Great French Short Stories

by Paul Negri

  “It tastes good,” he says, “but I know it would taste better with sugar.”

  He runs to the village, buys a piece of sugar, and steals back at nightfall to drop it into the spring.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he says just for himself, “I will have a feast.”

  All the people are still asleep when Tiennot leaves his bed and hurries to the spring.

  Before he tastes the water, he says, sucking with his lips:

  “Oh! What a fine taste!”

  He bends down, tastes, and says, letting his lips relax:

  “Yes. No. There’s no more sugar in it than there was yesterday.”

  He is baffled, he fixes his eyes on his crestfallen reflection.

  “My God! What a fool I am!” he shouts. “A child would know: water runs, and my melted sugar ran along with it. It left the spring behind and ran away across the field; it can’t be going fast, I can catch it.”

  And Tiennot departs, walking beside the brook. He carefully counts out twenty paces and then stops. He takes a mouthful of water and savors it. But then he tosses his head, suddenly, and departs again in pursuit of his sugar.

  THE FIST OF GOD

  In a short smock and a shaggy top hat Tiennot is coming home from the fair. All he had to sell is sold, his pig, his cheese, and his two old hens, but the hens were sold for pullets, after he gave them wine and made them drunk.

  They were full of life, their eyes glittered, they had fever in their wings and claws, they deceived a trusting woman who may be weighing them again, surprised and angry to see them dangling, cold, broken. Tiennot smiles; he feels no remorse; he has put it over many times. He zigzags, his legs give, he wanders all over the road, for while the hens were picking up drops of wine out of a bowl, he was drinking the rest of the bottle.

  Then a cyclist shouts, a bell sounds, a horn trumpets right behind him. He hears nothing. He goes back and forth across the road, waving his arms, gesticulating, feeling compassion, as if he were selling his hens a second time.

  And suddenly a fist blow crushes down his shaggy top hat.

  Tiennot stops, bends double, his head a prisoner, surrounded by night down to the ears. He tries to lift his hat off; he tries for some time; but his head is caught, the circle around his skull hurts him. Tiennot struggles, heaves, bellows, finally frees himself.

  He looks around: nobody on the road, nobody ahead, nobody behind. He looks over the hedge, first left, then right.

  He sees nothing.

  And Tiennot, who got his hens drunk and sold them, mechanically makes the sign of the cross.

  THE FINE CORN

  On the dry road, under the burning sun, Tiennot and Baptiste are driving back home in their donkey cart. They pass near a field of ripe corn, and Baptiste, who knows all about corn, says:

  “What fine corn!”

  Tiennot is driving and says nothing; he bows his back. Baptiste bows his own in imitation, and their necks, exposed, tough, slowly broil, shine like copper pans.

  Like a machine, Tiennot pulls or shakes the reins. Sometimes he raises a stick and aims a lively blow at the donkey’s buttocks, as if they were a bespattered pair of breeches. The donkey never changes pace; he bends his head, probably to watch the play of his hoofs as they move in and out, one after another, never mistaking. The cart follows along after him as best it can; a roundish shadow drags after; Tiennot and Baptiste bend down still farther.

  They pass through villages that look deserted because of the heat. They meet a few scarce people who give only a single sign. They close their eyes against the road’s white glare.

  And yet they arrive that night, very late. In the end one always arrives. The donkey halts before the door, perks its ears. Baptiste and Tiennot, sluggish, stir themselves, and Tiennot answers Baptiste:

  “Yes, it is fine corn.”

  Gérard de Nerval

  EMILIE

  “No one really knows the story of Lieutenant Desroches, who was killed last year at the battle of Hambergen, two months after his wedding. If it was suicide, may God forgive him! But surely a man who died defending his country deserves to have his actions given a better name than that, whatever his intentions.”

  “Which brings us back,” said the doctor, “to the question of compromising with conscience. Desroches was a philosopher who had had enough of life. He didn’t want to die a useless death, so he plunged bravely into battle and killed as many Germans as he could, saying, ‘This is the best I can do. Now I’m content to die.’ And as he took the blow that killed him he shouted, ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ Ten soldiers from his company will tell you the same thing.”

  “It was no less a suicide for that,” said Arthur. “Still, it wouldn’t have been right to deny him church burial.”

  “In that case, you underrate the self-sacrifice of Curtius. That young Roman knight may have been ruined by gambling, unlucky in love, and tired of living, who knows? But there must be something fine about a man who when he has made up his mind to leave this world, makes his death useful to others. So you can’t call Desroches a suicide, for suicide is no less than the supreme act of egoism, which is the only reason men condemn it. . . . What are you thinking about, Arthur?”

  “About what you were just saying—that Desroches killed as many Germans as he could before he died.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, those fine fellows will give a pretty poor accounting of the lieutenant’s glorious death before God. And you must admit, this suicide looks very much like homicide.”

  “Oh, but who would think of that? The Germans are our enemies.”

  “But does a man who has made up his mind to die have enemies? At that moment, all feelings of nationality disappear, and I doubt if one thinks of any country but the next world, or of any emperor but God. But here’s the abbé, listening to us without a word. Still, I hope he approves of what I’m saying. Come now, Father, give us your opinion, and try to reconcile us. It’s a knotty question, and the story of Desroches, or rather what the doctor and I think we know of it, appears to be every bit as involved as our discussion.”

  “Yes,” said the doctor, “I’ve heard that Desroches was greatly distressed by his last wound—the one that disfigured him so badly—and that perhaps he surprised his young bride wincing or making fun of him. Philosophers are easily offended. At any rate, he died, and willingly.”

  “Willingly, if you must, but don’t call death in battle suicide. It only adds to the confusion. You die in battle because someone kills you, not because you want to die.”

  “Then . . . do you suppose it’s fate?”

  “My turn,” said the priest, who had been collecting his thoughts during this discussion. “Perhaps you will think it strange of me to object to your paradoxes and suppositions. . . .”

  “Go right ahead, by all means. You probably know more about it than we do. You’ve been living at Bitche for a long time now, and we’ve been told that Desroches knew you. Perhaps you were even his confessor.”

  “In that case, I should have to keep silent. Unfortunately, I wasn’t, but I assure you, he died like a Christian, and I shall tell you how and why, so that you will think of him as a gentleman and a soldier who died a timely death for humanity and for himself, according to the will of God.

  “Desroches joined a regiment when he was only fourteen, at a time when most of our men were getting killed on the frontier, and our Army of the Republic was drafting children. He was as weak and slender as a girl, and it distressed his comrades to see his young shoulders sink under the weight of his gun. You must have heard the story of how permission was obtained from the captain to have it cut down six inches. With his weapon thus suited to his strength, Desroches did splendidly in Flanders; later on, he was sent to Hagenau, where we, or rather you, had been fighting for so long.

  “At the time of which I am going to speak, Desroches was at the height of his powers, and as regimental ensign-bearer, he served far in advance of his rank, for he was practically th
e only man to survive two reinforcements. He had just been made a lieutenant when, twenty-seven months ago, at Bergheim, he led a bayonet charge and received a Prussian saber cut straight across the face. The wound was ghastly. The field surgeons, who had often joked with him because he had come through thirty battles without a scratch, frowned when he was brought in. ‘If he lives,’ they said, ‘he’ll lose his wits or go mad.’

  “The lieutenant was sent to Metz to recover, and many miles went by before he regained consciousness. It took five or six months in a decent bed, with the best of care, before he could sit up, and another hundred days before he could open one eye and see. Soon tonics were prescribed, then sunlight and movement, and finally, short walks. One morning, supported by two companions, he set out all giddy and trembling for the Quai St. Vincent, which adjoins the military hospital, and there they sat him in the noonday sun, under the lime trees, at the edge of the promenade: the poor fellow thought he was seeing the light of day for the very first time.

  “Soon he could walk by himself, and every morning he came to sit on the same bench. His head was a mass of black taffeta bandages that all but covered his face, and as he passed, he could always count on a friendly greeting from the men, and a gesture of deep sympathy from the women. From this, however, he derived little comfort.

  “But once seated on his bench, he forgot his misfortune and thought only of how lucky he was to be alive after such a shock, and in such pleasant surroundings. Before him, the old fortress—a ruin since the time of Louis XVI—spread its dilapidated ramparts, the flowering lime trees cast shadows on his head, and at his feet, in the valley that dipped away from the promenade, the Moselle, overflowing its banks, kept the meadows of St. Symphorien green and fertile between its two arms. Then came the isle of St. Saulcy, with its powder magazine, and its shady trees and cottages, and finally, the foamy white falls of the Moselle, its course sparkling in the sunlight. Then, as far as he could see, the Vosges Mountains rose up bluish and misty in broad daylight, and he gazed at them with ever-increasing delight, his heart gladdened by the thought that there lay his country—not conquered land, but true French soil, while these rich new provinces he had fought for were fickle beauties, like those of a love won yesterday, and gone tomorrow.

  “In the early days of June, the heat was intense, and as the bench Desroches had chosen was well in the shade, one day two women came and sat down beside him. He greeted them calmly and continued to gaze at the horizon, but his appearance inspired so much interest they could not resist the temptation to ply him with sympathetic questions. One of the two was well advanced in age, and proved to be the aunt of the other, whose name was Emilie. The older woman earned her living by doing gilt embroidery on silk or velvet. When Desroches replied to their questions with questions of his own, the aunt informed him that Emilie had left Hagenau to keep her company, that she embroidered for churches, and that she had been an orphan for some time.

  “The next day, the bench was similarly occupied, and by the end of the week, its three occupants were fast friends. Desroches, in spite of his weakness and humiliation at the attentions the girl lavished on him as if he were a harmless old man, felt lighthearted, and more like rejoicing at his good fortune than being distressed by it. Then, on his return to the hospital, he remembered his ghastly wound, and his scarecrow appearance, which caused him many hours of despair, though he had become almost used to it.

  “Desroches had not dared remove the useless bandages, or look at himself in a mirror. Now the thought of doing so frightened him more than ever. Nevertheless, he ventured to lift up one corner of the dressing, and found beneath it a scar that was slightly pink, but by no means too repulsive. On further examination, he found that the various parts of his face had been sewn together fairly well, and that his eyes were as healthy and clear as ever. Of course, a few scraps of eyebrow were missing, but that was nothing! The slanting scar across his face, from forehead to ear was . . . well, it was a sword cut received at Bergheim, and nothing could be finer, as many a song has said.

  “Desroches was astonished to find that he was so presentable after the long months during which he seemed a virtual stranger to himself. He cleverly concealed the hair that had turned gray on the wounded side under the abundant black on the left, drew his mustache out as far as it would go over the line of the scar, and on the following day, put on his new uniform and set out triumphantly for the park. Those who passed him on the way failed to recognize this sprightly young officer with tilted shako and a sword that jauntily slapped his thigh.

  “He was the first to arrive at the bench by the lime trees, and sat down with his customary deliberation, although he was profoundly agitated and much paler than usual, despite the approval of his mirror.

  “The two ladies were not long in arriving, but they suddenly turned and walked away at the sight of the smart-looking officer sitting on their accustomed bench. Desroches was deeply moved.

  “‘What!’ he cried. ‘Don’t you recognize me?’

  “You mustn’t think this is the prelude to a tale of pity turned to love, like the plot of some contemporary opera. The lieutenant now had serious intentions. Glad to find himself once more considered eligible, he hastened to reassure the two ladies, who seemed disposed to continue their friendship. Their reserve gave way before his forthright declarations. Besides, the match was suitable from every point of view: Desroches had a little property near Épinal, while Emilie’s parents had left her a small house at Hagenau, which she rented as a restaurant, and received an income of five or six hundred francs, half of which she gave to her brother Wilhelm, chief clerk to the notary at Schennberg.

  “When the arrangements had been completed, it was decided that the wedding should take place at Hagenau, which was Emilie’s real home, for she had come to Metz only to be with her aunt, and it was agreed that she should return there afterward. Emilie was delighted at the prospect of seeing her brother again, and more than once Desroches’s astonishment was aroused by the fact that the young man was not in uniform, like his contemporaries. He was told he had been excused on account of poor health, and Desroches was full of sympathy for him.

  “So one day the prospective bride and groom and the aunt set out together for Hagenau. They took places in the public carriage that changes horses at Bitche. In those days, it was simply a ramshackle stagecoach made of leather and wickerwork. As you know, the road leads through beautiful country. Desroches, who had only been along it in uniform, sword in hand, with three or four thousand other men, was now able to enjoy the solitude, the hills in their mantle of dark green foliage, and the fantastic shape of rocks that cut the skyline. The fertile uplands of St. Avold, the factories of Saarguemines, and the thickly wooded copses of Limblingue, where poplar, ash, and pine display their varying banks of foliage, ranging from gray to dark green . . . you know what delightful scenery it is.

  “As soon as they arrived at Bitche, they stopped at the Dragon, and Desroches sent for me at the fort. I went at once to join him, met his new family, and complimented the young lady, whose rare beauty and charm impressed me greatly. It was easy to see that she was very much in love with her future husband. The three of them lunched with me right here, where we’re sitting, and several officers who were old friends of Desroches came to the inn and begged him to dine with them at the restaurant near the fort, where the staff took their meals. So it was agreed that the ladies should retire early, and that the lieutenant should devote his last evening as a bachelor to his friends.

  “The dinner was lively; everyone enjoyed his share of the happiness and gaiety Desroches had brought with him. They all spoke rapturously of Egypt and Italy, and complained bitterly of the hard luck that kept so many good soldiers cooped up on the frontier.

  “‘Yes,’ grumbled some of the officers, ‘the monotony is getting on our nerves. We’re stifling here. We might as well be off on a ship somewhere as live without fighting or distractions of any kind, or any chance of promotion. The f
ort is impregnable. That’s what Napoleon said when he passed through here to rejoin his forces in Germany. About all we have here is a chance to die of boredom.’

  “‘Alas, my friends,’ replied Desroches, ‘it was hardly more amusing in my time. When I was stationed here, I had the same complaints. I got my commission by tramping in army boots down highway and byway, and knew only three things: military drill, the direction of the wind, and the kind of grammar you learn from the village schoolmaster. So, when I was made second lieutenant and sent to Bitche with the second battalion of the Cher, I looked upon my stay here as an excellent opportunity for some real uninterrupted study. With this in mind, I assembled a collection of books, maps, and charts. I had studied tactics, and learned German without any trouble, for nothing else was spoken in this good French country. This way, the time—so tedious for you who have so much less to learn—seemed to pass all too quickly. At night I retired into a little stone room under the spiral of the main staircase. There I lit my lamp and worked, with all the loopholes carefully stopped, and on just such a night . . .’

  “Here, Desroches paused a moment, drew his hand over his eyes, emptied his glass, and went on without finishing his sentence.

  “‘You all know,’ he said, ‘the little path that leads up here from the plain—the one they’ve made impassable by blowing up a huge rock and not filling up the pit. Well, it was always fatal to hostile troops attacking the fort. No sooner did the poor devils start climbing up than they were raked by four twenty-fours that swept the whole length of the path. I suppose they’re still there.’

  “‘You must have distinguished yourself,’ said one of the colonels. ‘Wasn’t that the place you won your promotion?’

  “‘Yes, Colonel, and that was where I killed the first and only man I ever struck down in hand-to-hand fighting. That’s why it always distresses me to see this fort.’