Great French Short Stories

by Paul Negri

  “Don’t stay here,” said the captain. “The bullets are reaching this area.”

  Indeed, a little dry thud had been heard in the old elm, and the tip of a branch was rocking as it fell. But the two young people didn’t budge; they were riveted there by their anguish at what they saw. At the edge of the woods, a Prussian had suddenly emerged from behind a tree as if from behind a stage flat, beating the air with his arms and falling over backwards. And nothing else stirred; the two dead men seemed to be sleeping in the broad daylight; even now no one was to be seen in the dull countryside. Even the crackling of the fusillade ceased. The only sound was the bright whispering of the Morelle.

  Old Merlier looked at the captain with an air of surprise, as if to ask him whether it was all over.

  “Here comes the main attack,” the captain muttered. “Watch out! Don’t stay here.”

  Before he had finished speaking, a terrifying volley was fired. The big elm had its foliage virtually mowed; a bunch of leaves were whirling in the air. Luckily the Prussians had fired too high. Dominique dragged away Françoise—nearly carried her away—while old Merlier was following them, shouting:

  “Go into the little cellar; the walls are solid.”

  But they didn’t listen to him; they went into the main parlor, where some ten soldiers were waiting silently, the shutters closed, looking out through cracks. The captain had remained alone in the courtyard, crouching behind the little wall, while furious volleys continued. Beyond the wall the soldiers he had stationed were only yielding ground a foot at a time. And yet they would creep back to cover one by one when the enemy had dislodged them from their hiding places. Their orders were to gain time and not to show themselves, so that the Prussians couldn’t learn the strength of the unit that was facing them. Another hour went by. And when a sergeant came to report that there were only two or three men left outside, the officer pulled out his watch, muttering:

  “Two-thirty . . . Look, we’ve got to hold out for four hours.”

  He had the big gate to the courtyard closed, and everything was put in readiness for an energetic resistance. Since the Prussians were on the other side of the Morelle, an immediate attack wasn’t to be feared. True, there was a bridge two kilometers away, but they were no doubt unaware of its existence, and it was very hard to believe that they would try to ford the stream. And so the officer merely had the road watched. Their entire effort would be centered on the side facing the open country.

  The fusillade had ceased again. The mill seemed dead in the strong sunlight. Not one shutter was open, no sound came from inside. Meanwhile, the Prussians were gradually showing themselves at the edge of the Forest of Gagny. They were sticking out their heads, they were growing bolder. In the mill several soldiers were already taking aim, but the captain shouted.

  “No, no, wait! . . . Let them come closer.”

  They were very cautious doing so, looking at the mill distrustfully. That old dwelling, silent and gloomy, with its curtains of ivy, worried them. Still, they were moving forward. When there were about fifty of them in the meadow opposite, the officer said a single word:

  “Go!”

  A lacerating volley was to be heard; isolated shots followed. Françoise, shaking all over, had put her hands to her ears in spite of herself. Dominique, standing behind the soldiers, was watching; and when the smoke had cleared away a bit, he saw three Prussians lying on their backs in the middle of the meadow. The others had taken cover behind the willows and the poplars. And the siege began.

  For over an hour the mill was riddled with bullets. They whipped its old walls like hail. When they struck stone, they could be heard squashing and bouncing off into the water. They penetrated wood with a muffled sound. At times a creaking indicated that the wheel had just been hit. The soldiers inside economized their shots, firing only when they could take proper aim. From time to time the captain consulted his watch. And, when a bullet split a shutter and lodged in the ceiling, he muttered:

  “Four o’clock. We’ll never make it.”

  In fact, that terrible fusillade was gradually shaking the old mill to pieces. A shutter fell into the water, riddled like a piece of lace, and had to be replaced by a mattress. Every minute old Merlier was leaving cover to check on the damage to his poor wheel, whose creaking made his heart ache. This time it was really finished off; he’d never be able to patch it up. Dominique had implored Françoise to go to her room, but she insisted on staying with him; she had taken a seat behind a big oak armoire that protected her. And yet a bullet struck the armoire, whose sides emitted a deep sound. Then Dominique took a stand in front of Françoise. He had not yet fired; he was holding his rifle in his hand, being unable to get near the windows, the full breadth of which was occupied by the soldiers. At each volley the floor shook.

  “Watch out! Watch out!” the captain suddenly cried.

  He had just seen a large dark mass emerging from the woods. Immediately a formidable volley firing began. It was like a whirlwind passing over the mill. Another shutter was blown away and bullets came in through the gaping window opening. Two soldiers rolled on the floor tiles. One stopped moving; they shoved him against the wall because he was in the way. The other writhed, asking to be finished off; but he wasn’t listened to; the bullets were still coming in; everyone was getting out of their way and trying to find a loophole in order to return the fire. A third soldier was wounded; this one didn’t say a word, but sank down beside a table with wildly staring eyes. Seeing these dead men, Françoise, horror-stricken, had automatically pushed away her chair; she sat down on the floor against the wall, believing she’d be a smaller target there, and in less danger. Meanwhile, all the mattresses in the house had been collected, and the gap in the window had been half-filled again. The room was filling up with debris, shattered weapons, and ripped-open furniture.

  “Five o’clock,” said the captain. “Hold tight . . . they’re going to try to cross the stream.”

  At that moment Françoise uttered a cry. A bullet that had ricocheted had just grazed her forehead. A few drops of blood appeared. Dominique looked at her; then, going up to the window, he fired his first shot and didn’t stop after that. He would load and fire, unconcerned with what was going on around him; only, from time to time, he would glance at Françoise. Moreover, he wasn’t in a hurry, he took careful aim. The Prussians, moving along the poplars, were trying to cross the Morelle, as the captain had foreseen; but as soon as one of them ventured to do so, he fell, with one of Dominique’s bullets in his head. The captain, who was observing this course of events, was amazed. He complimented the young man, saying that he’d be glad to have many marksmen of that quality. Dominique wasn’t paying attention to him. A bullet cut into his shoulder, another bruised his arm. And he was still firing.

  There were two more dead men. The mattresses, cut to ribbons, were no longing filling up the window spaces. A final volley seemed as if it would carry off the mill. Their position could no longer be held. And yet, the officer kept repeating:

  “Hold tight . . . Another half-hour.”

  By now he was counting the minutes. He had promised his superiors to pin the enemy down there until evening, and he hadn’t taken a step backward before the hour he had determined on for his retreat. He maintained his likable attitude, smiling at Françoise to reassure her. He himself had just picked up a dead soldier’s rifle and was firing.

  Only four soldiers were now left in the room.

  The Prussians appeared en masse on the far bank of the Morelle, and they were obviously going to cross the stream at any moment. A few more minutes went by. The captain was still stubbornly refusing to give the order to retreat when a sergeant ran up and said:

  “They’re on the road, they’re going to take us from behind.”

  The Prussians must have found the bridge. The captain pulled out his watch.

  “Five more minutes,” he said. “They won’t be here for five minutes.”

  Then, at six o’clock prec
isely, he finally consented to have his men leave through a little door that opened onto an alleyway. From there they took cover in a ditch and reached the Forest of Sauval. Before going, the captain had taken very polite leave of old Merlier, apologizing for what had happened. And he had even added:

  “Keep them entertained . . . We’ll be back.”

  Meanwhile Dominique had remained alone in the parlor. He was still firing, paying attention to nothing, comprehending nothing. All he felt was the need to defend Françoise. The soldiers had left without his being aware of it in the least. He kept on aiming and killing a man with each shot. Suddenly there was a loud noise. From behind, the Prussians had just invaded the courtyard. He fired one last shot before they fell upon him, while his rifle was still smoking.

  Four men held him fast. Others were shouting all around him in a terrifying language. They almost slaughtered him on the spot. Françoise had thrown herself in front of him imploringly. But an officer entered and had the prisoner handed over to himself. After exchanging a few sentences with the soldiers in German, he turned to Dominique and said to him roughly, in very good French:

  “You’ll be shot in two hours.”

  III

  It was a regulation issued by the German general staff: any Frenchman, not belonging to the regular army, captured with weapon in hand, was to be shot. Even the companies of partisans weren’t recognized as belligerents. By thus making terrible examples of the peasants who were defending their homes, the Germans were trying to prevent a universal call to arms, which they dreaded.

  The officer, a tall, lean man about fifty, subjected Dominique to a brief interrogation. Even though he spoke French very correctly, he had a thoroughly Prussian severity.

  “You’re from this area?”

  “No, I’m Belgian.”

  “Why did you take up arms? . . . All this should be no concern of yours.”

  Dominique didn’t reply. At that moment the officer caught sight of Françoise standing, very pale, and listening; on her white forehead her light wound made a red streak. He looked at the young couple one at a time, seemed to understand the situation, and merely added:

  “You don’t deny that you fired?”

  “I fired as much as I could,” Dominique calmly replied.

  That confession was needless, because he was black with powder, drenched in sweat, and stained with a few drops of blood that had flowed from the scratch on his shoulder.

  “Very well,” the officer repeated. “You’ll be shot in two hours.”

  Françoise didn’t cry out. She joined her hands and raised them in a gesture of wordless despair. The officer noticed that gesture. Two soldiers had taken Dominique into an adjoining room, where they were to keep watch over him. The girl had dropped onto a chair, her legs giving way under her; she was unable to cry, she was stifling. Meanwhile the officer kept observing her. Finally he spoke to her:

  “Is that boy your brother?” he asked.

  She shook her head “no.” He remained stiff and unsmiling. Then, after a silence:

  “Has he lived in the area very long?”

  She said “yes” with a nod.

  “So he must be very familiar with the forests around here?”

  This time she spoke.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, looking at him in some surprise.

  He said nothing further, but turned on his heels, asking that the village mayor be brought to him. But Françoise had stood up, her face slightly red, believing she had grasped the intention of his questions, and feeling some hope again. She herself ran to find her father.

  Old Merlier, the moment the firing had ceased, had briskly gone down by way of the wooden gallery to inspect his wheel. He adored his daughter, and had a staunch friendly feeling toward Dominique, his future son-in-law; but his wheel also had a big place in his heart. Since the two children, as he called them, had come out of the scrape safe and sound, he was thinking about his other love—and that one had really suffered. Leaning over the big wooden framework, he was studying its wounds brokenheartedly. Five paddles were in smithereens, and the central timberwork was riddled. He thrust his fingers into the bullet holes to measure their depth; he was wondering how he could repair all that damage. Françoise found him already plugging up cracks with debris and moss.

  “Father,” she said, “they’re asking for you.”

  And finally she was able to cry, telling him what she had just heard. Old Merlier shook his head. People weren’t shot like that. They had to wait and see. And he went back inside the mill in his taciturn, peaceful way. When the officer asked him for provisions for his men, he replied that the inhabitants of Rocreuse weren’t accustomed to be bullied, and that he’d get nothing out of them if he used force. He would take care of everything, but only if he was allowed to act independently. At first the officer seemed angry at that calm tone; then he gave in to the old man’s short, clear terms. He even called him back, to ask him:

  “What do you call those woods opposite?”

  “The Forest of Sauval.”

  “And how far do they extend?”

  The miller stared at him.

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  And he left. An hour later, the forced contribution of provisions and money that the officer had requested was in the courtyard of the mill. Night was approaching; Françoise observed the movements of the soldiers in anguish. She didn’t go far from the room in which Dominique was locked up. About seven o’clock, she had a strong emotional shock; she saw the officer enter the prisoner’s room, and for fifteen minutes she heard their voices raised. For a moment the officer reappeared on the threshold to give an order in German that she didn’t understand; but when twelve men had taken up positions in the courtyard carrying rifles, a tremor seized her and she thought she would die. And so it was a sure thing; the execution was going to take place. The twelve men stayed there ten minutes; Dominique’s voice was constantly raised in a tone of decided refusal. Finally the officer came out, slamming the door violently and saying:

  “Very well, think it over . . . I give you till tomorrow morning.”

  And with a gesture he had the twelve men fall out. Françoise remained numb. Old Merlier, who had continued to smoke his pipe, looking at the platoon with a merely curious expression, came and took her by the arm with a father’s gentleness. He took her to her room.

  “Stay calm,” he said, “try to sleep . . . Tomorrow it will be daylight, and we’ll see.”

  As he went out, he locked her in out of caution. He believed firmly that women are totally incapable and spoil everything when they meddle in a serious matter. But Françoise didn’t go to sleep. For a long time she remained seated on her bed, listening to the noises in the house. The German soldiers, who were camping in the courtyard, were singing and laughing; they must have been eating and drinking until eleven, because the racket didn’t stop for a minute. Even inside the mill, heavy steps resounded from time to time, no doubt sentries being relieved. But what were especially interesting to her were the sounds she could make out in the room below her bedroom. Several times she stretched out on the floor, putting her ear down to it. That room was the very one in which Dominique had been locked up. He must be walking from the wall to the window, because for some time she heard the regular cadence of his footsteps; then came a long silence; he had probably sat down. In addition, all the noises ceased, everything was falling asleep. When she thought that the house was at rest, she opened her window as quietly as possible and leaned out.

  Outside, the night was warm and clear. The narrow crescent of the moon, setting behind the Forest of Sauval, was illuminating the countryside as if with a night light. The long shadows of the tall trees made black lines across the meadows, while the grass in the open places took on the softness of greenish velvet. But Françoise was scarcely detained by the mysterious charm of the night. She was observing the countryside, looking for the sentries that the Germans must have stationed in that direction. She clearly
saw their shadows spaced out along the Morelle. A single one was located in front of the mill, across the stream, near a willow whose branches dipped into the water. Françoise could make him out clearly. He was a tall lad who was standing still, his face turned skyward with the dreamy expression of a shepherd.

  Then, after carefully inspecting the terrain in this manner, she returned to her bed and sat down again. She stayed there for an hour, deeply absorbed. Then she listened again: there was no longer a breath in the house. She returned to the window and glanced outside; but one tip of the moon that was still visible behind the trees must have seemed like an impediment to her, because she started waiting again. Finally, she thought the right time had come. The night was completely black; she could no longer see the sentry opposite her; the countryside stretched out like a sea of ink. She listened hard for a moment and made up her mind. Extending past the window, and near it, there was an iron ladder, bars sealed into the wall, running from the wheel to the attic. It had formerly been used by the millers to inspect certain gears; later on, the wheel works had been altered, and for a long time the ladder had been hidden beneath the dense ivy which covered that side of the mill.

  Françoise bravely straddled the railing of her window, seized one of the iron bars, and found herself completely out in the open. She started to climb down. Her petticoats were a great nuisance to her. Suddenly a stone was dislodged from the wall and fell into the Morelle with a loud splash. She had stopped in her tracks, shivering with fright. But she realized that the water drop, with its unceasing drone, drowned out for distant ears any noise she could make, and then she descended more boldly, feeling the ivy with her foot and making sure of each rung. When she was level with the bedroom that was serving as Dominique’s prison, she stopped. An unforeseen difficulty almost made her lose all her courage; the window of the lower room didn’t open directly below her own bedroom window; it was at some distance from the ladder, and when she reached out her hand she felt only the wall. Would she have to climb back up, then, without carrying out her plan? Her arms were getting tired; the murmuring of the Morelle, below her, was beginning to make her dizzy. Then she detached little bits of plaster from the wall and threw them into Dominique’s window. He didn’t hear them; perhaps he was asleep. She crumbled more of the wall, skinning her fingers. And her strength was deserting her, she felt herself falling backward, when Dominique finally opened his window quietly.