Great French Short Stories

by Paul Negri

  And it was there that old Merlier’s mill brightened a corner of that wild greenery with its click-clack. The building, made of plaster and boards, seemed as old as the world. Half of it dipped into the Morelle, which at that spot rounds out into a clear pool. A sluice had been installed, with the water dropping several meters onto the mill wheel, which creaked as it turned with the asthmatic cough of a loyal servant who had grown old in the household. When people advised old Merlier to replace it, he shook his head, saying that a young wheel would be lazier and wouldn’t know its job so well; and he used to patch up the old one with anything that came to hand, barrel staves, rusty scraps of iron, zinc, lead. The wheel seemed all the merrier for it, with its profile that had become strange, with its tufts of grass and moss all over. When the water struck it with its silvery current, it was covered with pearls, and its strange framework seemed to be adorned with a shining set of mother-of-pearl necklaces.

  The part of the mill that dipped into the Morelle that way looked like a barbarian ark that had washed up there. A good half of the dwelling was built on piles. The water came in under the floor, there were deep places well known in the vicinity for the eels and enormous crayfish that were caught there. Downstream from the water drop, the pool was as limpid as a mirror, and when the wheel wasn’t disturbing it with its foam, you could see schools of large fish swimming as slowly as a naval squadron. A broken staircase led down to the stream, near a piling to which a boat was tied up. A wooden gallery passed over the street. The mill had irregularly spaced windows. It was a hodgepodge of angles, small walls, belatedly added constructions, beams, and roof levels, which made it look like an old citadel that had been dismantled. But ivy had grown on it, and all sorts of climbing plants stopped up the cracks that were too big and threw a green mantle over the old dwelling. The well-born young ladies who passed that way used to draw old Merlier’s mill in their sketchbooks.

  On the side facing the road, the house was more solid. A stone gate led into the large courtyard, which was bordered on the right and left with sheds and stables. Near a well, an immense elm covered half the courtyard with its shade. At the far end of the yard, the house aligned the four windows of its second story, surmounted by a dovecote. Old Merlier’s only concession to finery was to have that house front whitewashed every ten years. It had just been repainted, and it dazzled the village when the sun lit it up at midday.

  For twenty years, old Merlier had been mayor of Rocreuse. He was esteemed for the fortune he had been able to earn. People thought he was worth about eighty thousand francs, accumulated one sou at a time. When he married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as dowry, he barely owned more than his two arms. But Madeleine had never regretted her choice, because he had carried on the business of the couple so vigorously. Now his wife was dead and he remained a widower with his daughter Françoise. No doubt, he could have retired and let his mill wheel sleep in the moss; but he would have been too bored, and the house would have seemed dead to him. He kept on working for the pleasure of it. At the time, old Merlier was a tall old man, with a long, taciturn face; he never laughed, but all the same he was very jolly inside. He had been elected mayor on account of his money, and also for the fine appearance he made when officiating at a wedding.

  Françoise Merlier had just turned eighteen. She wasn’t considered one of the real beauties of the vicinity, because she was puny. Up to the age of fifteen she had even been homely. People in Rocreuse couldn’t understand why the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Merlier, both so sturdy, grew up so unsatisfactorily, as if regretfully. But at fifteen, though she remained frail, she developed a little face that was the prettiest in the world. She had black hair and dark eyes, and yet was very pink; her lips were always laughing, her cheeks were dimpled, and there seemed to be a wreath of sunlight on her clear brow. Although underdeveloped for local tastes, she wasn’t scrawny, far from it; what they really meant to say was that she wouldn’t have been able to lift a sack of wheat; but, as she grew older, she was becoming quite chubby, and in time she would be as round and luscious as a quail. Only, her father’s long periods of silence had made her sensible while still quite young. If she was constantly laughing, that was to give pleasure to others. Deep down, she was serious.

  Naturally, every local lad wooed her, even more for her money than for her pleasant personality. And she had finally made a choice that had just shocked the countryside. Across the Morelle lived a tall young fellow called Dominique Penquer. He wasn’t from Rocreuse. Ten years earlier, he had come from Belgium to take over an inheritance from an uncle; this small property was located at the very edge of the Forest of Gagny, just opposite the mill, at a few rifle shots’ distance. He said he had come merely to sell that property and go back home, but it seems that the area delighted him, because he never moved away. He was seen cultivating his little field and harvesting a few vegetables, which he lived on. He used to fish and hunt; several times the gamekeepers almost caught him and reported him to the police. This free-wheeling existence, which the peasants couldn’t rightly see how he could afford, had finally given him a bad reputation. They vaguely called him a poacher. At any rate, he was lazy, because he was often found asleep on the grass at hours when he should have been working. The cottage he lived in, underneath the outermost trees in the forest, didn’t resemble an honest fellow’s home, either. If he had had dealings with the wolves in the ruins of Gagny, that wouldn’t have surprised the old women one bit. And yet at times the girls ventured to defend him, because he was splendid-looking, that suspicious character, supple and tall as a poplar, with a very white skin and blond beard and hair that looked like gold in the sunlight. Now, one fine morning Françoise had announced to old Merlier that she loved Dominique and would never consent to marry any other man.

  Just imagine what a cudgel blow old Merlier received that day! As was his custom, he said nothing. He was wearing his meditative expression, but his inner jollity was no longer gleaming from his eyes. They both sulked for a week. Françoise, too, was quite solemn. What was tormenting old Merlier was his failure to understand how that rascally poacher had been able to bewitch his daughter. Dominique had never come to the mill. The miller kept a lookout, and observed the wooer on the other side of the Morelle lying on the grass and pretending to be asleep. From her room Françoise could see him. The matter was clear; they must have fallen in love making eyes at each other over the mill wheel.

  Meanwhile, another week went by. Françoise was becoming more and more solemn. Old Merlier still wasn’t saying anything. Then, one evening, silently, he himself brought in Dominique. Françoise was just laying the table. She didn’t appear surprised; all she did was add another setting; but the little dimples in her cheeks had just appeared again, and her laughter had returned. That morning, old Merlier had gone to see Dominique in his cottage on the edge of the woods. There the two men had talked for three hours, with doors and windows shut. No one ever found out what it was they said to each other. What is certain is that, when he came out, old Merlier was already treating Dominique like his son. No doubt the old man had found the lad he had gone looking for, an upstanding lad, in that lazybones who stretched out on the grass to get the girls to love him.

  All Rocreuse talked. The women, in their doorways, couldn’t say enough about the folly of old Merlier, who was taking a scoundrel into his house that way. He let them talk. Perhaps he had recalled his own wedding. He hadn’t owned a red cent, either, when he had married Madeleine and her mill, but that hadn’t prevented him from being a good husband. Besides, Dominique put an end to the gossip by beginning to work so hard that the locals were amazed. The mill hand had just been drafted into the army, and Dominique wouldn’t hear of their hiring anyone else. He carried the sacks, drove the cart, and struggled with the ancient wheel when it needed to be coaxed to turn—all this so cheerfully that people came to watch him for their pleasure. Old Merlier wore his taciturn smile. He was very proud of having realized what that lad had in him.
There’s nothing like love to put heart into young men.

  Amid all this heavy labor, Françoise and Dominique adored each other. They rarely spoke to each other, but they looked at each other with a smiling tenderness. Up to then old Merlier hadn’t said a word about the wedding; and both of them respected that silence, awaiting the old man’s pleasure. Finally, one day toward the middle of July, he had had three tables laid in the courtyard, under the big elm, inviting his friends from Rocreuse to come that evening for a drink with him. When the courtyard was full and everyone had his glass in his hand, old Merlier raised his very high and said:

  “It’s to have the pleasure of announcing to you that Françoise will marry that strapping fellow there in a month, on Saint Louis’s Day.”

  Then they clinked glasses noisily. Everyone was laughing. But old Merlier, raising his voice, went on to say:

  “Dominique, kiss your betrothed. It’s the thing to do.”

  And they kissed, their faces red, while the guests laughed even louder. It was a real celebration. They emptied a small cask. Then, when only close friends were left, they chatted tranquilly. Night had fallen, a starry, very bright night. Dominique and Françoise, seated on a bench one next to the other, said nothing. An old peasant was talking about the war that the Emperor had declared on Prussia. All the village boys had already left. The day before, troops had gone by again. The fight was going to be a tough one.

  “Bah!” said old Merlier, with the egotism of a happy man. “Dominique is a foreigner, he won’t have to go . . .” And if the Prussians came, he’d be there to defend his wife.

  The idea that the Prussians might come seemed like a good joke. They were going to get a real drubbing, and all would soon be over.

  “I’ve already seen them, I’ve already seen them,” the old peasant repeated in a hollow voice.

  There was a silence. Then they clinked glasses again. Françoise and Dominique hadn’t heard any of this; they had taken each other’s hand gently, behind the bench so that they couldn’t be seen doing it, and they felt so good that way that they just sat there, their eyes lost in the depths of the darkness.

  What a warm, splendid night! The village was falling asleep on the two sides of the white highway, as untroubled as a child. All that was still heard, at long intervals, was the crowing of some rooster that had awakened too early. From the great forests nearby, long exhalations descended and passed over the rooftops like caresses. The meadows, with their dark shade trees, took on a mysterious, reflective majesty, while all the springs, all the running waters that gushed forth in the dark, seemed to be the cool, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping countryside. At moments, the old mill wheel, in slumber, seemed to be having dreams, like those old watchdogs that bark as they snore; it creaked, it spoke to itself, rocked by the water drop in the Morelle; that sheet of water emitted a steady musical sound like an organ pipe. Never had such extensive peace been spread over a more fortunate corner of nature.

  II

  One month later to the day, precisely on the eve of Saint Louis’s Day, Rocreuse was living in terror. The Prussians had beaten the Emperor, and were advancing toward the village in forced marches. For a week, people passing along the road had been announcing the Prussians: “They’re at Lormières, they’re at Novelles”; and, hearing these reports that they were drawing near so quickly, every morning the people of Rocreuse thought they saw them coming down through the Forest of Gagny. But they didn’t come, and that frightened people even more. They would surely fall upon the village at night and slaughter everyone.

  On the night before, a little before daybreak, there had been an alarm. The inhabitants had awakened, hearing a loud noise of men on the road. The women were already falling on their knees and crossing themselves, when some people recognized red trousers through their cautiously half-opened windows. It was a French detachment. Their captain had immediately asked for the local mayor, and he had remained at the mill after talking with old Merlier.

  The sun was rising cheerfully that day. It would be hot at noon. A golden brightness hovered over the woods, while down below, above the meadows, white mists were rising. The village, clean and pretty, was waking up in the cool air, and the countryside, with its stream and fountains, had the moist charms of a bunch of flowers. But that beautiful day didn’t make anyone smile. They had just seen the captain walking to and fro around the mill, looking at the neighboring houses, crossing the Morelle, and, from there, studying the region with binoculars. Old Merlier, who accompanied him, seemed to be giving him explanations. Next, the captain had stationed soldiers behind walls, behind trees, in hollows. The bulk of the detachment was camping in the courtyard of the mill. Was there going to be a battle, then? And when old Merlier got back, he was questioned. He gave a long nod but didn’t speak. Yes, there was going to be a battle.

  Françoise and Dominique were there in the courtyard looking at him. Finally he took his pipe out of his mouth, and spoke this simple sentence:

  “Ah, my poor children, it’s not tomorrow that I’ll marry you!”

  Dominique, his lips taut, with an angry wrinkle on his brow, raised himself up at times, keeping his eyes fixed on the Forest of Gagny, as if he wanted to see the Prussians arrive. Françoise, very pale and solemn, was coming and going, supplying the soldiers’ needs. They were cooking soup in a corner of the courtyard and were joking while awaiting their food.

  Meanwhile, the captain seemed delighted. He had inspected the bedrooms and main parlor of the mill that faced the stream. Now, seated near the well, he was talking with old Merlier.

  “It’s a real fortress you’ve got there,” he was saying. “We’ll hold out until this evening . . . The bandits are late. They should have been here by now.”

  The miller remained solemn. He pictured his mill blazing like a torch. But he wasn’t lamenting, since he considered that futile. He only opened his mouth to say:

  “You ought to have the boat hidden behind the wheel. There’s a space there where it fits . . . It might come in handy.”

  The captain issued an order. This captain was a fine-looking man of about forty, tall, with a pleasant face. The sight of Françoise and Dominique seemed to gladden him. He was paying attention to them as if he had forgotten about the coming fight. His eyes followed Françoise’s movements, and his expression made it clear that he found her charming. Then, turning toward Dominique, he asked him, point-blank:

  “You aren’t in the army, son?”

  “I’m a foreigner,” the young man replied.

  The captain seemed to find this reason less than satisfactory. He blinked his eyes and smiled. Françoise was more pleasant to be around than cannons. Then, seeing him smile, Dominique added:

  “I’m a foreigner; but I can put a bullet in an apple at five hundred meters . . . Look, my hunting rifle is there behind you.”

  “You may find use for it,” was the captain’s simple reply.

  Françoise had come up to them, trembling slightly. And without caring about the people around, Dominique took the two hands she reached out to him, as if putting herself under his protection, and held them tightly in his own. The captain had smiled again, but didn’t add a word. He remained seated, his sword between his legs, his eyes far away as if he were dreaming.

  It was already ten o’clock. It was beginning to get very hot. A heavy silence ensued. In the courtyard, in the shade of the sheds, the soldiers had begun eating their soup. No sound was coming from the village; the inhabitants had all barricaded their houses, doors, and windows. A dog, left alone on the road, was howling. From the woods and the nearby meadows, which were fainting under the heat, came a distant, prolonged sound, comprised of all their scattered exhalations. A cuckoo called. Then the silence spread even further.

  And in this sleeping air, all of a sudden, a shot rang out. The captain rose briskly, and the soldiers abandoned their plates of soup, which were still half-full. In a few seconds, they were all at their battle stations; the mill was occupie
d from top to bottom. Meanwhile, the captain, who had gone out to the road, couldn’t see a thing; to his right, to his left, the road stretched into the distance, empty and all white. A second shot was heard, and still nothing, not even a shadow. But, turning around, between two trees in the direction of Gagny, he espied a light wisp of smoke floating away like a thread of gossamer. The forest remained deep and gentle.

  “The scoundrels have hidden in the forest,” he muttered. “They know we’re here.”

  Then the fusillade continued, getting heavier all the while, between the French soldiers stationed around the mill and the Prussians concealed behind the trees. The bullets were whistling across the Morelle, without resulting in casualties on either side. The shots were irregularly spaced, coming from every bush; and all that could be seen so far was little puffs of smoke gently shaking on the breeze. That lasted nearly two hours. The officer was humming nonchalantly. Françoise and Dominique, who had remained in the courtyard, were raising their heads and looking over a low wall. They were especially interested in a little soldier stationed on the bank of the Morelle behind the skeleton of an old boat; lying on his stomach, he would observe, fire, then lower himself into a ditch a little behind him to reload his rifle; and his movements were so comical, so sly, so nimble, that they allowed themselves a smile as they watched him. He must have caught sight of some Prussian’s head, because he stood up briskly and took aim; but before he could fire, he uttered a cry, spun around, and rolled into the ditch, where for a moment his legs underwent a convulsive stiffening like the feet of a chicken being slaughtered. The little soldier had just received a bullet full in the chest. He was the first fatality. Instinctively Françoise had gripped Dominique’s hand and was seizing it in a nervous reaction.