by Frank Wynne
—Sush. It’s the Master. He’s been like that since his son’s death.
At that moment a woman and a small boy, both dressed in black and accompanied by fat and sun-tanned villagers, passed near us and went into the farm.
The man went on:
— … The lady and the youngest, Cadet, are coming back from the mass. Every day it’s the same thing since the eldest killed himself. Oh, monsieur, what a tragedy. The father still goes round in his mourning weeds, nothing will stop him…. Gee-up!
The wagon lurched ready to go, but I still wanted to know more, so I asked the driver if I could sit with him, and it was up there in the hay, that I learned all about the tragic story of young Jan.
*
Jan was an admirable countryman of twenty, as well-behaved as a girl, well-built and open-hearted. He was very handsome and so caught the eye of lots of women, but he had eyes for only one – a petite girl from Arles, velvet and lace vision, whom he had once met in the town’s main square. This wasn’t well received at first in the farm. The girl was known as a flirt, and her parents weren’t local people. But Jan wanted her, whatever the cost. He said:
—I will die if I don’t have her. And so, it just had to be. The marriage was duly arranged to take place after the harvest.
One Sunday evening, the family were just finishing dinner in the courtyard. It was almost a wedding feast. The fiancée was not there, but her health and well-being were toasted throughout the meal…. A man appeared unexpectedly at the door, and stuttered a request to speak to Estève, the master of the house, alone. Estève got up and went out onto the road.
—Monsieur, the man said, you are about to marry your boy off to a woman who is a bitch, and has been my mistress for two years. I have proof of what I say; here are some of her letters! … Her parents know all about it and have promised her to me, but since your son took an interest in her, neither she nor they want anything to do with me…. And yet I would have thought that after what has happened, she couldn’t in all conscience marry anyone else.
—I see, said Master Estève after scanning the letters; come in; have a glass of Muscat.
The man replied:
—Thanks, but I am too upset for company.
And he went away.
The father went back in, seemingly unaffected, and retook his place at the table where the meal was rounded off quite amiably.
That evening, Master Estève went out into the fields with his son. They stayed outside some time, and when they did return the mother was waiting up for them.
—Wife, said the farmer bringing their son to her, hug him, he’s very unhappy….
*
Jan didn’t mention the Arlésienne ever again. He still loved her though, only more so, now he knew that she was in the arms of someone else. The trouble was that he was too proud to say so, and that’s what killed the poor boy. Sometimes, he would spend entire days alone, huddled in a corner, motionless. At other times, angry, he would set himself to work on the farm, and, on his own, get through the work of ten men. When evening came, he would set out for Arles, and walk expectantly until he saw the town’s few steeples appearing in the sunset. Then he turned round and went home. He never went any closer than that.
The people in the farm didn’t know what to do, seeing him always sad and lonely. They feared the worst. Once, during a meal, his mother, her eyes welling with tears, said to him:
—Alright, listen Jan, if you really want her, we will let you take her….
The father, blushing with shame, lowered his head….
Jan shook his head and left….
From that day onwards, Jan changed his ways, affecting cheerfulness all the time to reassure his parents. He was seen again at balls, cabarets, and branding fêtes. At the celebrations at the Fonvieille fête, he actually led the farandole.
His father said: “He’s got over it.” His mother, however, still had her fears and kept an eye on her boy more than ever…. Jan slept in the same room as Cadet, close to the silkworms’ building. The poor mother even made up her bed in the next room to theirs… explaining by saying that the silkworms would need attention during the night.
Then came the feast day of St. Eli, patron saint of farmers.
There were great celebrations in the farm…. There was plenty of Château-Neuf for everybody and the sweet wine flowed in rivers. Then there were crackers, and fireworks, and coloured lanterns all over the nettle trees. Long live St. Eli! They all danced the farandole until they dropped. Cadet scorched his new smock…. Even Jan looked content, and actually asked his mother for a dance. She cried with joy.
At midnight they all went to bed; everybody was tired out. But Jan himself didn’t sleep. Cadet said later that he had been sobbing the whole night. Oh, I tell you, he was well smitten that one….
*
The next morning the mother heard someone running across her sons’ bedroom. She felt a sort of presentiment:
—Jan, is that you?
Jan didn’t reply, he was already on the stairs.
His mother got up at once:
—Jan, where are you going?
He went up into the loft, she followed him:
—In heavens name, son!
He shut and bolted the door:
—Jan, Jan, answer me. What are you doing?
Her old trembling hands felt for the latch…. A window opened; there was the sound of a body hitting the courtyard slabs. Then … an awful silence.
The poor lad had told himself: “I love her too much…. I want to end it all….” Oh, what pitiful things we are! It’s all too much; even scorn can’t kill love….
That morning, the village people wondered who could be howling like that, down there by Estève’s farm.
It was the mother in the courtyard by the stone table which was covered with dew and with blood. She was wailing over her son’s lifeless body, limp, in her arms.
THE ATTACK ON THE MILL
Émile Zola
Translated from the French by Edward Vizetelly
Émile Zola (1840–1902). One of the most important figures in nineteenth- century French literature, Zola was a prolific novelist, playwright and journalist. Born in Paris, Zola spent his early childhood in Aix-en-Provence, where he counted Cézanne among his closest friends. He twice failed the baccalauréat, and unable to attend university, he struggled to find work (and, legend has it, survived by eating sparrows he trapped outside his garret window). In time, he found work as a clerk while writing occasional reviews for newspapers. In 1867, he published his first major novel, Thérèse Raquin, which would be the beginning of a cycle called Les Rougon-Macquart. As a journalist and commentator, he played a crucial role in the liberalization of French politics, and his article J’accuse – which publicly excoriated anti-Semitism in the French military – marked a critical turning point in the Dreyfus affair.
I.
Old Merlier’s mill was in high feather that fine summer evening. In the court-yard they had set out three tables, end to end, ready for the guests. All the country knew that on that day Merlier’s daughter Françoise was to be betrothed to Dominique,—a fellow who had the name of being an idle loafer, but whom the women for eight miles round looked at with glistening eyes, so well-favored was he.
When the court-yard was full, and every one had his glass in his hand, old Merlier raised his very high, saying:—
“This is for the pleasure of announcing to you that Françoise will marry that fellow there in a month, on St. Louis’s day.”
Then they clinked glasses noisily. Everybody laughed. But old Merlier, raising his voice, went on:—
“Dominique, kiss your intended. That must be done.”
And they kissed each other, very red, while the crowd laughed still louder. It was a real jollification. A small cask was emptied. Then when only the intimate friends were left, they chatted quietly. Night had come,—a starlit and very clear night. Dominique and Françoise, sitting side by side on a bench, sa
id nothing. An old peasant spoke of the war the Emperor had declared with Prussia. All the boys in the village were already gone. The day before, troops had passed through. There would be hard knocks going.
“Bah!” said old Merlier, with a happy man’s opinion. “Dominique is a foreigner,—he won’t go. And if the Prussians come, he will be here to defend his wife.”
This notion that the Prussians might come seemed a good joke. They were to be given an A 1 thrashing, and it would be soon over.
“I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em,” the old peasant said over and over again.
There was a silence. Then they clinked glasses once more. Françoise and Dominique had heard nothing; they had taken each other softly by the hand, behind the bench, so that no one could see them; and it seemed so good that they stayed there, their eyes lost in the depths of the darkness.
How warm and splendid a night! The village was falling asleep on both sides of the road, tranquil as a child. You only heard from time to time the crowing of some cock, waked too soon. From the great woods hard by came long breaths that passed like caresses over the roofs. The meadows with their black shadows put on a mysterious and secluded majesty, while all the running waters that gushed forth into the darkness seemed to be the cool and rhythmic breathing of the sleeping country. At moments the mill-wheel, fast asleep, seemed to be dreaming, like those old watch-dogs that bark while snoring. It creaked, it talked all by itself, lulled by the falls of the Morelle, whose sheet of water gave forth the sustained and musical note of an organ-pipe. Never had more wide-spread peace fallen over a happier corner of the earth.
Just a month later, day for day, on St. Louis’s eve, Rocreuse was in dismay. The Prussians had beaten the Emperor, and were advancing toward the village by forced marches. For a week past, people passing along the road had announced the Prussians,—“They are at Lormière; they are at Novelles:” and hearing that they were approaching so fast, Rocreuse thought every morning to see them come down by the Gagny woods. Still they did not come: this frightened the inhabitants still more. They would surely fall upon the village at night, and cut everybody’s throat.
The night before, a little before daybreak, there had been an alarm. The inhabitants had waked up, hearing a great noise of men on the road. The women were just falling on their knees and crossing themselves, when red trousers were recognized through cracks of windows prudently opened. It was a detachment of French. The captain immediately asked for the mayor of the place, and stayed at the mill, after talking with old Merlier.
The sun rose gayly that day. It would be hot at noon. Over the woods floated a yellow light; while in the distance above the meadows rose white vapors. The clean, pretty village awoke in the cool air; and the country, with its river and springs, had the dew-sprinkled loveliness of a nosegay. But this fine weather made no one laugh. They had just seen the captain walk round about the mill, examine the neighboring houses, cross to the other side of the Morelle, and from there study the country through a spyglass; old Merlier, who was with him, seemed to be explaining the country to him. Then the captain stationed soldiers behind walls, behind trees, in holes in the ground. The bulk of the detachment was stationed in the court-yard of the mill. So there was to be a fight? And when old Merlier came back, he was plied with questions. He gave a long nod with his head without speaking. Yes, there was to be a fight.
Françoise and Dominique were in the court-yard looking at him. At last he took his pipe out of his mouth and said simply:—
“Ah! my poor children, there will be no wedding for you to-morrow!”
Dominique, his lips set, a line of anger across his forehead, raised himself up on tiptoe from time to time, with his eyes fixed on the Gagny woods, as if he longed to see the Prussians come. Françoise, very pale, serious, came and went, supplying the soldiers with what they needed. They were making their soup in a corner of the court-yard, and joking while waiting for their meal.
Meanwhile the captain seemed delighted. He had examined the rooms and the great hall of the mill looking out upon the river. Now, sitting by the well, he was talking with old Merlier.
“You have a real fortress here,” said he. “We ought to hold till evening. The beggars are late. They should be here by this time.”
The miller looked serious. He saw his mill flaming like a torch; but he did not complain, thinking it useless. He only opened his mouth to say:—
“You ought to have some one hide the boat behind the wheel. There is a hole there that will hold her. Perhaps she might be of use.”
The captain gave an order. The captain was a handsome man of about forty, tall and with a kindly face. The sight of Françoise and Dominique seemed to please him. He was interested in them, as if he had forgotten the coming struggle. He followed Françoise about with his eyes, and his look told plainly that he found her charming. Then turning to Dominique:—
“So you’re not in the army, my boy?” he asked abruptly.
“I’m a foreigner,” the young man answered.
The captain seemed only half pleased with this reason. He winked and smiled. Françoise was pleasanter company than cannon. Then, seeing him smile, Dominique added:—
“I’m a foreigner, but I can put a bullet into an apple at five hundred metres.—See, my gun’s there, behind you.”
“It may be of use to you,” the captain said simply.
Françoise had come up, trembling a little. And without minding the people there, Dominique took both the hands she held out to him, and pressed them in his, as if to take her under his protection. The captain smiled again, but added not a word. He remained sitting, his sword between his legs, his eyes looking at vacancy, as if in a dream.
It was already two o’clock. It was growing very hot. There was a dead silence. In the court-yard, under the sheds, the soldiers had fallen to eating their soup. Not a sound came from the village, in which the people had barricaded their houses, doors, and windows. A dog left alone in the road was howling. From the neighboring woods and meadows, motionless in the heat, came a far-off voice, long sustained, made up of every separate breath of air. A cuckoo was singing. Then the silence spread itself over the country also.
And in this slumbering air a shot suddenly burst forth. The captain sprang up quickly; the soldiers dropped their plates of soup, still half full. In a few seconds every man was at his post for the fight; the mill was occupied from top to bottom. Yet the captain, who had gone out upon the road, could make out nothing: to the right and left the road stretched out, empty and all white. A second shot was heard, and still nothing, not a shadow; but on turning round, he espied, over towards Gagny, between two trees, a light cloudlet of smoke wafted away like gossamer. The wood was still profoundly quiet.
“The rascals have taken to the forest,” he muttered. “They know we are here.”
Then the firing kept up, harder and harder, between the French soldiers stationed round the mill and the Prussians hidden behind the trees. The bullets whistled across the Morelle, without occasioning any loss on one side or the other. The shots were irregular, coming from every bush; and all you saw was still the little clouds of smoke gently wafted away by the wind. This lasted for nearly two hours. The officer hummed a tune, as if indifferent. Françoise and Dominique, who had stayed in the court-yard, raised themselves up on tiptoe and looked over the wall. They were particularly interested in watching a little soldier, stationed on the brink of the Morelle, behind the hull of an old boat; he was flat on his belly, watched his chance, fired his shot, then let himself slide down into a ditch a little behind him, to reload his rifle; and his movements were so droll, so cunning, so supple, that it made one smile to see him. He must have espied the head of some Prussian, for he got up quickly and brought his piece to his shoulder; but before he fired, he gave a cry, turned over upon himself, and rolled into the ditch, where his legs stiffened out with the momentary convulsive jerk of those of a chicken with its neck wrung. The little soldier had received a bullet full in
the breast. He was the first man killed. Instinctively Françoise seized hold of Dominique’s hand and squeezed it with a nervous grip.
“Don’t stay there,” said the captain. “The bullets reach here.”
As he spoke a little sharp stroke was heard in the old elm, and a branch fell in zigzags through the air; but the young people did not stir, riveted there by anxiety at the sight. On the outskirts of the wood, a Prussian came out suddenly from behind a tree, as from a side scene, beating the air with his arm, and tumbling over backwards. And then nothing stirred: the two dead men seemed to sleep in the dazzling sunshine; you saw no one in the torpid landscape. Even the crack of the shots stopped. Only the Morelle kept up its silver-toned whispering.
Old Merlier looked at the captain in surprise, as if to ask if it were over.
“Here it comes,” the latter muttered. “Look out! Don’t stay there.”
He had not finished speaking when there came a terrific volley. It was as if the great elm were mowed down; a cloud of leaves whirled about them. Luckily the Prussians had fired too high. Dominique dragged, almost carried Françoise away; while old Merlier followed them, crying out:—
“Go down to the little cellar: the walls are solid.”
But they did not mind him; they went into the great hall where ten soldiers or so were waiting in silence, with shutters closed, peeping through the cracks. The captain had stayed alone in the court-yard, crouched down behind the little wall, while the furious volleys continued. The soldiers he had stationed outside yielded ground only foot by foot. Yet they came in, one by one, crawling on their faces, when the enemy had dislodged them from their hiding-places. Their orders were to gain time, not to show themselves; so that the Prussians might not know what numbers they had before them. Another hour went by; and as a sergeant came up, saying that there were only two or three men left outside, the officer looked at his watch, muttering:—