enable him to issue a Series of new and -original works to be known as the CROWN COPYRIGHT -SERIES at a uniform price of FIVE -SHILLINGS per volume.</i></p> - -<p><i>These novels will not pass through an expensive two or -three volume edition, but they will be obtainable at the -Circulating Libraries as well as at all Booksellers and -Bookstalls.</i></p> - - -<p><i>The following volumes are now ready</i>:—</p> - - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>ACCORDING TO ST. JOHN.</b> By <span class="smcap">Amélie -Rives</span>, Author of “The Quick or the Dead,” &c.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE PENANCE OF PORTIA JAMES.</b> -By “<span class="smcap">Tasma</span>,” Author of “Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill,” &c.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>INCONSEQUENT LIVES.</b> A Village Chronicle, -Shewing how certain Folk set out for El Dorado, -What they Attempted, and What they Attained. By <span class="smcap">J. H. -Pearce</span>, Author of “Esther Pentreath,” &c.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>A QUESTION OF TASTE.</b> By <span class="smcap">Maarten -Maartens</span>, Author of “The Sin of Joost Avelingh,” &c.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>COME LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY -LOVE.</b> By <span class="smcap">Robert Buchanan</span>.</p> - - -<p class="center"><i>In the Press.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE O’CONNORS OF BALLINAHINCH.</b> -By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Hungerford</span>, Author of “Molly Bawn.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>A BATTLE AND A BOY.</b> By <span class="smcap">Blanche -Willis Howard</span>, Author of “Guenn,” &c.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>VANITAS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Vernon Lee</span>, Author of “Hauntings,” -&c.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_p3"></a>[Pg 3]</span></p> - - -<h3>Heinemann’s 3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> Novels.</h3> - - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE SCAPEGOAT.</b> A Romance. By <span class="smcap">Hall -Caine</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE BONDMAN.</b> A New Saga. By <span class="smcap">Hall -Caine</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>DESPERATE REMEDIES.</b> By <span class="smcap">Thomas -Hardy</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>MAMMON.</b> By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Alexander</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>UNCLE PIPER OF PIPER’S HILL.</b> By -“<span class="smcap">Tasma</span>.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>A MARKED MAN.</b> Some Episodes in his Life. -By <span class="smcap">Ada Cambridge</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE THREE MISS KINGS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ada -Cambridge</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>NOT ALL IN VAIN.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ada Cambridge</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>IN THE VALLEY.</b> By <span class="smcap">Harold Frederic</span>. -Illustrated.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>PRETTY MISS SMITH.</b> By <span class="smcap">Florence -Warden</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>A ROMANCE OF THE CAPE FRONTIER.</b> -By <span class="smcap">Bertram Mitford</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>’TWEEN SNOW AND FIRE.</b> A Tale of the -Kafir War of 1877. By <span class="smcap">Bertram Mitford</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>A MODERN MARRIAGE.</b> By the <span class="smcap">Marquise -Clara Lanza</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>LOS CERRITOS.</b> A Romance of the Modern -Time. By <span class="smcap">Gertrude Franklin Atherton</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>DAUGHTERS OF MEN.</b> By <span class="smcap">Hannah Lynch</span>, -Author of “The Prince of the Glades,” &c.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS.</b> -By <span class="smcap">Elizabeth Stuart Phelps</span> and <span class="smcap">Herbert D. Ward</span>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_p4"></a>[Pg 4]</span></p> - - -<h3>Heinemann’s International Library.</h3> - -<p class="center"><b>Edited by EDMUND GOSSE.</b> Price 3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> cloth, 2<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> paper.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>New Review.</i>—“If you have any pernicious remnants of -literary chauvinism, I hope it will not survive the series of -foreign classics of which Mr. William Heinemann, aided by -Mr. Edmund Gosse, is publishing translations to the great contentment -of all lovers of literature.”</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>Times.</i>—“A venture which deserves encouragement.”</p> - -<p>⁂ Each Volume has an Introduction specially written -by the Editor.</p> - - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>IN GOD’S WAY.</b> From the Norwegian of -<span class="smcap">Björnstjerne Björnson</span>.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>Athenæium.</i>—“There are descriptions which certainly belong -to the best and cleverest things our literature has ever produced.”</p> - - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>PIERRE AND JEAN.</b> From the French of -<span class="smcap">Guy de Maupassant</span>.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>Pall Mall Gazette.</i>—“It is admirable from beginning to end.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE CHIEF JUSTICE.</b> From the German -of <span class="smcap">Karl Emil Franzos</span>, Author of “For the Right,” &c.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>New Review.</i>—“Few novels of recent times have a more -sustained and vivid human interest.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT.</b> -From the Russian of <span class="smcap">Count Tolstoy</span>.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>Scotsman.</i>—“It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of -the simplicity and force with which the work is unfolded.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>FANTASY.</b> From the Italian of <span class="smcap">Matilde Serao</span>.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>Scottish Leader.</i>—“It is a work of elfish art, a mosaic of life -and love, of right and wrong, of human weakness and strength, -and purity and wantonness pieced together in deft and witching -precision.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>FROTH.</b> From the Spanish of <span class="smcap">Don Armando -Palacio Valdés</span>.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>Daily Telegraph.</i>—“Vigorous and powerful in the highest -degree.... Rare and graphic strength.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>FOOTSTEPS OF FATE.</b> From the Dutch of -<span class="smcap">Louis Couperus</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>PEPITA JIMÉNEZ.</b> From the Spanish of -<span class="smcap">Juan Valera</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE COMMODORE’S DAUGHTERS.</b> From -the Norwegian of <span class="smcap">Jonas Lie</span>.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE HERITAGE OF THE KURTS.</b> From -the Norwegian of <span class="smcap">Björnstjerne Björnson</span>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_p5"></a>[Pg 5]</span></p> - - -<h3>New Works of Fiction.</h3> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE HEAD OF THE FIRM.</b> By Mrs. -<span class="smcap">Riddell</span>. In Three Vols.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>NOR WIFE, NOR MAID.</b> By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Hungerford</span>, -Author of “Molly Bawn,” &c. In Three Vols.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE NAULAKHA.</b> A Tale of West and -East. By <span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span> and <span class="smcap">Wolcott Balestier</span>. -In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6<i>s.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE AVERAGE WOMAN.</b> Containing, A -Common Story, Reffey, and Captain, My Captain! By -<span class="smcap">Wolcott Balestier</span>. With an Introduction by <span class="smcap">Henry -James</span>. Small crown 8vo, 3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE ATTACK ON THE MILL</b> and <b>THREE -WARS</b>. By <span class="smcap">Émile Zola</span>. With an Introduction by -<span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span>. Small crown 8vo, 3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> - - -<h3>Popular Shilling Books.</h3> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>MADAME VALERIE.</b> By <span class="smcap">F. C. Philips</span>, -Author of “As in a Looking-Glass,” &c.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE MOMENT AFTER.</b> A Tale of the Unseen. -By <span class="smcap">Robert Buchanan</span>.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>Guardian.</i>—“Particularly impressive, graphic, and powerful.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>A VERY STRANGE FAMILY.</b> By <span class="smcap">F. W. -Robinson</span>, Author of “Grandmother’s Money,” “Lazarus -in London,” &c.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><i>Glasgow Herald.</i>—“Delightful reading from start to finish.”</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>CLUES; or, Leaves from a Chief Constable’s -Note-Book.</b> By <span class="smcap">William Henderson</span>, Chief Constable -of Edinburgh.</p> - -<p class="blockquot"><span class="smcap">Mr. Gladstone.</span>—“I found the book full of interest.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_p6"></a>[Pg 6]</span></p> - - -<h3>The Drama.</h3> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF ARTHUR -W. PINERO.</b> Published in Monthly Volumes, each containing -a Complete Play, with its Stage History. Price -1<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> paper cover, 2<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> cloth extra.</p> - -<table summary="The dramatic works of Arthur W. Pinero."> -<tr><td class="tdr"><span class="smcap">Vol.</span> I.</td><td>The Times.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">II.</td><td>The Profligate. (With a Portrait.)</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">III.</td><td>The Cabinet Minister.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td><td>The Hobby-Horse.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">V.</td><td>Lady Bountiful.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td><td>The Magistrate.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="blockquot">⁂ To be followed by the Author’s other Plays.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>NERO AND ACTEA.</b> A Tragedy. By <span class="smcap">Eric -Mackay</span>, Author of “A Lover’s Litanies,” and “Love -Letters of a Violinist.” Crown 8vo, 5<i>s.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>HEDDA GABLER.</b> A Drama in Four Acts. -By <span class="smcap">Henrik Ibsen</span>. Translated from the Norwegian by -<span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span>. Library edition, with Portrait, small 4to, -5<i>s.</i> Vaudeville Edition, paper, 1<i>s.</i></p> - -<p>⁂ A limited Large Paper Edition, with three Portraits, 21<i>s.</i> net.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT.</b> -A Comedy in Four Acts. By <span class="smcap">Lyof Tolstoy</span>. Translated -from the Russian by <span class="smcap">E. J. Dillon</span>. With an Introduction -by <span class="smcap">A. W. Pinero</span>, and a Portrait of the Author. Small -4to, 5<i>s.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE PRINCESS MALEINE.</b> Translated -from the French by <span class="smcap">Gerard Harry</span>; and <b>THE INTRUDER</b>. -By <span class="smcap">Maurice Maeterlinck</span>. Translated -from the French. With an Introduction by <span class="smcap">Hall Caine</span>. -Small 4to, with a Portrait. 5<i>s.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub nobottom"><b>STRAY MEMORIES.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ellen Terry</span>. -One Volume, Illustrated.</p> -<p class="notop right">[<i>In the Press.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN.</b> By -<span class="smcap">Henrik Jæger</span>. Translated by <span class="smcap">Clara Bell</span>. With the -Verse done into English from the Norwegian original by -<span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span>. In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6<i>s.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>SOME INTERESTING FALLACIES OF -THE MODERN STAGE.</b> An Address delivered to -the Playgoers’ Club at St. James’s Hall, on Sunday, 6th -December, 1891. By <span class="smcap">Herbert Beerbohm Tree</span>. Crown -8vo, sewed, 6<i>d.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_p7"></a>[Pg 7]</span></p> - - -<h3>Miscellaneous.</h3> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE SPEECH OF MONKEYS.</b> By <span class="smcap">R. L. -Garner</span>. Crown 8vo, cloth, 7<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub nobottom"><b>THE GREAT WAR OF 18—.</b> A Forecast. -By Rear-Admiral <span class="smcap">Colomb</span>, Col. <span class="smcap">Maurice</span>, R.A., Major -<span class="smcap">Henderson</span>, Staff College, Captain <span class="smcap">Maude</span>, <span class="smcap">Archibald -Forbes</span>, <span class="smcap">Charles Lowe</span>, <span class="smcap">D. Christie Murray</span>, <span class="smcap">F. Scudamore</span>, -and Sir <span class="smcap">Charles Dilke</span>. In 1 Vol., 4to, illustrated.</p> -<p class="notop right">[<i>Nearly ready.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>LOVE SONGS OF ENGLISH POETS, -1500-1800.</b> With Notes by <span class="smcap">Ralph H. Caine</span>. Fcap. 8vo, -cloth extra, 3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> - -<p>⁂ Also 100 Copies printed on Hand-made paper, extra binding.</p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>IDYLLS OF WOMANHOOD.</b> Poems. By -<span class="smcap">Amy Dawson</span>. Foolscap 8vo, gilt top, 5<i>s.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE LITTLE MANX NATION.</b> By <span class="smcap">Hall -Caine</span>, Author of “The Bondman.” Crown 8vo, cloth, -3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i>; paper, 2<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>GOSSIP IN A LIBRARY.</b> By <span class="smcap">Edmund Gosse</span>. -Second Edition. Crown 8vo, gilt top, 7<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> - -<p>⁂ Large Paper Edition, limited to 100 copies. 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Crown 8vo, 3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>WOMAN—THROUGH A MAN’S EYEGLASS.</b> -By <span class="smcap">Malcolm C. Salaman</span>. With Illustrations -by <span class="smcap">Dudley Hardy</span>. Crown 8vo, 3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE GENTLE ART OF MAKING ENEMIES.</b> -By <span class="smcap">J. M‘Neill Whistler</span>. In One Volume, -pott 4to, 10<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> Also, 150 Copies on Hand-made Paper, -Numbered and Signed by the Author, £3 3<i>s.</i> each.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_p8"></a>[Pg 8]</span></p> - -<p class="hang-pub"><b>THE WORKS OF HEINRICH HEINE.</b> -Translated by <span class="smcap">Charles G. Leland</span>, F.R.L.S., M.A. -Volume I.—Florentine Nights, Schnabelewopski. The -Rabbi of Bacharach, and Shakespeare’s Maidens and -Women. Volumes II. and III., Pictures of Travel. In -Two Volumes. Volume IV., The Book of Songs. Volumes -V. and VI., Germany. In Two Volumes. 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