Robert spit-roasting a hen-pheasant
November15th.
. . . This is the first time for many a day that I can put down a date in my diary, and make out a little order in this bewilderment of monotonous days. My whole existence is changed. The Hermitage no longer seems so silent and sad; there are now long, low conversations by the ash-covered fire with which we fill the chimney at night. The Robinson Crusoe of the forest of Sénart has found his man Friday, and under the following circumstances.
One evening last week, between eight and nine o’clock, while I was roasting a fine hen-pheasant on a turnspit of my own invention, I heard the report of a gun in the direction of Champrosay. This was so unusual that I listened very attentively, ready to extinguish my fire and put out the little glimmer which might betray me. Almost immediately, hurried footsteps sounding heavy on the gravelled road, approached the Hermitage, followed by barking of dogs and furious galloping. It gave me the idea of a hunted man pursued by horsemen and chased by furious dogs. Shivering, and seized by the living terror I felt drawing near, I half opened my window. At that instant a man rushed across the moonlit orchard, and ran towards the keeper’s house with an unerring certainty that struck me. Apparently he was well acquainted with the place. He had passed so rapidly that I could not distinguish his features; I only saw a peasant’s blue smock all gathered up in the agitation of a wild flight. He jumped through a shattered window into the Guillards’ house, and disappeared in the darkness of the empty dwelling. Immediately behind him a large white dog appeared at the entrance of the cloister.Thrown out for a minute, he remained there, slowly wagging his tail and sniffing, and then stretched himself out at full length in front of the old gateway, baying in order to call the attention of the pursuers. I knew the Prussians often had dogs with them, and I expected to see a patrol of Uhlans . . . Odious animal! with what pleasure would I have strangled it, if it had been within reach of my grasp. I already saw the Hermitage invaded, searched, my retreat discovered; and I felt angry with that unfortunate peasant for having sought refuge so near me, as if all the forest were not large enough. How selfish fear makes us! . . .
“At that instant a man rushed across the moonlit orchard.â€
Fortunately for me, the Prussians were probably not very numerous, and the darkness and the unknown forest frightened them. I heard them call in their dog, who kept up in front of the gate, the continual howl and whimpering of an animal on the track. However, he at last went off, and the sound of him bounding through the brushwood and over the dead leaves died out in the distance. The silence that followed appalled me. A man was there, opposite to me. Through the round opening of my attic window, I tried to peer into the darkness. The keeper’s littlehouse was still silent and gloomy, with the black apertures of its dreary windows in the white wall. I imagined the unhappy man hiding in a corner, benumbed with cold and perhaps wounded. Should I leave him without help? . . . I did not hesitate long . . . But just at the moment when I was gently opening my door, it was violently pushed from the outside, and some one burst into the room.
Dog waiting at doorway—Don’t be afraid, Mr. Robert. It is I . . . It is Goudeloup . . .
It was the farmer of Champrosay, he whom I hadseen with the rope round his neck, ready to be swung up in his farmyard. I recognised him at once in the firelight; and yet there was something different about him. Pale and emaciated, his face hidden by an unkempt beard, his sharp glance and tightened lips made a very different being of the well-to-do, cheerful farmer of former days. With the end of his smock, he wiped the blood off his hands.
—You are wounded, Goudeloup?
He laughed significantly.
—No—no . . . I have just been bleeding one of them on the road. Only this time I had not a fair chance. While I was at work, some others came up. Never mind! He will never get up again.
And he added, with a short, fierce laugh which showed his wolfish-looking teeth:
—That makes the fifteenth that I have laid low in two months . . . I think that is pretty well for one man alone, and with no other weapon but this.
He drew forth from under his smock a pair of pruning-shears—those large kind of scissors that gardeners use to cut rose-trees and shrubs. I had a shudder of horror at the sight of the assassin’s tool, held bythat bloody hand; but I had been so long silent, and deprived of all intercourse with human beings, that, the first feeling of repulsion overcome, I made the unfortunate creature welcome to a place at my table. There, in the comfortable atmosphere of the room, by the heat of the faggots, at the smell of the pheasant, which was becoming brown before the flame, his wild-beast expression seemed to soften. Accustomed to the darkness of the long nights, he blinked his eyes a little while he related his history to me in a quiet tone.
Pruning shears—You thought I was hanged, Mr. Robert; well, I thought so myself. You must know that when the Uhlans arrived at the farm, I first tried to defend myself, but they did not even give me time to fire my second gun. No sooner was the first shot fired than the gates were forced open, and thirty of these robbers threw themselves on to me. They put the granary rope round my neck and up I went . . . Forthe space of a moment, giddy at no longer feeling the ground under my feet, I saw everything reeling around me: the farm, the sheds, the kennels, those big red faces which laughed at the sight of me;and you also, whom I caught sight of through the gap in the wall, looking as white as a ghost. It seemed like a nightmare! . . . Suddenly, while I was struggling, the idea flashed across my mind, I know not why, to make the Freemason’s signal of distress. I learned that in my youth, when I belonged to the lodge of theGrand Orient. Immediately the wretches loosened the rope, and I found myself on the ground once more. It was their officer—a stout man with black whiskers—who had me taken down only on account of my sign.
Robert meeting Goudeloup
“—You are a Freemason,†said he, in a low tone, and in excellent French. “I am also one . . . and I would not refuse to help a brother who appealed to me . . . Be off, and let me see you no more! . . .â€
I left my own home hanging my head like a beggar. Only I did not go far, you may believe. Hidden among the ruins of the bridge, living on raw turnips and sloes, I was present at the pillage of my goods; the emptied granaries, the pulley creaking all day long to lower the sacks, the wood burning in the open yard in large fires, round which they drank my wine, and my furniture and my flocks going of bydegrees in every direction! And when at last nothing remained, after setting fire to the house, they went off, driving and whipping my last cow before them. That evening, when I had been round my ruins, when, thinking of my children, I realised that in my whole life long I should never make enough to restore my property, even if I killed myself with work, I became mad with rage. The very first Prussian I met on the road I sprang upon like a wild beast and cut his throat with this . . .
From that moment I had but one idea—to hunt down the Prussians. I remained in ambush night and day, attacking the stragglers, the marauders, the despatch-bearers, the sentinels. All those I kill I carry to the quarries or throw into the water. That is the tedious part. Otherwise they are as gentle as lambs. You can do what you will with them . . . However, the one this evening was more tough than the others, and then that fiendish dog gave the alarm. And now I must remain quiet for a time, and with your permission, Mr. Robert, I will remain a few days with you . . .
While he was speaking, his countenance resumedthe sinister expression and peculiar intensity that these fearful night-watches had imparted to it. What a terrible companion I am going to have! . . .
Goudeloup hunting his prey
Prussian patrol
November20th.
We have just spent a most dreadful week. During eight days, the Prussian patrols have unceasingly passed backwards and forwards through the forest. They skirted the walls of the Hermitage, and even entered the enclosure, but the state of the keeper’s little house, left wide open and abandoned; the ivy and brambles giving such a dilapidated appearance to my own, protected us. My companion and myself carefully remained inside the whole time, deadening our steps across the room, lowering our voices by the hearth, and only making a small fire at night.
JugThis time, had we been discovered, it meant death, and I felt rather annoyed with Goudeloup for having made me his accomplice by coming to take refuge here. He understood my feelings, and offered several times to go and seek another shelter; but I would not consent to this. To show his gratitude for my hospitality, he renders me a lot of little services. Very obliging, very clever in all the practical details of life, about which I am so ignorant, he has taught me to make bread that is eatable, real cider, and candles. It is a pleasure to see him busy all day long, restricting his faculty for work and order, which he formerly exercised on a wider scale in the management of his large farmstead and seventy-five acres of land, and adapting himself to the confined space of our only room. Gloomy and silent, moreover, and sitting motionless for hours in the evening, his head buried in his hands, like all inveterate workers with whom overwrought physical life absorbs the moral being, Icould not help sometimes smiling when I noticed that, notwithstanding the tragical circumstances surrounding us, he kept up his habit of prolonged meals and pauses between each mouthful. Such as he is, the fellow interests me. He is the true peasant in allhis native brutality. His land, his goods, are far more precious to him than his country or his family. He unconsciously utters the most monstrous sentiments. If he is so bent on revenge, it is only because the Prussians have burnt down his farm, and the horrors of the invasion only rouse him when he thinks of his lost harvest, and his fields left untilled and unsown.
Goudeloup sitting despondent
Goudeloup’s derelict farm
Discussion with Goudeloup
November22nd. . .
We had a long conversation to-day. We were in the shed seated across a ladder, and, in spite of the coldness of the damp air which came to us from the forest all laden with the smell of moist wood and damp earth, we felt as much pleasure in breathing it as two dormice coming forth from their holes. Goudeloup was smoking a curiously-shaped pipe he has made out of a snail’s shell, and he did so with an exaggerated appearance of satisfaction and content not devoid of mischief. In spite of my longing tosmoke, I have already several times refused to use his tobacco, well knowing how it has been procured, and always expecting to see some shreds of the blue cloth of which the Prussian uniforms are made. As he caught me sniffing the delightful fragrance of tobacco, which tantalised me, he said, with that cunning smile of the peasant which puckers up their eyes, leaving their lips thin and crafty:
—Well! come! you won’t smoke? . . .
Myself.
No, thank you. I have already told you I do not wish for any of your tobacco.
Goudeloup.
Because I have taken it out of their pockets? Yet I had every right to do so. They have robbed me enough, for me to be able to rob them also, and a few handfuls of bad tobacco won’t pay for all my corn and oats . . .
Myself.
With this difference, that these people have given you your life, whereas you . . .
Goudeloup.
Yes, it is true they have given me my life, butthey have burnt down my farm—my poor farm! I built it myself . . . and my beasts and my harvest, fifteen acres of crops! It was all insured against hail, fire, and lightning; but who would have thought that, so near Paris, with all the taxes we pay to have good soldiers, I ought to have insured myself against the Prussians? Now I have nothing left. Are not such catastrophes worse than death? . . . Ah yes, the wretches; they gave me my life! They gave it me to beg from door to door with my wife and children. Don’t you see that when I think of all this, a furious passion seizes me, and a thirst for blood, for . . .
Goudeloup waiting and watching
Myself.
What, you have not killed enough? . . .
Goudeloup.
No, not enough yet . . . I must even make a confession, Mr. Robert. You are an easy-going man; you have received me kindly, and a chimney-corner like yours is not to be despised in this weather. And yet, all the same, there are moments when I am weary of being here. I want to escape, to begin lying in wait by the roadside again. It is such fun waiting for one of those thieves to pass; to watch forhim, dog his footsteps, and say to oneself, “Not yet . . .†and then, quick, you jump on him and finish him . . . Another one who will not eat up my corn!
Myself.
You, whom I have known so quiet and gentle, how can you talk like that without showing the least feeling?
Goudeloup.
One would think there was an evil spirit within me that the war has called forth . . . But I must say that the first time it happened, I was startled myself. It was that transport soldier I met the evening of my misfortune. I struck with all my might at the uniform, hardly realising there was a man inside it; then, when I felt that huge form give way and the warm stream of blood inundate me, then I was afraid. But remembering directly the torn and ripped-up sacks of flour lying in my yard, I again became desperate.
Myself.
As you bear them such a grudge, why do you not try to get back into Paris, or to rejoin the armies in the provinces? You could then fight openly, and kill the Prussians without treachery in the battles.
Goudeloup.
Join the army, Mr. Robert? . . . But I am not a soldier! My parents paid dearly enough to prevent my being one . . . I am a peasant, an unhappy peasant, who revenges himself, and requires no one to help him.
Goudeloup killing a Prussian
While he spoke I saw reappear in him the wild beast I had admitted the other evening. The mad glare seemed to return to his eyes. His lips were compressed. His fingers convulsively sought a weapon . . .
Unknown image
Goudeloup leaves
November28th.
He is gone. I ought not to be astonished. The wretch was tired of having nothing to kill. After promising to come sometimes at night and knock at my door, he plunged into the shadows, less black than himself. Well, brutal as he was, I regret him. Solitude brings with it, after a time, a feeling of torpor, a numbness of the whole being, which is really unwholesome. Words seem to start fresh thoughts. By dint of talking to this peasant of patriotism and self-sacrifice, I have re-awakened in myself all that Iwas desirous of inspiring in him. I feel quite differently now. And then my recovery, the sensation of returning strength, which increases from day to day . . . I long for action and battle . . .
Unknown image
The forest under snow
November30th.December1stand2nd.
It is bitterly cold. Through the dryness of the earth and atmosphere the cannonading round Paris re-echoes still louder. I have never heard anything to equal it. It must be a real battle. At moments I fancy the sounds draw nearer, for I can make out the platoon-firing and the horrible rending noise of the mitrailleuse. All around here there seems a general commotion, as it were the rebounding soundof the battle. On the road to Melun troops are continually moving. On the road to Corbeil scared despatch-bearers gallop by furiously . . . What can be taking place? . . . In spite of the cold, I go and wander about, seeking the forest paths, where the cannonading is more distinctly heard . . .
At times I have a dream of Paris leaving its imprisoning ramparts, of the French troops arriving here, of the forest of Sénart full of French uniforms, and of I myself joining their ranks to drive out the Prussians and reconquer France . . .
Prussian lancer
Bavarian troops drilling
December5th.
The incessant cannonading of the last few days has been succeeded by a deathlike stillness. What is going on? I am fearfully anxious. If Paris had sallied forth from her walls and were now marching on the roads, the disbanded and repulsed Prussians would fill the country and constantly change their bivouacs. But no. Ever since yesterday I have scoured the twelve miles of forest which hem me in like a wall on all sides; in vain I scrutinise the lanes around, they are as silent and lonely as usual. Through the trees, in the distance, I saw near Montgeron a company of Bavarians drilling in the open part of a wide plain. Mournfully drawn up in line under the lowering and lurid sky, they trod withresigned melancholy through the mud of this uncultivated and barren land . . . Evidently Paris has not yet made a successful sortie, but it has not capitulated either, for these soldiers presented too pitiful an appearance to be conquerors.
Overhead, circling clouds of rooks fly by towards the great city, cawing and alighting on the rising ground. Never had I seen so many, even in the peaceful winter, when all France is sown with wheat. This year it is another kind of seed which attracts them.
Image of baron land
“—it was a balloon.â€
Balloon overhead
December6th.
Thank Heaven! Paris still holds out, and is likely to do so. I had a delightful proof of this. This morning I was by the cloister well when I heard quick firing in the direction of Draveil. Almost immediately a peculiar sound, like the flapping of a sail at sea and the straining of the stretched rigging, passed through the air above me. It was a balloon, a fine yellow balloon, very apparent against the darkness of the clouds. From where I stood it seemed to float over the tree-tops, although in reality it was far above. I cannot describe how the slendertexture of this silken balloon, whose netting I could distinctly see, stirred and filled me with enthusiasm. I remembered that above all this conquered France, the soul of Paris still soared, a living strength more powerful than all the Krupp cannons together, and I, a Parisian, felt proud of it. I felt inclined to cry, to shout, to call out. I threw my arms out towards the black, motionless specks at the edge of the car, two human lives, tossed about by all the currents of heaven, far above the rivers that may drown them, the precipices where they may be dashed to pieces, and the Prussian armies, which must look from that height like immense overrunning ant-heaps on the surface of the earth . . . A light powdery line became visible under the balloon. I heard the sound of scattered sand among the branches, and the vision was lost among the clouds.
Man looking up
A roadside cross
December9th.
What am I doing here? I am really becoming ashamed of my useless life . . . I had to bake some bread to-day, and could not summon up courage to do it. All the little details in which I used to take pleasure, like those egotists in disguise—recluses and hermits—I now find despicable. I am completely cured, only an occasional pain on very cold days. My duty is on the ramparts with the others . . . But how can I manage to rejoin them? It appears that the investment is very close, and the sentinels are placedwithin rifle-shot of each other. If I had only a companion, some countryman who knows the roads well. My thoughts fly to Goudeloup. I ought not to have allowed him to leave me. Who knows where he may be now? Perhaps strung up to some roadside cross, or dead from cold at the bottom of a quarry. However, the other evening, towards the Meillottes, I heard a cry—nothing but a cry, but a terrible cry, long and despairing, like a wail; and it flashed across me, “Goudeloup is there!†. . . Ah, yes! that man is a murderer; but at any rate he acts; he satisfies brutally the thirst for vengeance and justice which is in him. As for me, I warm myself and sleep. Which of us two is the most contemptible?
Body in the snow
Deserted street in Champrosay
December10th.
Returned to Champrosay in bitter cold weather. The houses along the roadside, with all their dark, empty windows, looked like sad and blind beggars. I visited again the park, the summer-house at the waterside, and the smiling portrait which inhabits it. The cold air had not dimmed the peaceful face, nor the soft shades of the summer dress. Only the glance seemed to me more stern and severe, as if it contained a reproach. On the very threshold I understood I was no longer welcome. Cautiously Iclosed the door again, and went down the frozen, moss-covered steps . . . And all through the night the clear gaze of that fair Parisian remorselessly haunted me.
Robert investigating Champrosay house
“I found a pigeon.â€
Across the rooftops
December11th.
This morning, on going to take up the snares at the end of my garden, I found a pigeon. It astonished me. Tame pigeons do not remain on deserted roofs, and till now I had only caught wood-pigeons. This one was really a tame pigeon, plump, with pink claws and back, and brown and white wings. The wire had not maimed it; it was merely numbed with cold. I brought it in to the fire, and there, as I held it in both hands—for, like a tame creature, it made not the slightest struggle—I discovered some printed numbers on one of its wings, 523, and lower down,Société de l’Espérance. Then under the feathers I founda quill rather thicker than the others, and rolled up, fastened to it, a tiny sheet of very thin paper. I had caught a carrier-pigeon! Did it come from Paris or the provinces? Was it the messenger of victory or defeat, good or bad news? . . . For a long time I gazed at it with almost superstitious awe. Let loose in the room, he quietly went about pecking between the tiles. By degrees his feathers puffed out in the warmth and his strength returned. Then I opened the window wide, and placed him on the sill. He remained there a moment looking up at the sky, stretching out his neck, trying to find his bearings. At last he rose straight into the air, and having reached a certain height, white against the surrounding gloom, he sharply turned towards Paris. Ah! if I could only take the same road . . .
Bird
Preparations for travelling
December15th.
It is all settled. We leave to-morrow. I say “we,†because Goudeloup has returned. He came back yesterday in the dusk, more emaciated, more terrible than before. The wretched man is now at his twenty-first! . . . Nevertheless the thirst for blood is beginning to be satiated; moreover, he is closely pursued, and the nightly ambush has become most difficult. I therefore had little trouble in deciding him to attempt an expedition to Paris with me. We shall start to-morrow in my boat, which is lying outon the Seine, moored under the willows on the banks. It is Goudeloup’s idea. He thinks that on a very dark night we shall be able to get by to thePort-à -l’Anglais, and then, by creeping along the towing-path, reach the first French barricade. We shall see . . . I have prepared my revolver, some rugs, two or three loaves, and a large flask of brandy.
The enterprise is certainly full of danger; but since I have made up my mind to attempt it, I feel calmer. Instead of making me anxious, the sound of the cannon round Paris electrifies me. I feel as if it were calling me; and each time it thunders, I am inclined to answer, “We are coming.â€Â I fancy the portrait in the summer-house smiles at me from its gilt frame, and wears again its calm and placid aspect . . . I have but one regret in quitting the Hermitage: what will become of my poor Colaquet? I leave the stable-door open for him to seek his subsistence in the forest. I pile up near him my last bundles of straw, and while I make these preparations I avoid meeting his astonished, kind eyes, which seem to say reproachfully, “Where are you going?â€
. . . And now, on my table, opened at thisunfinished page, I abandon my diary with these last words, which will probably end it: We are off to Paris!
The moonlit river
Creeping through the forest.
The return journey.
Written groping in the dark.
I have returned . . . Goudeloup is dead . . . Our journey has failed.
December26th.
Ten days! I have only been absent ten days. It seems to me that the multitude of scenes and shadows, the confused and terrible sensations I have brought back from my short journey, are enough to fill several existences. Now that I have returned to the confined space of my Hermitage, all thesememories haunt and torment me,—I must try and write them down merely to rid myself of them.
Commencing the outward journey
We started on the night of the sixteenth. A very cold night, without stars, lighted up only by a white sprinkling of hoar-frost. The frosted trees looked like hawthorn bushes flowering before their leaves break forth. We passed through Champrosay, as dismal and silent as the hoar-frost which was falling and lying on its cold roofs, instead of gently melting round the water-spouts by the warmth ofthe lighted fires. Not a Prussian was to be seen on the horizon, and this was fortunate, as our two outlines stood out distinctly in the great bare plain. I found my boat in a little creek hidden between the banks. It was a very lightly-built Norwegian boat. Having wrapped some rags round the oars, we pushed off noiselessly on the lonely river, knocking now and then against the icicles which float onthe surface of the water like blocks of crystal. Many a time, in preceding years, I had embarked on nights as dark and cold to set or visit my night-lines. But what life there was on the river around me! A somewhat mysterious, dreamy sort of life, full of the silence of universal slumber. Long wood rafts, with their fires lighted fore and aft, and shadows standing near the helm, slowly go down towards Paris, gliding by through all the forest shade, and entering Bercy at break of day, in the full glare of a noisy and crowded thoroughfare. On the banks, waggons passed along, the night express train gliding along through the windings of the railway track, like a serpent with eyes of fire. And I pondered over all the sad or joyful motives that set all these people in motion . . . At intervals, by the side of the river, which nearly bathed their walls, the lock-keeper’s house, the ferrymen’s hut, the boatmen’s public-houses, threw the glimmer from their dimmed windows over the still water.
Wood rafts of former times
To-day there is nothing of all this. We have a new river before us, black and solitary, disturbed by all those broken bridges, which change the currents. However, by a few strokes of the oarI was able to direct our little bark, and keep it near enough to the middle of the stream to avoid the submerged islands marked out by the dipping willows . . .
“We crossed a heavy punt.â€
—All goes well . . . said Goudeloup in a low voice.
At that moment the noise of an oar thrown into a boat, came from the bank, and a powerful southern voice called through the night:
—Come, ferryman, make haste! . . .
—It is the Draveil doctor, whispered my companion.
I too had recognised the kindly voice, that is heard day and night on highroads and byeways, always encouraging and always hurried. How did he come there? Had he therefore stayed at Draveil? . . . I should have liked to have called out to him: “Good-night, Doctor!â€Â But a moment’s reflection stopped me. A lucky thought, in truth; for directly after we crossed a heavy punt, with a lantern in the bow, passing over from one side of the river to the other; and I saw by the side of dear Doctor R— in his old felt hat, weather-beaten by all the storms of Seine and Oise, some shining helmets.
Approaching the railway bridge
By rare good fortune we were beyond the rays of their lantern, which deepened the shadow through which our boat was gliding, and we passed by unseen. No less danger awaited us a little farther on—the railway bridge, of which three arches were blown up, blocking the river with its gigantic remains. I really hardly know how we were ableto get through this fearful barrier in the dark, without being swamped or dashed to pieces. At Port-Courcelles we had the same fear. The enormous gnarled willows of the two islets became in the night so many shoals, that we narrowly escaped. At last we reach Ablon and its lock. Here the cannon round Paris resounds clear and terrible, sending forth at each instant the red flash of its thunder . . . We ought to have expected it: the lock is closed. Fortunately our boat is light, and together we shall be able, as I have so often done, to hoist it on to the bank, and carry it over to the other side of the barrier. We land at the little steps where the innkeeper of Ablon skins his eels on summer days, and where the fishermen sit patiently with their rods, bathed in sunshine from the top of their boating-hats down to their shoes of untanned leather. It is astonishing how a feeling of danger changes the whole aspect of things! . . . When nearly at the top of the steps, I perceived against the darkness, ten paces from me, a sentry on his beat, pacing up and down the quay. Lower down, the lock-keeper’s house, turned into a Prussian outpost, has all its windows lighted up. I wish to go down quickly, re-embark, andgain the other bank; but Goudeloup will not listen to me. His eyes remain obstinately fixed on that shadow which looms through the fog, and whistles while trampling above us. I try to drag him away. He escapes, makes one bound . . . I hear a dull sound, a smothered cry, the rattle of arms, and the heavy fall of a man.
The wrecked railway bridge—Twenty-two! . . . says Goudeloup, slipping, quite out of breath, down the slope.
But the unfortunate soldier, that he has left stretched out by the river-side, has found strength before dying to fire his gun. The sharp report rouses both banks of the river. Impossible to land. We quickly push out into the middle of the stream, and row hard up the river. It is all like a bad dream. The wind and current, everything is against us. A boat pushes off from the lock, coming straight at us, lighted by a torch which dips up and down as it watches for us, while another boat approaches us in a contrary direction.
—To the dredger . . . whispers Goudeloup in my ear.
On the steps by the lock
Near us, moored some fifty or sixty feet from the shore, a dredging-boat reared its black mass above the water, with its barrels and bucket-chain to clearaway the sand. The Seine was very high, and the water half covered it, dashing against its bows with vehemence.
We board her, but in our haste to take refuge on this wreck we forget to fasten ourboat, which floats off with the rugs and provision it contains. This saves us. Five minutes later a formidable “hurrah†tells us the Prussians have just found our boat. Seeing it empty, they must have thought we were drowned, engulfed; for a few moments after, the torches returned to the shore, and the whole river resumed its silence and darkness . . .
Swimming to the dredger
The dredger on which we found ourselves was acomplete wreck—a curious shelter, crackling and creaking all over, and furiously lashed by the waters. On the deck, covered with splinters of wood and pieces of cast iron, the cold was intolerable. We were obliged to take refuge in the engine-room, to which the water happily had not yet penetrated. It would soon, however, reach it, for in several places the sides of the room were cracked almost down to the level of the waves, and we found ourselves lighted by the leaden reflection of the darkness on the water. What gloomy hours we spent there! Hunger, fear, and the terrible cold numbing our limbs with a feeling of drowsiness against which we were obliged to struggle . . . All around, the water seethed, the wood groaned, the bucket-chain creaked in its rustiness, and aloft, above our heads, something like the rag of a drenched flag flapped in the wind. We impatiently waited for daybreak, not knowing exactly what distance separated us from the land, nor how we should be able to reach it. In our fitful slumbers, broken as they were by anxious thoughts of escape, the shaking of the dredging-boat and the sound of the water surrounding us, gave me at times the impression of a long voyage and a stormy night at sea . . .
When through the holes in the room, which wereblackened and torn as if by a bombardment, we saw the river catch the first light of a sullen winter’s morning, we tried to make out our position. The slopes of Juvisy commanded the farther bank, rising above the fog, which its tall trees pierced with their bare tops. On the opposite shore, eighty or a hundred feet beyond the dredger, lay the flat, bare plains of Draveil, stretching away into the far distance, without trace of a soldier on them. Evidently that was the side we could escape by. The anticipation of a cold bath, in the month of December, in that deep, foaming, and swift-running water, was rather terrifying. However, the iron chain that moored the dredger to the bank was happily still fastened to its ring, and we had the resource left of clinging to it and being guided by it. While we were discussing this, a cannon was fired off rather close at hand, from the heights of Juvisy, followed up immediately by the whistle of a shell and its splash in the water near us. A few seconds later, before we had recovered from our astonishment, a second shell fell near the dredger. Then I understood the flag, the splinters of wood, the pieces of cast iron, and the smell of burnt powder we had noticed in the cabin. The Prussians were using the old dredger as a target fortheir cannons. It was absolutely necessary to quit at once. The cold and the dangers of the river sank into insignificance. Forward we must go. I seized hold of the chain with both hands and lowered myself rapidly into the river, Goudeloup following me. Our fingers were skinned by the chafing iron: we advanced but slowly, numbed by the current and the icy water. A fresh cannon-shot redoubles our energy. Look out! Here comes the shell. This time it falls full on the iron-plated front of the dredger, bursts, and covers us with the wreckage. I hear behind me a deep sigh . . . No, never shall I forget the last agonising motion of that chain, which I felt move, struggle for a second, and then rise up quickly in the water, loose, free, and light in my hands . . .
They get into the river againI turned round; no one to be seen. Nothing but a mass of blood floating away on the stream. The unfortunate fellow must have been struck on the head and killed on the spot . . . A feeling of intense despair overcame me. My companion slaughtered beside me, and I helpless to succour him . . . A little more and I too must have let go the chain; but the instinct of life won the day, and a few minutes later I landed on the bank, but to get no farther. Aftera dozen steps, overcome by the anxiety, fatigue, and terrible cold which penetrated through all my wet clothes, I dropped down by the roadside on the dry grass of a ditch. The well-known trot of a horse, the roll of an old cabriolet, and the kind voice of Doctor R— drew me from my lethargy.
—What! it is you? . . . What are you doing there?
Quick as lightning, he wrapped me up in his cloak, hid me in the straw under the apron of the carriage, and set off in the direction of Draveil, where the excellent man has turned his house into a hospital. From the cabriolet I passed into the coach-house. There, dry clothes and a few glasses of hot grog soon revived me. I remained there till nightfall, without daring to move, understanding very well, although the Doctor had never told me, the risk he was incurring by receiving me. The house was full of soldiers and hospital attendants. Military boots resounded on the pavement of the small courtyard. And all around, the loud laughter, the swords clashing, and the harsh German speech, still more accentuated by its insolent tone. I heard all this with my eyes shut, stupefied by the sensation of comfort, with a vague recollection of past danger andof the cold river, and poor Goudeloup’s heart-rending groan ringing in my ears.
At night the Doctor came to set me free, and took me to the room generally occupied by his grandchildren, whom he had sent away on the approach of the Prussians. It was there that I awoke the next morning. After the horrible scenes of the previous day, those three little cribs, with white muslin curtains round them, the children’s toys lying scattered on the floor with their lesson-books, even the faint medicinal smell that came from a cupboard in which the Doctor kept some drugs, everything calmed and soothed my over-excited nerves. In a neighbouring yard a cock crowed and a donkey began braying. The village seemed to awaken. Suddenly a bugle-call, rudely jarring on these peaceful sounds, recalled the sad reality. Then there was coming and going to and fro; doors banged . . . I drew near the window. The Doctor’s house looked into the street, over the flower-beds of a narrow strip of garden in front of it. Every one knew his house, with its round brass bell-knob standing out brightly on the freshly white-washed wall; and the furniture in the little parlour, which could be seen on the ground-floor, gave it an appearance of homelycomfort. Hidden behind the closed blinds, I saw the street full of men in forage-caps falling into line, calling, numbering each other, ready to start. Among the caps, several Bavarian helmets appeared. These were quartermasters running from house to house, chalking down the numbers on the doors, preparing quarters for the advancing forces. Soon the departing regiment moved off to the sound of their drums, while opposite, at the entrance to the village, the Bavarian buglers noisily entered. During the last three months the unhappy village had been in thiscondition. The straw of the encampments had not time to grow cold between the departure of one regiment and the arrival of another . . .
Being picked up by the Doctor
The Doctor, who just then came into the room, made me leave the window.
—Take care, Mr. Robert; do not show yourself. There is at theCommandatura list of the inhabitants who have remained in the country, and we are all closely watched. After eight o’clock in the evening, nobody except myself is allowed to go outside their house . . . So many Prussians have been murdered in the neighbourhood! Draveil pays the penalty. Their requisitions are three times heavier here than elsewhere. The least word, and they imprison; the slightest show of rebellion, and they shoot. Our unhappy peasants are terrified. They spy and inform about each other; and if one of them perceived that I was hiding some one in my house, he would be capable—to spare himself a requisition—of warning theCommandatur. What would be the fate of both of us, I can easily imagine . . .
He was so afraid of any imprudence on my part, poor dear Doctor, that all the time I stayed in his house he kept the key of my room in his pocket. The latticed shutters and closed windows threw aprison gloom over my room, that only gave me light enough to read by. I had medical works, a few odd volumes translated from the Panckoucke series, and from time to time a copy of a French paper published by the Prussians at Versailles. That also was written in a foreign kind of French, and our real or imaginary defeats were sneeringly described with coarse and stupid jokes.
When I could no longer read, I looked out through the blinds into the street—the real old-fashioned street of a country town. Straight rows of houses with little gardens and a pavement in front, the spaces between them filled with a trellis-work of branches, or the trunk of a great elm, and a background of plain and vineyard scarcely hidden by the low roofs. Then sheds and stables, a fountain spouting out of an old wall, the large gateway of a farm, side by side with the notary’s white and clean little house, ornamented with escutcheons. And over all the cruel blight of the invasion. Knitted jerseys drying on the iron gates and on the shutters. Large pipes protruding from every window, and military boots. Never had I heard the sound of so many boots . . . Opposite my window was theCommandatur. Every day peasants were broughtin, urged along by butt-ends of rifles or the scabbards of swords. The women and children followed weeping, and while the man was dragged inside, they remained at the door explaining their case to the soldiers, who, with closed lips, listened disdainfully or else laughed with a stupid brutal laughter. No hope of pity or justice. All depended on the caprice of the conqueror. They were so well aware of it, these unfortunate peasants, that they hardly dared stir out or show themselves, and when they did venture into the street, it was heart-rending to see them creeping under the walls, glancing out of the corner of their eyes, bowed down, obsequious and servile, like Eastern Jews.
It was a cruel sight to see the ambulances stop at our door in the wind, cold, rain, and snow; to hear the groans of the sick and wounded being removed from the carts and borne in helpless. When evening came, to end the long melancholy days, the Prussian bugles sounded the retreat under the leafless elm trees, with its slowly marked time, and its last three notes thrown out like the weird screech of a night-bird at the approach of night. This was the moment when the Doctor, muddy and tired, entered my room. He himself brought my food, and, with his usual good nature, told me all he had done—about his visits, the hearsays from Paris and from the provinces, about the sick people brought to him, and his disputes with the Prussianmajor, who was his colleague in command of the hospital, and whose German pedantry annoyed and exasperated him. We talked in sad low tones, and then the kind man bade me good-night. Once more alone, I softly opened my window to breathe the fresh air for a few minutes. In spite of the bitter cold, it did me good. In its peaceful slumbers the country seemed to return to its former condition and resumed the aspect of its happier days. But soon the step of a patrol, the groan of a wounded man, the sound of the cannon thundering on the horizon, brought me back to the reality, and I retired into my prison, full of hatred and anger. At the end of a short time this cellular kind of existence in the midst of the army of occupation became intolerable. Having lost all hope of entering Paris, I regretted my Hermitage. There, at least, I had solitude and Nature. I was not tempted there, as I was here, to interfere in the injustices, brutalities, and constant vexations going on in the street, thereby running the risk of compromising my kind host. Therefore I resolved upon leaving.
Robert, peering from his window
To my great surprise, the Doctor did not even try to dissuade me from my project.
—You are quite right, he said quietly; you will be safer over there.
Since, on reflection, I have always fancied that some neighbour may have seen me behind the lattice, and that my host, although he would not admit it, feared they would betray me. We therefore decided that I should leave Draveil the next day, in the same manner in which I arrived. When it was quite dark, I went down into the stable. I hid myself in the straw of the cabriolet, the Doctor’s cloak was thrown over me, and we started off. The journey was accomplished without accident. Every hundred and fifty or two hundred yards was a sentry-box erected by the roadside at the expense of the district.
—Wer da? challenged the sentry, cocking his rifle.
The Doctor answered:
—Lazareth!
And the little gig continued its jingling rattle over the stones. At the edge of the forest he stopped. The road was clear. I hastily jumped out.
—Take this, said the kind man, holding out a basket full of food and bottles . . . Shut yourself up,and do not stir out . . . I will come and see you soon.
Thereupon he whipped up his horse, and I threw myself into the thicket. A quarter of an hour later, I was at the Hermitage.
Being challenged by a sentry