Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete

G >> Guy de Maupassant >> Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete


But suddenly a strange noise--a sound like the harsh breathing of
some wild animal sniffing under the door-startled the occupants of the
room.

The German officer sprang toward the rifles. Berthine stopped him with a
gesture, and said, smilingly:

"It's only the wolves. They are like you--prowling hungry through
the forest."

The incredulous man wanted to see with his own eyes, and as soon as the
door was opened he perceived two large grayish animals disappearing with
long, swinging trot into the darkness.

He returned to his seat, muttering:

"I wouldn't have believed it!"

And he waited quietly till supper was ready.

The men devoured their meal voraciously, with mouths stretched to their
ears that they might swallow the more. Their round eyes opened at the
same time as their jaws, and as the soup coursed down their throats it
made a noise like the gurgling of water in a rainpipe.

The two women watched in silence the movements of the big red beards. The
potatoes seemed to be engulfed in these moving fleeces.

But, as they were thirsty, the forester's daughter went down to the
cellar to draw them some cider. She was gone some time. The cellar was
small, with an arched ceiling, and had served, so people said, both as
prison and as hiding-place during the Revolution. It was approached by
means of a narrow, winding staircase, closed by a trap-door at the
farther end of the kitchen.

When Berthine returned she was smiling mysteriously to herself. She gave
the Germans her jug of cider.

Then she and her mother supped apart, at the other end of the kitchen.

The soldiers had finished eating, and were all six falling asleep as they
sat round the table. Every now and then a forehead fell with a thud on
the board, and the man, awakened suddenly, sat upright again.

Berthine said to the officer:

"Go and lie down, all of you, round the fire. There's lots of room for
six. I'm going up to my room with my mother."

And the two women went upstairs. They could be heard locking the door and
walking about overhead for a time; then they were silent.

The Prussians lay down on the floor, with their feet to the fire and
their heads resting on their rolled-up cloaks. Soon all six snored loudly
and uninterruptedly in six different keys.

They had been sleeping for some time when a shot rang out so loudly that
it seemed directed against the very wall's of the house. The soldiers
rose hastily. Two-then three-more shots were fired.

The door opened hastily, and Berthine appeared, barefooted and only half
dressed, with her candle in her hand and a scared look on her face.

"There are the French," she stammered; "at least two hundred of them. If
they find you here they'll burn the house down. For God's sake, hurry
down into the cellar, and don't make a 'sound, whatever you do. If you
make any noise we are lost."

"We'll go, we'll go," replied the terrified officer. "Which is the way?"

The young woman hurriedly raised the small, square trap-door, and the six
men disappeared one after another down the narrow, winding staircase,
feeling their way as they went.

But as soon as the spike of the out of the last helmet was out of sight
Berthine lowered the heavy oaken lid--thick as a wall, hard as
steel, furnished with the hinges and bolts of a prison cell--shot
the two heavy bolts, and began to laugh long and silently, possessed with
a mad longing to dance above the heads of her prisoners.

They made no sound, inclosed in the cellar as in a strong-box, obtaining
air only from a small, iron-barred vent-hole.

Berthine lighted her fire again, hung the pot over it, and prepared more
soup, saying to herself:

"Father will be tired to-night."

Then she sat and waited. The heavy pendulum of the clock swung to and fro
with a monotonous tick.

Every now and then the young woman cast an impatient glance at the dial-a
glance which seemed to say:

"I wish he'd be quick!"

But soon there was a sound of voices beneath her feet. Low, confused
words reached her through the masonry which roofed the cellar. The
Prussians were beginning to suspect the trick she had played them, and
presently the officer came up the narrow staircase, and knocked at the
trap-door.

"Open the door!" he cried.

"What do you want?" she said, rising from her seat and approaching the
cellarway.

"Open the door!"

"I won't do any such thing!"

"Open it or I'll break it down!" shouted the man angrily.

She laughed.

"Hammer away, my good man! Hammer away!"

He struck with the butt-end of his gun at the closed oaken door. But it
would have resisted a battering-ram.

The forester's daughter heard him go down the stairs again. Then the
soldiers came one after another and tried their strength against the
trapdoor. But, finding their efforts useless, they all returned to the
cellar and began to talk among themselves.

The young woman heard them for a short time, then she rose, opened the
door of the house; looked out into the night, and listened.

A sound of distant barking reached her ear. She whistled just as a
huntsman would, and almost immediately two great dogs emerged from the
darkness, and bounded to her side. She held them tight, and shouted at
the top of her voice:

"Hullo, father!"

A far-off voice replied:

"Hullo, Berthine!"

She waited a few seconds, then repeated:

"Hullo, father!"

The voice, nearer now, replied:

"Hullo, Berthine!"

"Don't go in front of the vent-hole!" shouted his daughter. "There are
Prussians in the cellar!"

Suddenly the man's tall figure could be seen to the left, standing
between two tree trunks.

"Prussians in the cellar?" he asked anxiously. "What are they doing?"

The young woman laughed.

"They are the same as were here yesterday. They lost their way, and I've
given them free lodgings in the cellar."

She told the story of how she had alarmed them by firing the revolver,
and had shut them up in the cellar.

The man, still serious, asked:

"But what am I to do with them at this time of night?"

"Go and fetch Monsieur Lavigne with his men," she replied. "He'll take
them prisoners. He'll be delighted."

Her father smiled.

"So he will-delighted."

"Here's some soup for you," said his daughter. "Eat it quick, and then be
off."

The old keeper sat down at the table, and began to eat his soup, having
first filled two plates and put them on the floor for the dogs.

The Prussians, hearing voices, were silent.

Long-legs set off a quarter of an hour later, and Berthine, with her head
between her hands, waited.

The prisoners began to make themselves heard again. They shouted, called,
and beat furiously with the butts of their muskets against the rigid
trap-door of the cellar.

Then they fired shots through the vent-hole, hoping, no doubt, to be
heard by any German detachment which chanced to be passing that way.

The forester's daughter did not stir, but the noise irritated and
unnerved her. Blind anger rose in her heart against the prisoners; she
would have been only too glad to kill them all, and so silence them.

Then, as her impatience grew, she watched the clock, counting the minutes
as they passed.

Her father had been gone an hour and a half. He must have reached the
town by now. She conjured up a vision of him telling the story to
Monsieur Lavigne, who grew pale with emotion, and rang for his servant to
bring him his arms and uniform. She fancied she could bear the drum as it
sounded the call to arms. Frightened faces appeared at the windows. The
citizen-soldiers emerged from their houses half dressed, out of breath,
buckling on their belts, and hurrying to the commandant's house.

Then the troop of soldiers, with Long-legs at its head, set forth through
the night and the snow toward the forest.

She looked at the clock. "They may be here in an hour."

A nervous impatience possessed her. The minutes seemed interminable.
Would the time never come?

At last the clock marked the moment she had fixed on for their arrival.
And she opened the door to listen for their approach. She perceived a
shadowy form creeping toward the house. She was afraid, and cried out.
But it was her father.

"They have sent me," he said, "to see if there is any change in the state
of affairs."

"No-none."

Then he gave a shrill whistle. Soon a dark mass loomed up under the
trees; the advance guard, composed of ten men.

"Don't go in front of the vent-hole!" repeated Long-legs at intervals.

And the first arrivals pointed out the much-dreaded vent-hole to those
who came after.

At last the main body of the troop arrived, in all two hundred men, each
carrying two hundred cartridges.

Monsieur Lavigne, in a state of intense excitement, posted them in such a
fashion as to surround the whole house, save for a large space left
vacant in front of the little hole on a level with the ground, through
which the cellar derived its supply of air.

Monsieur Lavigne struck the trap-door a blow with his foot, and called:

"I wish to speak to the Prussian officer!"

The German did not reply.

"The Prussian officer!" again shouted the commandant.

Still no response. For the space of twenty minutes Monsieur Lavigne
called on this silent officer to surrender with bag and baggage,
promising him that all lives should be spared, and that he and his men
should be accorded military honors. But he could extort no sign, either
of consent or of defiance. The situation became a puzzling one.

The citizen-soldiers kicked their heels in the snow, slapping their arms
across their chest, as cabdrivers do, to warm themselves, and gazing at
the vent-hole with a growing and childish desire to pass in front of it.

At last one of them took the risk-a man named Potdevin, who was fleet of
limb. He ran like a deer across the zone of danger. The experiment
succeeded. The prisoners gave no sign of life.

A voice cried:

"There's no one there!"

And another soldier crossed the open space before the dangerous
vent-hole. Then this hazardous sport developed into a game. Every minute
a man ran swiftly from one side to the other, like a boy playing
baseball, kicking up the snow behind him as he ran. They had lighted big
fires of dead wood at which to warm themselves, and the, figures of the
runners were illumined by the flames as they passed rapidly from the camp
on the right to that on the left.

Some one shouted:

"It's your turn now, Maloison."

Maloison was a fat baker, whose corpulent person served to point many a
joke among his comrades.

He hesitated. They chaffed him. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he
set off at a little, waddling gait, which shook his fat paunch and made
the whole detachment laugh till they cried.

"Bravo, bravo, Maloison!" they shouted for his encouragement.

He had accomplished about two-thirds of his journey when a long, crimson
flame shot forth from the vent-hole. A loud report followed, and the fat
baker fell face forward to the ground, uttering a frightful scream. No
one went to his assistance. Then he was seen to drag himself, groaning,
on all-fours through the snow until he was beyond danger, when he
fainted.

He was shot in the upper part of the thigh.

After the first surprise and fright were over they laughed at him again.
But Monsieur Lavigne appeared on the threshold of the forester's
dwelling. He had formed his plan of attack. He called in a loud voice "I
want Planchut, the plumber, and his workmen."

Three men approached.

"Take the eavestroughs from the roof."

In a quarter of an hour they brought the commandant thirty yards of
pipes.

Next, with infinite precaution, he had a small round hole drilled in the
trap-door; then, making a conduit with the troughs from the pump to this
opening, he said, with an air of extreme satisfaction:

"Now we'll give these German gentlemen something to drink."

A shout of frenzied admiration, mingled with uproarious laughter, burst
from his followers. And the commandant organized relays of men, who were
to relieve one another every five minutes. Then he commanded:

"Pump!!!"

And, the pump handle having been set in motion, a stream of water
trickled throughout the length of the piping, and flowed from step to
step down the cellar stairs with a gentle, gurgling sound.

They waited.

An hour passed, then two, then three. The commandant, in a state of
feverish agitation, walked up and down the kitchen, putting his ear to
the ground every now and then to discover, if possible, what the enemy
were doing and whether they would soon capitulate.

The enemy was astir now. They could be heard moving the casks about,
talking, splashing through the water.

Then, about eight o'clock in the morning, a voice came from the vent-hole
"I want to speak to the French officer."

Lavigne replied from the window, taking care not to put his head out too
far:

"Do you surrender?"

"I surrender."

"Then put your rifles outside."

A rifle immediately protruded from the hole, and fell into the snow, then
another and another, until all were disposed of. And the voice which had
spoken before said:

"I have no more. Be quick! I am drowned."

"Stop pumping!" ordered the commandant.

And the pump handle hung motionless.

Then, having filled the kitchen with armed and waiting soldiers, he
slowly raised the oaken trapdoor.

Four heads appeared, soaking wet, four fair heads with long, sandy hair,
and one after another the six Germans emerged--scared, shivering and
dripping from head to foot.

They were seized and bound. Then, as the French feared a surprise, they
set off at once in two convoys, one in charge of the prisoners, and the
other conducting Maloison on a mattress borne on poles.

They made a triumphal entry into Rethel.

Monsieur Lavigne was decorated as a reward for having captured a Prussian
advance guard, and the fat baker received the military medal for wounds
received at the hands of the enemy.




TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS

Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would go for
a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks, crossed
Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then, as the
houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed the dusty road which
leads to Bezons.

They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting capes, too large and
too long, whose sleeves covered their hands; their ample red trousers
fell in folds around their ankles. Under the high, stiff shako one could
just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked Breton faces, with their
calm, naive blue eyes. They never spoke during their journey, going
straight before them, the same idea in each one's mind taking the place
of conversation. For at the entrance of the little forest of Champioux
they had found a spot which reminded them of home, and they did not feel
happy anywhere else.

At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads, when they arrived under
the trees, they would take off their heavy, oppressive headgear and wipe
their foreheads.

They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons, and looked at
the Seine. They stood there several minutes, bending over the railing,
watching the white sails, which perhaps reminded them of their home, and
of the fishing smacks leaving for the open.

As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would purchase provisions at
the delicatessen, the baker's, and the wine merchant's. A piece of
bologna, four cents' worth of bread, and a quart of wine, made up the
luncheon which they carried away, wrapped up in their handkerchiefs. But
as soon as they were out of the village their gait would slacken and they
would begin to talk.

Before them was a plain with a few clumps of trees, which led to the
woods, a little forest which seemed to remind them of that other forest
at Kermarivan. The wheat and oat fields bordered on the narrow path, and
Jean Kerderen said each time to Luc Le Ganidec:

"It's just like home, just like Plounivon."

"Yes, it's just like home."

And they went on, side by side, their minds full of dim memories of home.
They saw the fields, the hedges, the forests, and beaches.

Each time they stopped near a large stone on the edge of the private
estate, because it reminded them of the dolmen of Locneuven.

As soon as they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec would
cut off a small stick, and, whittling it slowly, would walk on, thinking
of the folks at home.

Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.

From time to time Luc would mention a name, or allude to some boyish
prank which would give them food for plenty of thought. And the home
country, so dear and so distant, would little by little gain possession
of their minds, sending them back through space, to the well-known forms
and noises, to the familiar scenery, with the fragrance of its green
fields and sea air. They no longer noticed the smells of the city. And in
their dreams they saw their friends leaving, perhaps forever, for the
dangerous fishing grounds.

They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen, contented and
sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and penetrating sorrow of a
captive animal which remembers the days of its freedom.

And when Luc had finished whittling his stick, they came to a little
nook, where every Sunday they took their meal. They found the two bricks,
which they had hidden in a hedge, and they made a little fire of dry
branches and roasted their sausages on the ends of their knives.

When their last crumb of bread had been eaten and the last drop of wine
had been drunk, they stretched themselves out on the grass side by side,
without speaking, their half-closed eyes looking away in the distance,
their hands clasped as in prayer, their red-trousered legs mingling with
the bright colors of the wild flowers.

Towards noon they glanced, from time to time, towards the village of
Bezons, for the dairy maid would soon be coming. Every Sunday she would
pass in front of them on the way to milk her cow, the only cow in the
neighborhood which was sent out to pasture.

Soon they would see the girl, coming through the fields, and it pleased
them to watch the sparkling sunbeams reflected from her shining pail.
They never spoke of her. They were just glad to see her, without
understanding why.

She was a tall, strapping girl, freckled and tanned by the open
air--a girl typical of the Parisian suburbs.

Once, on noticing that they were always sitting in the same place, she
said to them:

"Do you always come here?"

Luc Le Ganidec, more daring than his friend, stammered:

"Yes, we come here for our rest."

That was all. But the following Sunday, on seeing them, she smiled with
the kindly smile of a woman who understood their shyness, and she asked:

"What are you doing here? Are you watching the grass grow?"

Luc, cheered up, smiled: "P'raps."

She continued: "It's not growing fast, is it?"

He answered, still laughing: "Not exactly."

She went on. But when she came back with her pail full of milk, she
stopped before them and said:

"Want some? It will remind you of home."

She had, perhaps instinctively, guessed and touched the right spot.

Both were moved. Then not without difficulty, she poured some milk into
the bottle in which they had brought their wine. Luc started to drink,
carefully watching lest he should take more than his share. Then he
passed the bottle to Jean. She stood before them, her hands on her hips,
her pail at her feet, enjoying the pleasure that she was giving them.
Then she went on, saying: "Well, bye-bye until next Sunday!"

For a long time they watched her tall form as it receded in the distance,
blending with the background, and finally disappeared.

The following week as they left the barracks, Jean said to Luc:

"Don't you think we ought to buy her something good?"

They were sorely perplexed by the problem of choosing something to bring
to the dairy maid. Luc was in favor of bringing her some chitterlings;
but Jean, who had a sweet tooth, thought that candy would be the best
thing. He won, and so they went to a grocery to buy two sous' worth, of
red and white candies.

This time they ate more quickly than usual, excited by anticipation.

Jean was the first one to notice her. "There she is," he said; and Luc
answered: "Yes, there she is."

She smiled when she saw them, and cried:

"Well, how are you to-day?"

They both answered together:

"All right! How's everything with you?"

Then she started to talk of simple things which might interest them; of
the weather, of the crops, of her masters.

They didn't dare to offer their candies, which were slowly melting in
Jean's pocket. Finally Luc, growing bolder, murmured:

"We have brought you something."

She asked: "Let's see it."

Then Jean, blushing to the tips of his ears, reached in his pocket, and
drawing out the little paper bag, handed it to her.

She began to eat the little sweet dainties. The two soldiers sat in front
of her, moved and delighted.

At last she went to do her milking, and when she came back she again gave
them some milk.

They thought of her all through the week and often spoke of her: The
following Sunday she sat beside them for a longer time.

The three of them sat there, side by side, their eyes looking far away in
the distance, their hands clasped over their knees, and they told each
other little incidents and little details of the villages where they were
born, while the cow, waiting to be milked, stretched her heavy head
toward the girl and mooed.

Soon the girl consented to eat with them and to take a sip of wine. Often
she brought them plums pocket for plums were now ripe. Her presence
enlivened the little Breton soldiers, who chattered away like two birds.

One Tuesday something unusual happened to Luc Le Ganidec; he asked for
leave and did not return until ten o'clock at night.

Jean, worried and racked his brain to account for his friend's having
obtained leave.

The following Friday, Luc borrowed ten sons from one of his friends, and
once more asked and obtained leave for several hours.

When he started out with Jean on Sunday he seemed queer, disturbed,
changed. Kerderen did not understand; he vaguely suspected something, but
he could not guess what it might be.

They went straight to the usual place, and lunched slowly. Neither was
hungry.

Soon the girl appeared. They watched her approach as they always did.
When she was near, Luc arose and went towards her. She placed her pail on
the ground and kissed him. She kissed him passionately, throwing her arms
around his neck, without paying attention to Jean, without even noticing
that he was there.

Poor Jean was dazed, so dazed that he could not understand. His mind was
upset and his heart broken, without his even realizing why.

Then the girl sat down beside Luc, and they started to chat.

Jean was not looking at them. He understood now why his friend had gone
out twice during the week. He felt the pain and the sting which treachery
and deceit leave in their wake.

Luc and the girl went together to attend to the cow.

Jean followed them with his eyes. He saw them disappear side by side, the
red trousers of his friend making a scarlet spot against the white road.
It was Luc who sank the stake to which the cow was tethered. The girl
stooped down to milk the cow, while he absent-mindedly stroked the
animal's glossy neck. Then they left the pail in the grass and
disappeared in the woods.

Jean could no longer see anything but the wall of leaves through which
they had passed. He was unmanned so that he did not have strength to
stand. He stayed there, motionless, bewildered and grieving-simple,
passionate grief. He wanted to weep, to run away, to hide somewhere,
never to see anyone again.

Then he saw them coming back again. They were walking slowly, hand in
hand, as village lovers do. Luc was carrying the pail.

After kissing him again, the girl went on, nodding carelessly to Jean.
She did not offer him any milk that day.

The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless as always, silent
and quiet, their calm faces in no way betraying the trouble in their
hearts. The sun shone down on them. From time to time they could hear the
plaintive lowing of the cow. At the usual time they arose to return.

Luc was whittling a stick. Jean carried the empty bottle. He left it at
the wine merchant's in Bezons. Then they stopped on the bridge, as they
did every Sunday, and watched the water flowing by.

Jean leaned over the railing, farther and farther, as though he had seen
something in the stream which hypnotized him. Luc said to him:

"What's the matter? Do you want a drink?"

He had hardly said the last word when Jean's head carried away the rest
of his body, and the little blue and red soldier fell like a shot and
disappeared in the water.

Luc, paralyzed with horror, tried vainly to shout for help. In the
distance he saw something move; then his friend's head bobbed up out of
the water only to disappear again.

Farther down he again noticed a hand, just one hand, which appeared and
again went out of sight. That was all.

The boatmen who had rushed to the scene found the body that day.