by Emile Zola
It was a quarter to seven and Charlot simply would not go to sleep. Usually as soon as he had had his supper his head fell on the table.
‘Now come along, my darling, off we go to sleep,’ Silvine said over and over again in Henriette’s room where she had taken him. ‘See how nice it is in Auntie’s big beddybyes!’
But the child was delighted with this treat and jumped up and down, choking with giggles.
‘No, no, stay here, Mummy… play with me, Mummy.’
She was very patient and very nice to him, caressing him and repeating:
‘Go to bye-byes, ducky… bye-byes to please Mummy!’
The child at last dropped off, a laugh still on his lips. She had not bothered to undress him, but covered him up cosily and went away without locking the door because as a rule he slept so soundly.
Never had Silvine felt so calm, with her mind so clear and alert. She was prompt in decision and light in movement as though she were a disembodied spirit and acting under orders from that other self, the one she didn’t know. She had already let in Sambuc, with Cabasse and Ducat, warning them to be extremely careful, and she took them to her room and posted them on either side of the window, which she opened in spite of the cold. It was very dark and the room was only very faintly lit by the reflection from the snow. The countryside was as still as death, and interminable minutes went by. At last, hearing a little sound of approaching footsteps, Silvine left and went back to the kitchen and sat there, quite still, her big eyes gazing at the candle flame.
And it still took a long time. Goliath prowled all round the farmhouse before venturing in. He thought he knew Silvine and so he had taken the risk of coming with only a revolver in his belt. But he had some misgivings, and pushed the window wide open, looked in and called softly:
‘Silvine! Silvine!’
Since the window was open it must mean that she had thought it over and was willing. This was a great joy, but he would have preferred to see her there to welcome and reassure him. Perhaps Daddy Fouchard had called her away to finish some job. He raised his voice a little.
‘Silvine! Silvine!’
No answer, not a breath. He stepped over the sill and went in, meaning to slip into the bed and wait for her under the sheets, for it was so cold.
Suddenly there was a furious scrimmage, with stampings and slippings, muffled oaths and snorts. Sambuc and the two others had fallen upon Goliath, and in spite of their number they could not immediately master the giant, whose strength was increased by danger. In the darkness there could be heard crackings of bones and the panting of men grappling. Fortunately the revolver had fallen on to the floor. A voice, Cabasse’s, gasped: ‘The ropes! The ropes!’ and Ducat passed to Sambuc the bundle of ropes they had taken the precaution of bringing with them. There followed a long, savage operation involving kicks and punches; the legs tied first, then the arms tied to the sides, then the whole body tied up by feel, depending on the man’s jerking struggles, with such a riot of turns and knots that the man was enveloped in a sort of net, some of the meshes of which cut into his flesh. He never stopped shouting and Ducat’s voice went on saying: ‘Shut your jaw!’ The cries stopped. Cabasse had roughly tied an old blue handkerchief over his mouth. Then they regained their breath and carried him like a bale into the kitchen, where they laid him out on the big table beside the candle.
‘The Prussian shit!’ swore Sambuc, mopping his brow. ‘He didn’t half give us some trouble! I say, Silvine, light another candle, will you, so as we can take a good look at the bleeding swine!’
Silvine was standing there with her big eyes staring in her pale face. She didn’t say a word, but lit a candle and put it on the other side of Goliath, who could be seen lit up as though between two church candles. At that moment their eyes met, and his desperately implored her, for he was terrified, but she showed no sign of understanding, and stepped backwards to the dresser and stood there cold and immovable.
‘The bugger’s eaten half my finger,’ growled Cabasse, whose hand was bleeding. ‘I must break something of his.’
He was already pointing the revolver, which he had picked up, but Sambuc disarmed him.
‘No, no! Don’t act silly! We’re not brigands, we’re judges… Do you hear, you Prussian filth, we’re going to give you a trial, and don’t you fear, we respect the right to a defence… You’re not going to defend yourself, though, because if we took your muzzle off you’d shout the place down. But in a minute I’ll give you an advocate, and a first class one!’
He found three chairs and put them in a row, then arranged what he called the tribunal, with himself in the middle and his two henchmen on his right and left. All three took their seats and then he stood up again and began speaking with a mock dignity which, however, gradually swelled and grew into avenging anger.
‘I am both presiding judge and public prosecutor. That’s not quite in order, but there are not enough of us… So: I accuse you of coming to spy on us in France and thus repaying us for the bread eaten at our tables with the most odious treachery. For you are the prime cause of the disaster, you are the traitor who, after the fight at Nouart, guided the Bavarians to Beaumont by night through the Dieulet woods. To do that it needed a man who had lived a long time in the district and got to know even the smallest paths, and we are quite convinced that you were seen guiding the artillery along some dreadful tracks like rivers of mud, in which they had to harness eight horses to each piece of equipment. When you see these roads again it is unbelievable, and you wonder how an army corps could possibly have gone that way. If it hadn’t been for you and the criminal way you did well for yourself out of us and then betrayed us, the surprise at Beaumont would not have happened, we should never have gone to Sedan and perhaps we might have licked you in the end. And I’m not going into the disgusting job you are still doing, the nerve with which you come back here in triumph, denouncing and terrorizing poor people… You are the lowest of the low, I demand the penalty of death.’
There was a hushed silence. He resumed his seat and then said:
‘I nominate Ducat to defend you… He has been in the law and he would have gone a long way if it hadn’t been for his passions. So you see I’m not refusing you anything and we are being very considerate.’
Goliath, who could not move even a finger, turned his eyes towards his makeshift counsel for the defence. His eyes were the only living part of him left, and they were eyes of burning supplication beneath a livid forehead dripping great drops of anguished sweat in spite of the cold.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Ducat, rising to make his plea, ‘my client is indeed the most stinking of rogues, and I would not undertake to defend him were it not my duty to point out in mitigation that they are all like that in his country…
‘Look at him, you can see by his eyes that he is quite amazed. He doesn’t realize his crime. In France we only touch our spies with tongs, but in his country spying is a very honourable career, a meritorious way of serving one’s country… I will even go so far as to say, gentlemen, that they may not be wrong. Our noble sentiments do us honour, but unfortunately they have led us to defeat. If I may so express it, quos vult perdere Jupiter dementat… You will appreciate the point of that, Gentlemen.’
He resumed his seat, and Sambuc went on:
‘And you, Cabasse, have you anything to say for or against the accused?’
‘What I have to say,’ cried the southerner, ‘is that we don’t need all this lot of balls to settle this bugger’s hash… I’ve had quite a lot of troubles in my time, but I don’t like joking about things to do with justice, it’s unlucky… Death! Death!’
Sambuc solemnly rose to his feet again.
‘So this is the sentence you both pass – death?’
‘Yes, yes, death!’
The chairs were pushed back and he went up to Goliath and said:
‘Judgement has been passed. You are to die.’
The two candles were burning with tall flames, like altar-ca
ndles, on each side of Goliath’s agonized face. He was making such efforts to beg for mercy, to shout words he could not get out, that the blue handkerchief over his mouth was soaked in foam. It was a terrible sight, this man reduced to silence, already as mute as a corpse, about to die with a flood of explanations and pleas stuck in his throat.
Cabasse was cocking the revolver.
‘Shall I blow his face in?’ he asked.
‘Oh no, no!’ cried Sambuc. ‘He would be only too pleased.’
And turning to Goliath:
‘You’re not a soldier, you don’t deserve the honour of departing with a bullet in your head. No, you’re going to peg out like the dirty swine of a spy you are.’
He turned round and politely asked:
‘Silvine, I’m not giving you orders, but I should like to have a wash-tub.’
During the trial scene Silvine had kept quite still. She was waiting, with set face, detached from herself and wholly occupied with the fixed idea that had motivated her for two days. When she was asked for a tub she just obeyed, disappeared for a moment into the cellar and returned with a big tub she used for washing Charlot’s clothes.
‘Put it under the table, near the edge.’
She put it there and as she straightened up her eyes once again caught Goliath’s. There was in the wretched man’s eyes a last supplication, and also the revolt of a man who didn’t want to die. But at that moment there was nothing left of the woman in her, nothing but the desire for this death, awaited as a deliverance. She went back again to the dresser, where she stayed.
Sambuc had opened the table drawer and taken out a big kitchen knife, the one they used for slicing the bacon.
‘All right, as you’re a pig I’m going to bleed you like a pig.’
He took his time, and discussed with Cabasse and Ducat the way to do the butchering job properly. There was even a dispute because Cabasse said that in his part of the world, in Provence, pigs were bled head down, while Ducat protested, outraged, considering this method barbarous and inconvenient.
‘Move him to the edge of the table over the tub so as not to make a mess.’
They moved him over, and Sambuc proceeded calmly and neatly. With a single cut of the big knife he slit the throat across. The blood from the severed carotid poured out at once into the tub with a little noise like falling water. He had taken care with the cut and only a few drops pumped out with the heartbeats. Although this made death slower, there were no struggles visible, for the ropes were strong and the body remained quite motionless. Not a single jerk or gasp. The only way the march of death could be followed was on the face, a mask distorted by terror, from which the blood was receding drop by drop as the skin lost its colour and went white as a sheet. The eyes also emptied themselves. They dimmed and then went out.
‘I say, Silvine, we shall have to have a sponge, though.’
She did not respond, but seemed rooted to the floor, and her arms had closed instinctively over her breast like a collar of iron. She was watching. Then she suddenly realized that Chariot was there, clinging to her skirt. He must have woken up and managed to open the doors, and nobody had seen him tiptoe in, like the inquisitive child he was. How long had he been there, half hidden behind his mother? He was watching, too. With his big blue eyes, under his mop of yellow hair, he was looking at the blood running down, the little red trickle slowly filling the tub. Perhaps it amused him. Had he not understood at first? Was he suddenly touched by the wind of horror, did he have an instinctive consciousness of the abomination he was witnessing? Anyhow, he suddenly screamed in panic:
‘Oh Mummy, Mummy! I’m frightened, take me away!’
It shook Silvine to the depths of her being. It was too much, and something gave way within her, horror at last got the better of the strength and excitement of the obsession that had kept her going for two days. The woman in her came back, she burst into tears and desperately picked up Chariot and hugged him to her breast. In terror she rushed madly away with him, unable to hear or see any more, with no other desire but to lose herself anywhere in the first hole she could find.
It was at that moment that Jean made up his mind to open the door of his room gently. Although he never bothered about the sounds in the house, he was surprised this time by the comings and goings and loud voices he heard. And so it was into his quiet room that Silvine tumbled sobbing and shaken in such a paroxysm of distress that at first he could not make any sense out of the disconnected words she muttered through clenched teeth. She kept repeating the same gesture, as though she were thrusting aside an atrocious vision. But at length he did understand, and he also pieced together the story of the ambush, the mother standing by, the child clinging to her skirt, the face of the father with his throat cut and life-blood ebbing away; it froze him, and the heart of this peasant and soldier was rent with anguish. Oh war, abominable war, that turned all these poor people into wild beasts, sowed dreadful hatreds, the son splashed with his father’s blood, perpetuating national hatred and doomed to grow up in time to execrate his father’s family, whom some day perhaps he would go and exterminate! Murderous seed sown to produce appalling harvests!
Silvine collapsed on to a chair, wildly kissing Chariot who was crying on her breast, and she repeated on and on the same sentence, the cry of her bleeding heart.
‘Oh my poor child, they’ll never call you a Prussian again!… Oh my poor child, they’ll never call you a Prussian again!’
Down in the kitchen old Fouchard had arrived. He had rapped on the door with the master’s authority, and they had decided to let him in. And certainly he had had an unpleasant surprise, finding this dead man on his table and a tub full of blood underneath. Naturally, with his not very patient nature, he had lost his temper.
‘Look here, you bloody tikes, couldn’t you have done your dirty work outside? Do you take my house for a dunghill, coming and fouling up the furniture with things like this?’
As Sambuc began making apologies and explanations he grew more alarmed and more annoyed.
‘What the hell do you suppose I’m going to do with this dead body of yours? Do you think it’s the way to behave, to come and land a dead body on someone without thinking what he’ll do with it? Suppose a patrol were to come in, I should be in a nice pickle! You lot couldn’t care less, you never asked yourselves whether it would cost me my life. Well, by Christ, you’ll have me to reckon with if you don’t take your corpse away at once! Do you hear, take it by the head or by the feet or anyhow you like, but don’t you let it hang about here, and don’t let there be a hair left three minutes from now!’
In the end Sambuc got a sack from old Fouchard, much as the latter’s heart bled at having to give something else away. He chose it from among the worst he could find, saying that a sack with holes in was still too good for a Prussian. But Cabasse and Ducat had a terrible job to get Goliath into the sack – his body was too big, too long, and the feet stuck out. Then they took him outside and loaded him on to the barrow they used to carry the bread.
‘I’ll give you my word of honour,’ declared Sambuc, ‘that we’ll chuck him into the Meuse.’
‘Above all,’ insisted Fouchard, ‘tie two big stones to the feet so that the bugger doesn’t come up again!’
The little procession disappeared over the snow into the black night, and the only sound to be heard was the melancholy squeaking of the barrow.
Sambuc always swore by the head of his father that he really had tied two heavy stones to the feet. Yet the body came up and the Prussians discovered it three days later at Pont-Maugis, caught in the reeds, and their fury was terrible when they found in the sack this dead man who had been bled from the neck like a porker. There were terrible threats, harsh measures, searches of premises. Perhaps some people talked too much, for one evening the mayor of Remilly and old Fouchard were arrested, suspected of having been too friendly with the guerrillas who were being accused of the crime. In this extremity old Fouchard was really very fine, with the
imperturbability of an old peasant conscious of the invincible strength of calm and silence. He marched off without any panic, without even asking for an explanation. We should see. It was whispered round about that he had made a large fortune out of the Prussians, sacks of coins buried somewhere, one by one, as he earned them.
Henriette was terribly worried when she heard about all this business. Once again Jean wanted to go away for fear of compromising the people who had harboured him, although the doctor thought he was still not strong enough, and she insisted that he should wait two more weeks, being herself oppressed with renewed sadness at the coming necessity of a separation. When old Fouchard was arrested Jean had been able to avoid capture by hiding in the depths of the barn, but wasn’t he in constant danger of being discovered and taken away at any moment in the likely event of further searches? And besides, she was worried about her uncle’s fate. So she decided to go into Sedan one morning and see the Delaherches, who had billeted on them, it was said, a very influential Prussian officer.