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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES OF WAR
 
 Uniform ivHh this Volume. Price 3^. 6d. 
 
 THE JFeRACe WOMAN 
 By 
 
 WOLCOTT BALESTIER 
 
 World. — ^^ Characteristic, fresh, and simply-pathetic." 
 
 St. jfames's Gazette.— '' Decidedly good stories and ivell told." 
 
 Scotsman. — " The book ivill interest every one luko takes it up." 
 
 Morning Tost. — '^ Considerable freshness of inspiration . . , . 
 touches both of humour and pathos." 
 
 LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
 
 The Attack 
 
 ON THE Mill of war 
 
 AND OTHER 
 SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 Emile Zola 
 
 WITH AN ESSAY ON THE 
 SHORT STORIES OF M. ZOLA 
 BY EDMUND GOSSE 
 
 LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN 
 
 MDCCCXCII BEDFORD STREET W.C.
 
 All rights rese>~'ed
 
 4f^ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 I'AGE 
 
 ESSAY BY MR. GOSSE .... 
 
 I 
 
 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL 
 
 • 47 
 
 THREE WARS 
 
 . 131 
 
 1 074 007
 
 THE SHORT STORIES 
 OF M. ZOLA 
 
 It is by his huge novels, and principally by 
 those of the Rougon-Macquart series, that 
 M. Zola is known to the public and to the 
 critics. Nevertheless, he has found time 
 during the thirty years of his busy literary 
 career to publish about as many small stories, 
 now comprised in four separate volumes. It 
 is natural that his novels should present so 
 very much wider and more attractive a 
 subject for analysis that, so far as I can 
 discover, even in France no critic has 
 hitherto taken the shorter productions sepa- 
 rately, and discussed M. Zola as a maker of 
 contes. Yet there is a very distinct interest
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 in seeing how such a thunderer or bellower 
 on the trumpet can breathe through silver, 
 and, as a matter of fact, the short stories 
 reveal a M. Zola considerably dissimilar to 
 the author of " Nana " and of " La Terre " — 
 a much more optimistic, romantic, and gentle 
 writer. If, moreover, he had nowhere assailed 
 the decencies more severely than he does in 
 these thirty or forty short stories, he would 
 never have been named among the enemies 
 of Mrs. Grundy, and the gates of the Palais 
 Mazarin would long ago have been opened 
 to receive him. It is, indeed, to a lion with 
 his mane en papilloies that I here desire to 
 attract the attention of English readers ; to a 
 man-eating monster, indeed, but to one who 
 is on his best behaviour and blinking in the 
 warm sunshine of Provence.
 
 of m. Zola 
 
 The first public appearance of M. Zola in 
 any form was made as a writer of a short 
 story. A southern journal, La Provence^ 
 published at Aix, brought out in 1859 a 
 little conte entitled " La Fee Amoureuse." 
 When this was written, in 1858, the future 
 novelist was a student of eighteen, attending 
 the rhetoric classes at the Lycee St. Louis ; 
 when it was printed, life in Paris, far from 
 his delicious South, was beginning to open 
 before him, harsh, vague, with a threat of 
 poverty and failure. "La Fee Amoureuse" 
 may still be read by the curious in the Conies 
 a Ninon. It is a fantastic little piece, in the 
 taste of the eighteenth-century trifles of Cre- 
 billon or Boufflers, written with considerable 
 care in an over-luscious vein — a fairy tale 
 
 3
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 about an enchanted bud of sweet marjoram, 
 which expands and reveals the amorous fay, 
 guardian of the loves of Prince Lois and the 
 fair Odette. This is a moonlight-coloured 
 piece of unrecognisable Zola, indeed, be- 
 longing to the period of his lost essay on 
 "The Blind Milton dictating to his Elder 
 Daughter, while the Younger accompanies 
 him upon the Harp," a piece which many 
 have sighed in vain to see. 
 
 He was twenty when, in i860, during the 
 course of blackening reams of paper with 
 poems a la Musset, he turned, in the aerial 
 garret, or lantern above the garret of 35 Rue 
 St. Victor, to the composition of a second 
 story — " Le Garnet de Danse." This is 
 addressed to Ninon, the ideal lady of all 
 M, Zola's early writings — the fleet and 
 jocund virgin of the South, in whom he 
 romantically personifies the Provence after
 
 of M. Zola 
 
 which his whole soul was thirsting in the 
 desert of Paris. This is an exquisite piece 
 of writing— a little too studied, perhaps, too 
 full of opulent and voluptuous adjectives ; 
 written, as we may plainly see, under the 
 influence of The'ophile Gautier. The story, 
 such as it is, is a conversation between 
 Georgette and the programme-card of her 
 last night's ball. What interest " Le Garnet 
 de Danse" possesses it owes to the style, 
 especially that of the opening pages, in 
 which the joyous Provengal life is elegantly 
 described. The young man, still stumbling 
 in the wrong path, had at least become a 
 writer. 
 
 For the next two years M. Zola was 
 starving, and vainly striving to be a poet. 
 Another "belvedere," as M. Alexis calls it, 
 another glazed garret above the garret, re- 
 ceived him in the Rue Neuve St. Etienne 
 
 5
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 du Mont. Here the squalor of Paris was 
 around him ; the young idealist from the 
 forests and lagoons of Provence found 
 himself lost in a loud and horrid world of 
 quarrels, oaths, and dirt, of popping beer- 
 bottles and yelling women. A year, at the 
 age of two-and-twenty, spent in this atmo- 
 sphere of sordid and noisy vice, left its mark 
 for ever on the spirit of the young observer. 
 He lived on bread and coffee, with two sous' 
 worth of apples upon gala days. He had, 
 on one occasion, even to make an Arab of 
 himself, sitting with the bed-wraps draped 
 about him, because he had pawned his 
 clothes. All the time, serene and ardent, 
 he was writing modern imitations of Dante's 
 " Divina Commedia," epics on the genesis of 
 the world, didactic hymns to Religion, and 
 love-songs by the gross. Towards the close 
 of 1 86 1 this happy misery, this wise folly, 
 6
 
 of m. Zola 
 
 came to an end ; he obtained a clerkship 
 in the famous pubHshing house of M. 
 Hachette. 
 
 But after these two years of poverty and 
 hardship he began to write a few things 
 which were not in verse. Early in 1862 he 
 again addressed to the visionary Ninon a 
 short story called " Le Sang." He confesses 
 himself weary, as Ninon also must be, of the 
 coquettings of the rose and the infidelities of 
 the butterfly. He will tell her a terrible tale 
 of real life. But, in fact, he is absolutely in 
 the clouds of the worst romanticism. Four 
 soldiers, round a camp-fire, suffer agonies of 
 ghostly adventure, in the manner of Hofmann 
 or of Petrus Borel. We seem to have re- 
 turned to the age of 1830, with its vampires 
 and its ghouls. " Simplice," which comes 
 next in point of date, is far more character- 
 istic, and here, indeed, we find one talent of 
 
 7
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 the future novelist already developed. Sim- 
 plice is the son of a worldly king, who 
 despises him for his innocence ; the prince 
 slips away into the primaeval forest and lives 
 with dragon-flies and water-lilies. In the 
 personal life given to the forest itself, as well 
 as to its inhabitants, we have something 
 very like the future idealisations in VAbbe 
 Mouret, although the touch is yet timid 
 and the flashes of romantic insight fugitive. 
 "Simplice" is an exceedingly pretty fairy 
 story, curiously like what Mrs. Alfred Gatty 
 used to write for sentimental English girls 
 and boys : it was probably inspired to some 
 extent by George Sand. 
 
 On a somewhat larger scale is " Les 
 Voleurs et I'Ane," which belongs to the 
 same period of composition. It is delight- 
 ful to find M. Zola describing his garret as 
 "full of flowers and of light, and so high 
 
 8
 
 of ^I. Zola 
 
 up that sometimes one hears the angels 
 talking on the roof." His story describes a 
 summer day's adventure on the Seine, an 
 improvised picnic of strangers on a grassy 
 island of elms, a siesta disturbed by the 
 somewhat stagey trick of a fantastic coquette. 
 According to his faithful biographer, M. Paul 
 Ale'xis, the author, towards the close of 1862, 
 chose another lodging, again a romantic 
 chamber, overlooking this time the whole 
 extent of the cemetery of Montparnasse. 
 In this elegiacal retreat he composed two 
 short stories, " Sceur des Pauvres " and 
 "Celle qui m'Aime."' Of these, the former 
 was written as a commission for the young 
 Zola's emplo}'er, M. Hachette, who wanted 
 a tale appropriate for a children's newspaper 
 which his firm was publishing. After read- 
 ing what his clerk submitted to him, the 
 publisher is said to have remarked, "Vous 
 
 9
 
 T^he Short Stories 
 
 etes un revoke," and to have returned him 
 the manuscript as "too revolutionary." 
 "Soeur des Pauvres" is a tiresome fable, 
 and it is difficult to understand why M. Zola 
 has continued to preserve it among his 
 writings. It belongs to the class of semi- 
 realistic stories which Tolstoi has since then 
 composed with such admirable skill. But 
 M. Zola is not happy among saintly visitants 
 to little holy girls, nor among pieces of gold 
 that turn into bats and rats in the hands of 
 selfish peasants. Why this anodyne little 
 religious fable should ever have been con- 
 sidered revolutionary, it is impossible to con- 
 ceive. 
 
 Of a very different order is "Celle qui 
 m'Aime," a story of real power. Outside a 
 tent, in the suburbs of Paris, a man in a 
 magician's dress stands beating a drum and 
 inviting the passers-by to enter and gaze on 
 
 lO
 
 of M. Zola 
 
 the realisation of their dreams, the face of 
 her who loves you. The author is persuaded 
 to go in, and he finds himself in the midst of 
 an assemblage of men and boys, women and 
 girls, who pass up in turn to look through a 
 glass trap in a box. In the description of the 
 various types, as they file by, of the aspect 
 of the interior of the tent, there is the touch 
 of a new hand. The vividness of the study 
 is not maintained ; it passes off into roman- 
 esque extravagance, but for a few moments 
 the attentive listener, who goes back to 
 these early stories, is conscious that he has 
 heard the genuine accent of the master of 
 Naturalism. 
 
 Months passed, and the young Provengal 
 seemed to be making but little progress in 
 the world. His poems definitely failed to 
 find a publisher, and for a while he seems 
 to have flagged even in the production of 
 
 II
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 prose. Towards the beginning of 1864, how- 
 ever, he put together the seven stories which 
 I have aheady mentioned, added to them a 
 short novel entitled " Aventures du Clrand 
 Sidoine," prefixed a fanciful and very prettily 
 turned address "ANinon,'' and carried off 
 the collection to a new publisher, M. Hetzel. 
 It was accepted, and issued in October of the 
 same year. M. Zola's first book appeared 
 under the title of Contes a Ninon. This 
 volume was very well received by the re- 
 viewers, but ten years passed before the 
 growing fame of its author carried it beyond 
 its' first edition of one thousand copies. 
 
 There is no critical impropriety in con- 
 sidering these early stories, since i\I. Zola 
 has never allowed them, as he has allowed 
 several of his subsequent novels, to pass out 
 of print. Nor, from the point of view of 
 style, is there anything to be ashamed of in 
 12
 
 of 31. Zoia 
 
 them. They are written with an uncertain 
 and an imitative, but ahvays with a careful 
 hand, and some passages of natural de- 
 scription, if a little too precious, are excel- 
 lently modulated. What is really very 
 curious in the first Coxites a Ninoti is the 
 optimistic tone, the sentimentality, the lus- 
 cious idealism. The young man takes a 
 cobweb for his canvas, and paints upon 
 it in rainbow-dew with a peacock's feather. 
 Except, for a brief moment, in " Celle qui 
 m'Aime," there is not a phrase that suggests 
 the naturalism of the Rougon-Macquart 
 novels, and it is an amusing circumstance 
 that, while M. Zola has not only been 
 practising, but very sternly and vivaciously 
 preaching, the gospel of Realism, this inno- 
 cent volume of fairy stories should all the 
 time have been figuring among his works. 
 The humble student who should turn from 
 
 13
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 the master's criticism to find an example in 
 his writings, and who should fall by chance 
 on the Contes a Nmon, would be liable to no 
 small distress of bewilderment. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ten years later, in 1874, M. Zola published 
 a second volume of short stories, entitled 
 Nouveaux Cotites a Ninon. His position, his 
 literary character, had in the meantime un- 
 dergone a profound modification. In 1874 
 he was no longer unknown to the public or 
 to himself. He had already published four 
 of the Rougon-Macquart novels, embodying 
 the natural and social history of a French 
 family during the Second F.mpire. He was 
 scandalous and famous, and already bore 
 a great turbulent name in literature and 
 criticism. The Nouveaux Contes d Ninon,,
 
 of ?M. Zola 
 
 composed at intervals during that period 
 of stormy evolution, have the extraordinary 
 interest which attends the incidental work 
 thrown off by a great author during the early 
 and noisy manhood of his talent. After 
 1864 M. Zola had written one unsuccessful 
 novel after another, until at last, in Tkerhe 
 jRaqui?i, with its magnificent study of crime 
 chastised by its own hideous after-gust, he 
 produced a really remarkable performance. 
 The scene in which the paralytic mother 
 tries to denounce the domestic murderess 
 was in itself enough to prove that France 
 possessed one novelist the more. 
 
 This was late in 1867, when M. Zola 
 was in his twenty-eighth year. A phrase of 
 Louis Ulbach's, in reviewing Therese Raquin, 
 which he called " litterature putride," is 
 regarded as having stated the question of 
 Naturalism and M. Zola who had not, up
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 to that time, had any notion of founding a 
 school, or even of moving in any definite 
 direction, was led to adopt the theories 
 which we identify with his name during the 
 angry dispute with Ulbach. In 1865 he had 
 begun to be drawn towards Edmond and 
 Jules de Goncourt, and to feel, as he puts it, 
 that in the salons of the Parnassians he was 
 growing more and more out of his element 
 " among so many impenitent romantiques." 
 Meanwhile he was for ever feeding the 
 furnaces of journalism, scorched and desic- 
 cated by the blaze of public life, by the 
 daily struggle for bread. He was roughly 
 affronting the taste of those who differed 
 from him, with rude hands he was thrusting 
 out of his path the timid, the dull, the old- 
 fashioned. The spectacle of these years of 
 M. Zola's life is not altogether a pleasant 
 one, but it leaves on us the impression of a 
 t6
 
 of iM. Zola 
 
 colossal purpose pursued with force and 
 courage. In 1870 the first of the Rougon 
 Macquart novels appeared, and the author 
 was fairly launched on his career. He was 
 writing books of large size, in which he was 
 endeavouring to tell the truth about modern 
 life with absolute veracity, no matter how 
 squalid, or ugly, or venomous that truth 
 might be. 
 
 But during the whole of this tempestuous 
 decade M. Zola, in his hot battle-field of 
 Paris, heard the voice of Ninon calling to 
 him from the leafy hollows, from behind the 
 hawthorn hedges, of his own dewy Pro- 
 vence — the cool Provence of earliest flowery 
 spring. When he caught these accents 
 whistling to his memory from the past, 
 and could no longer resist answering them, 
 he was accustomed to write a little conte^ 
 light and innocent, and brief enough to be 
 
 B 17
 
 "The Short Stories 
 
 the note of a caged bird from indoors 
 answering its mate in the trees of the garden. 
 This is the real secret of the utterly in- 
 congruous tone of the N^ouveaux Conies 
 when we compare them with the Curee 
 and Madeleine Ferat of the same period. 
 It would be utterly to misunderstand the 
 nature of M. Zola to complain, as Pierre 
 Loti did the other day, that the coarseness 
 and cynicism of the naturalistic novel, the 
 tone of a ball at Belleville, could not sincerely 
 co-exist with a love of beauty, or with a 
 nostalgia for youth and country pleasures. 
 In the short stories of the period of which 
 we are speaking, that poet which dies in 
 every middle-aged man lived on for M. Zola, 
 artificially, in a crystal box carefully addressed 
 " a Ninon la-bas," a box into which, at in- 
 tervals, the master of the Realists slipped a 
 document of the most refined ideality.
 
 of IM. Zola 
 
 Of these tiny stories — there are twelve of 
 them within one hundred pages — not all are 
 quite worthy of his genius. He grimaces a 
 little too much in " Les Epaules de la Mar- 
 quise," and M. Bourget has since analysed 
 the little self-indulgent devote of quality 
 more successfully than M. Zola did in " Le 
 Jeune." But most of them are very charm- 
 ing. Here is " Le Grand Michu," a study of 
 gallant, stupid boyhood ; here " Les Paradis 
 des Chats," one of the author's rare escapes 
 into humour. \\\ " Le Forgeron," with its 
 story of the jaded and cynical town-man, 
 who finds health and happiness by retiring 
 to a lodging within the very thunders of a 
 village blacksmith, we have a profound criti- 
 cism of life. " Le Petit Village " is interest- 
 ing to us here, because, with its pathetic 
 picture of Woerth in Alsace, it is the earliest 
 of M. Zola's studies of war. In other of 
 
 19
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 these stories the spirit of Watteau seems to 
 inspire the sooty Vulcan of NaturaUsm. He 
 prattles of moss-grown fountains, of alleys of 
 wild strawberries, of rendezvous under the 
 wings of the larks, of moonlight strolls in 
 the bosquets of a chateau. In every one, 
 without exception, is absent that tone of 
 brutality which we associate with the notion 
 of M. Zola's genius. All is gentle irony and 
 pastoral sweetness, or else downright pathetic 
 sentiment. 
 
 The volume of Nouveaux Conies a Ninon 
 closes with a story which is much longer 
 and considerably more important than the 
 rest. " Les Quatre Journees de Jean Gour- 
 don " desers-es to rank among the very best 
 things to which M. Zola has signed his 
 name. It is a study of four typical days 
 in the life of a Provencal peasant of the 
 better sort, told by the man himself. In 
 
 20
 
 of C\I. Zola 
 
 the first of these it is spring : Jean Gourdon 
 is eighteen years of age, and he steals away 
 from the house of his uncle Lazare, a country 
 priest, that he may meet his coy sweetheart 
 Babet by the waters of the broad Durance. 
 His uncle follows and captures him, but the 
 threatened sermon turns into a benediction, 
 the priestly malediction into an impassioned 
 song to the blossoming springtide. Babet 
 and Jean receive the old man's blessing on 
 their betrothal. 
 
 Next follows a day in summer, five years 
 later; Jean, as a soldier in the Italian war, 
 goes through the horrors of a battle and 
 is wounded, but not dangerously, in the 
 shoulder. Just as he marches into action 
 he receives a letter from Uncle Lazare and 
 Babet, full of tender fears and tremors ; he 
 reads it when he recovers consciousness 
 after the battle. Presently he creeps off to 
 
 2t
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 help his excellent colonel, and they support 
 one another till both are carried oft" to 
 hospital. This episode, which has some- 
 thing in common with the " Sevastopol " of 
 Tolstoi, is exceedingly ingenious in its obser- 
 vation of the sentiments of a common man 
 under fire. 
 
 The third part of the story occurs fifteen 
 years later. Jean and Babet have now long 
 been married, and Uncle T ,azare, in extreme 
 old age, has given up his cure, and lives with 
 them in their farm by the river. All things 
 ha\e prospered with them save one. They are 
 rich, healthy, devoted to one another, respected 
 by all their neighbours ; but there is a single 
 happiness lacking — they have no child. And 
 now, in the high autumn splendour — when the 
 corn and the grapes are ripe, and the lovely 
 Durance winds like a riband of white satin 
 through the gold and purple of the land- 
 
 22
 
 of M. Zola 
 
 scape — this gift also is to be theirs. A little 
 son is born to them in the midst of the 
 vintage weather, and the old uncle, to whom 
 life has now no further good thing to offer, 
 drops painlessly from life, shaken down like a 
 blown leaf by his access of joy, on the even- 
 ing of the birthday of the child. 
 
 The optimistic tone has hitherto been so 
 consistently preserved, that we must almost 
 resent the tragedy of the fourth day. This 
 is eighteen years later, and Jean is now an 
 elderly man. His son Jacques is in early 
 manhood. In the midst of their felicity, on 
 a winter's night, the Durance rises in spate, 
 and all are swept away. It is impossible, in a 
 brief sketch, to give an impression of the 
 charm and romantic sweetness of this little 
 masterpiece, a veritable hymn to the Ninon 
 of Provence; but it raises many curious reflec- 
 tions to consider that this exquisitely pathetic 
 
 23
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 pastoral, with all its gracious and tender 
 personages, should have been written by the 
 master of Naturalism, the author of Ger- 
 viinal and of Pot-Botdlle. 
 
 III. 
 
 In 1878, M. Zola, who had long been wish- 
 ing for a place w^hither to escape from the roar 
 of Paris, bought a little property on the right 
 bank of the Seine, between Poissy and Meu- 
 lan, where he built himself the house which 
 he still inhabits, and which he has made so 
 famous. Medan, the village in w^hich this 
 property is placed, is a very quiet hamlet of 
 less than two hundred inhabitants, absolutely 
 unillustrious, save that, according to tradition, 
 Charles the Bold was baptised in the font of 
 its parish church. The river lies before it, 
 
 with its rich meadows, its poplars, its willow 
 24
 
 of M. Zola 
 
 groves; a delicious and somnolent air of 
 peace hangs over it, though so close to Paris. 
 Thither the master's particular friends and 
 disciples soon began to gather : that enthu- 
 siastic Boswell, M. Paul Alexis ; M. Guy de 
 Maupassant, a stalwart oarsman, in his skiff, 
 from Rouen ; others, whose names were soon 
 to come prominently forward in connection 
 with that naturalistic school of which M. Zola 
 was the leader. 
 
 It was in 1880 that the little hamlet on 
 the Poissy Road awoke to find itself made 
 famous by the publication of a volume which 
 marks an epoch in French literature, and still 
 more in the history of the short story. Les 
 Soirees de Meda?i was a manifesto by the 
 naturalists, the most definite and the most 
 defiant which had up to that time been made. 
 It consisted of six short stories, several of 
 which were of remarkable excellence, and all 
 
 25
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 of which awakened an amount of discussion 
 almost unprecedented. M. Zola came first 
 with " L'Attaque du Moulin," of which a 
 translation is here offered to the English 
 public. The next story was " Boule de Suif," 
 a veritable masterpiece in a new vein, by an 
 entirely new writer, a certain M. Guy de Mau- 
 passant, thirty years of age, who had been 
 presented to M. Zola, with warm recommend- 
 ations, by Gustave Flaubert. The other con- 
 tributors were M. Henri Ceard, who also had 
 as yet published nothing, a man who seems to 
 have greatly impressed all his associates, but 
 who has done little or nothing to justify their 
 hopes. M. Joris Karel Huysmans, older than 
 the rest, and already somewhat distinguished 
 for picturesque, malodorous novels ; M. Le'on 
 Hennique, a youth from Guadeloupe, who 
 had attracted attention by a very odd and 
 
 powerful novel, La Devouce, the story of 
 26
 
 of IM. Zola 
 
 an inventor who murders his daughter that 
 he may employ her fortune on perfecting his 
 machine ; and finally, the faithful Paul Alexis, 
 a native, like M. Zola himself, of Aix in 
 Provence, and full of the perfervid extrava- 
 gance of the South. The thread on which the 
 whole book is hung is the supposition that 
 these stories are brought to Medan to be 
 read of an evening to M. Zola, and that he 
 leads off by telling a tale of his own. 
 
 Nothing need be said here, however, of the 
 works of those disciples who placed them- 
 selves under the flag of Medan, and little of 
 that story in which, with his accustomed 
 bonhomie of a good giant, M. Zola accepted 
 their comradeship and consented to march 
 with them. " The Attack on the A\'indmill " 
 is here offered to those who have not already 
 met with it in the original, and it is for our 
 
 readers to estimate its force and truth. When- 
 
 27
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 ever M. Zola writes of war, he writes seriously 
 and well. Like the Julien of his late remi- 
 niscences, he has never loved war for its 
 own sake. He has little of the mad and 
 pompous chivalry of the typical Frenchman 
 in his nature. He sees war as the disturber, 
 the annihilator ; he recognises in it mainly a 
 destructive, stupid, unintelligible force, set in 
 motion by those in power for the discomfort 
 of ordinary beings, of workers like himself. 
 But in the course of three European wars — 
 those of his childhood, of his youth, of his 
 maturity — he has come to see beneath the 
 surface, and in his latest novel, La Debacle, 
 he almost agrees with our young Jacobin 
 poets of one hundred years ago, that Slaughter 
 is God's daughter. 
 
 In this connection, and as a commentary 
 on "The Attack on the Windmill," we may 
 
 commend the three short papers appended 
 28
 
 of S^L Zola 
 
 to this story to the earnest attention of 
 readers. Nothing on the subject has been 
 written more picturesque, nor, in its simple 
 way, more poignant, than the chain of remi- 
 niscences called "Three Wars." Whether 
 Louis and Julien existed under those forms, 
 or whether the episodes which they illustrate 
 are fictitious, matters little or nothing. The 
 brothers are natural enough, delightful 
 enough, to belong to the world of fiction, 
 and if their story is, in the historical sense, 
 true, it is one of those rare instances in 
 which fact is better than fancy. The crisis 
 under which the timid Julien, having learned 
 the death of his spirited martial brother, is 
 not broken down, but merely frozen into a 
 cold soldierly passion, and spends the re- 
 mainder of the campaign — he, the poet, the 
 nestler by the fireside, the timid club-man— 
 in watching behind hedges for Prussians to 
 
 29
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 shoot or stab, is one of the most extraordinary 
 and most interesting that a novelist has ever 
 tried to describe. And the hght that it 
 throws on war as a disturber of the moral 
 nature, as a dynamitic force exploding in the 
 midst of an elaborately co-related society, 
 is unsurpassed, even by the studies which 
 Count Lyof Tolstoi has made in a similar 
 direction. It is unsurpassed, because it is 
 essentially without prejudice. It admits the 
 discomfort, the horrible vexation and shame 
 of war, and it tears aside the conventional 
 purple and tinsel of it ; but at the same time 
 it admits, not without a sigh, that even this 
 clumsy artifice may be the only one avail- 
 able for the cleansing of the people. 
 
 i
 
 of C\I. Zola 
 
 IV. 
 
 In 1883, ]\I. Zola published a third volume 
 of short stories, under the title of the open- 
 ing one, Ze Capitaine Burle. This col- 
 lection contains the delicate series of brief 
 semi-autobiographical essays called " Aux 
 Champs," little studies of past impression, 
 touched with a charm which is almost kindred 
 to that of Mr. Robt-rt Louis Stevenson's 
 memories. With this exception, the volume 
 cons'sts of four short stories, and of a set of 
 little death-bed anecdotes, called "Comment 
 on Meurt.'" This latter is hardly in the 
 writer's best style, and sufters by suggesting 
 the immeasurably finer and deeper studies of 
 the same kind which the genius of Tolstoi 
 has elaborated. Of these little sketches of 
 death, one alone, that of Madame Rousseau, 
 
 31
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 the stationer's wife, is quite of the best class. 
 This is an excellent episode from the sort of 
 Parisian life which M. Zola seems to under- 
 stand best, the lower middle class, the small 
 and active shopkeeper, who just contrives to 
 be respectable and no more. The others 
 seem to be invented rather than observed. 
 
 The four stories which make up the bulk 
 of this book are almost typical examples of 
 M. Zola's mature style. They are worked 
 out with extreme care, they display in every 
 turn the skill of the practised narrator, they 
 are solid and yet buoyant in style, and the 
 construction of each may be said to be fault- 
 less. It is faultless to a fault ; in other words, 
 the error of the author is to be mechanically 
 and inevitably correct. It is difficult to de- 
 fine wherein the over-elaboration shows itself, 
 but in every case the close of the story leaves 
 us sceptical and cold. The denouement is 
 32
 
 of ^. Zola 
 
 too brilliant and conclusive, the threads are 
 drawn together with too much evidence 
 of preoccupation. The impression is not so 
 much of a true tale told as of an extra- 
 ordinary situation frigidly written up to and 
 accounted for. In each case a certain social 
 condition is described at the beginning, and 
 a totally opposite condition is discovered at 
 the end of the story. \\q are tempted to 
 believe that the author determined to do 
 this, to turn the whole box of bricks abso- 
 lutely topsy-turvy. This disregard of the 
 soft and supple contours of nature, this 
 rugged air of molten metal, takes away from 
 the pleasure we should otherwise legitimately 
 receive from the exhibition of so much fancy, 
 so much knowledge, so many proofs of obser- 
 vation. 
 
 The story which gives its name to the 
 book, " Le Capitaine Burle " is perhaps the 
 
 ^ 33
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 best, because it has least of this air of arti- 
 fice. In a miUtary county town, a captain, 
 who lives with his anxious mother and his 
 little pallid, motherless son, sinks into 
 vicious excesses, and pilfers from the regi- 
 ment to pay for his vices. It is a great 
 object with the excellent major, who dis- 
 covers this condition, to save his friend the 
 captain in some way which will prevent an 
 open scandal, and leave the child free for 
 ultimate success in the army. After trying 
 every method, and discovering that the 
 moral nature of the captain is altogether 
 too soft and too far sunken to be redeemed, 
 as the inevitable hour of publicity ap- 
 proaches, the major insults his friend in a 
 cafe, so as to give him an opportunity of 
 fighting a duel and dying honourably. This 
 is done, and the scandal is evaded, without, 
 however, any good being thereby secured to 
 3-^
 
 of ^L Zola 
 
 the family, for the little boy dies of weakness 
 and his grandmother starves. Still, the name 
 of Burle has not been dragged through the 
 mud. 
 
 M. Zola has rarely displayed the quality of 
 humour, but it is present in the story called 
 " La Fete a Coqueville." Coqueville is the 
 name given to a very remote Norman fishing- 
 village, set in a gorge of rocks, and almost 
 inaccessible except from the sea. Here a 
 sturdy population of some hundred and 
 eighty souls, all sprung from one or other 
 of two rival families, live in the condition 
 of a tiny Verona, torn between contending 
 interests. A ship laden with liqueurs is 
 wrecked on the rocks outside, and one 
 precious cask after another comes riding 
 into Coqueville over the breakers. The 
 villagers, to whom brandy itself has hitherto 
 been the rarest of luxuries, spend a glorious 
 
 35
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 week of perfumed inebriety, sucking splinters 
 that drip with benddictine, catching noyeau 
 in iron cups, and supping up Curasao from 
 the bottom of a boat. Upon this happy 
 shore chartreuse flows hke cider, and trap- 
 pistine is drunk out of a mug. The rarest 
 drinks of the world — Chios mastic and 
 Servian sliwowitz, Jamaica rum and arrack, 
 creme de moka and raki drip among the 
 mackerel nets and deluge the seaweed. In 
 the presence of this extraordinary and 
 fantastic bacchanal all the disputes of the 
 rival families are forgotten, class prejudices 
 are drowned, and the mayor's rich daughter 
 marries the poorest of the fisher-sons of the 
 enemy's camp. It is very amusingly and 
 very picturesquely told, but spoiled a little 
 by M. Zola's pet sin — the overcrowding of 
 details, the theatrical completeness and 
 orchestral big-drum of the final scene. Too 
 
 36
 
 of (M. Zola 
 
 many barrels of liqueur come in, the village 
 becomes too universally drunk, the scene at 
 last becomes too Lydian for credence. 
 
 In the two remaining stories of this col- 
 lection — " Pour une Nuit d'Amour " and 
 " L'Inondation " — the fault of mechanical 
 construction is still more plainly obvious. 
 Each of these narratives begins with a care- 
 fully accentuated picture of a serene life : 
 in the first instance, that of a timid lad 
 sequestered in a country town ; in the second, 
 that of a prosperous farmer, surrounded by 
 his family and enjoying all the delights of 
 material and moral success. In each case 
 this serenity is but the prelude to events of 
 the most appalling tragedy — a tragedy which 
 does not merely strike or wound, but posi- 
 tively annihilates. The story called " L'Inon- 
 dation," which describes the results of a bore 
 on the Garonne, would be as pathetic as it is 
 
 37
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 enthralling, exciting, and efifective, if the de- 
 struction were not so absolutely complete, if 
 the persons so carefully enumerated at the 
 opening of the piece were not all of them 
 sacrificed, and, as in the once popular song 
 called "An 'Orrible Tale," each by some 
 different death of peculiar ingenuity. As to 
 "Pour une Nuit d' Amour," it is not needful 
 to do more than say that it is one of the 
 most repulsive productions ever published 
 by its author, and a vivid exception to the 
 general innocuous character of his short 
 stories. 
 
 No little interest, to the practical student 
 of literature, attaches to the fact that in 
 " L'Inondation " M. Zola is really re-writing, 
 in a more elaborate form, the fourth section 
 of his " Jean Gourdon." Here, as there, a 
 farmer who has lived in the greatest pros- 
 perity, close to a great river, is stripped of 
 38
 
 oj 3\'l. Zola 
 
 everything — of his house, his wealth, and his 
 family — by a sudden rising of the waters. It 
 is unusual for an author thus to re-edit a 
 work, or tell the same tale a second time 
 at fuller length, but the sequences of inci- 
 dents will be found to be closely identical, 
 although the later is by far the larger and 
 the more populous story. It is not uninter- 
 esting to the technical student to compare 
 the two pieces, the composition of which 
 was separated by about ten years. 
 
 V. 
 
 Finally, in 1884, M. Zola published a 
 fourth collection, named, after the first of 
 the series, Ndis Micoidm. This volume 
 contained in all six stories, each of consider- 
 able extent. I do not propose to dwell at 
 any length on the contents of this book, 
 
 39
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 partly because they belong to the finished 
 
 period of naturalism, and seem more like 
 
 castaway fragments of the Rougoii-Macquart 
 
 epos than like independent creations, but 
 
 also because they clash with the picture I 
 
 have sought to draw of an optimistic and 
 
 romantic Zola returning from time to time to 
 
 the short story as a shelter from his theories. 
 
 Of these tales, one or two are trifling and 
 
 passably insipid ; the Parisian sketches 
 
 called " Nantas " and " Madame Neigon " 
 
 have little to be said in favour of their 
 
 existence. Here M. Zola seems desirous 
 
 to prove to us that lie could write as good 
 
 Octave Feuillet, if he chose, as the author of 
 
 Monsieur de Cantors himself. In " Les 
 
 Coquillages de M. Chabre," which I confess 
 
 I read when it first appeared, and have now 
 
 re-read, with amusement, we see the heavy 
 
 M. Zola endeavouring to sport as gracefully 
 40
 
 of £M. Zola 
 
 as M. de Maupassant, and in the same style. 
 The impression of buoyant Atlantic seas and 
 hollow caverns is well rendered in this most 
 unedifying story. " Nais Micoulin," which 
 gives its name to the book, is a disagreeable 
 tale of seduction and revenge in Provence, 
 narrated with the usual ponderous con- 
 scientiousness. In each of the last men- 
 tioned the background of landscape is so 
 vivid that we half forgive the faults of the 
 narrative. 
 
 The two remaining stories in the book are 
 more remarkable, and one of them, at least, 
 is of positive value. It is curious that in 
 " Le Mort d'Olivier Becaille " and "Jacques 
 Damour " M. Zola should in the same 
 volume present versions of the Enoch Arden 
 story, the now familiar episode of the man 
 who is supposed to be dead, and comes back 
 to find his wife re-married. Olivier Becaille 
 
 41
 
 Ihe Short Stories 
 
 is a poor clerk, lately arrived in Paris with 
 his wife ; he is in wretched health, and has 
 always been subject to cataleptic seizures. 
 In one of these he falls into a state of 
 syncope so prolonged that they believe him 
 to be dead, and bury him. He manages to 
 break out of his coffin in the cemetery, and 
 is picked up fainting by a philanthropic 
 doctor. He ha;: a long illness, at the end 
 of which he cannot discover what has be- 
 come of his wife. After a long search, he 
 finds that she has married a very excellent 
 young fellow, a neighbour ; and in the face 
 of her happiness, Olivier Becaille has not 
 the courage to disturb her. Like Tennyson's 
 "strong, heroic soul," he passes out into the 
 silence and the darkness. 
 
 The exceedingly powerful story called 
 " Jacques Damour " treats the same idea, 
 
 but with far greater mastery, and in a less 
 42
 
 of ?M. Zola 
 
 conventional manner. Jacques Damour is a 
 Parisian artisan, who becomes demoralised 
 during the siege, and joins the Commune. He 
 is captured by the Versailles army, and sen- 
 tenced to penal servitude in New Caledonia, 
 leaving a wife and a little girl behind him in 
 Paris. After some years, in company with 
 two or three other convicts, he makes an 
 attempt to escape. He, in fact, succeeds in 
 escaping, with one companion, the rest being 
 drowned before they get out of the colony. 
 One of the dead men being mistaken for 
 him, Jacques Damour is reported home 
 deceased. When, after credible adventures, 
 and at the declaration of the amnesty, he 
 returns to Paris, his wife and daughter have 
 disappeared. At length he finds the former 
 married to a prosperous butcher in the 
 Batignolles, and he summons up courage, 
 egged on by a rascally friend, to go to the 
 
 43
 
 The Short Stories 
 
 shop in midday and claim his lawful wife. 
 The successive scenes in the shop, and the 
 final one, in which the ruddy butcher, sure 
 of his advantage over this squalid and pre- 
 maturely wasted ex-convict, bids Felicie take 
 her choice, are superb. M. Zola has done 
 nothing more forcible or life-like. The poor 
 old Damour retires, but he still has a daughter 
 to discover. The finale of the tale is exces- 
 sively unfitted for the young person, and no 
 serious critic could do otherwise than blame 
 it. But, at the same time, I am hardened 
 enough to admit that I think it very true to 
 life and not a little humorous, which, I hope, 
 is not equivalent to a moral commendation. 
 We may, if we like, wish that M. Zola had 
 never written " Jacques Damour," but nothing 
 can prevent it from being a superbly con- 
 structed and supported piece of narrative, 
 44
 
 of (M. Zoia 
 
 marred by unusually few of the mechanical 
 faults of his later work. 
 
 Since 1884 M. Zola, more and more 
 absorbed in the completion of his huge 
 central edifice, has not found time to build 
 many arbours or pavilions in his literary 
 garden. No one can possibly say what such 
 an active and forcible talent, still in the prime 
 of life, will or will not do in the future. But 
 it is very probable that the day of his senti- 
 mental short stories is over, and that those 
 who like the oddity of studying a moonlight- 
 coloured Zola are already in full possession 
 of the materials for so doing. 
 
 Edmund Gosse. 
 
 45
 
 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL
 
 THE ATTACK ON THE MILL 
 
 I. 
 
 It was high holiday at Father Merlier's mill on 
 that pleasant summer afternoon. Three tables 
 had been brought out into the garden and placed 
 end to end in the shadow of the great elm, and 
 now they were awaiting the arrival of the guests. 
 It was known throughout the length and breadth 
 of the land that that day was to witness the 
 betrothal of old Merlier's daughter, Frangoise, 
 to Dominique, a young man who was said to be 
 not overfond of work, but whom never a woman 
 for three leagues of the country around could 
 look at without sparkling eyes, such a well- 
 favoured young fellow was he. 
 That mill of Father Merlier's was truly a very 
 
 47
 
 The Jttack on the SVLill 
 
 pleasant spot. It was situated right in the heart 
 of Rocreuse, at the place where the main road 
 makes a sharp bend. The village has but a 
 single street, bordered on either side by a row 
 of low, whitened cottages, but just there, where 
 the road curves, there are broad stretches of 
 meadow-land, and huge trees, which follow the 
 course of the Morelle, cover the low grounds 
 of the valley with a most delicious shade. All 
 Lorraine has no more charming bit of nature to 
 show. To right and left dense forests, great 
 monarchs of ihe wood, centuries old, rise from 
 the gentle slopes and fill the horizon with a sea 
 of verdure, while away toward the south extends 
 the plain, of wondrous fertility and checkered 
 almost to infinity with its small inclosures, 
 divided off from one another by their live hedges. 
 But what makes the crowning glory of Rocreuse 
 is the coolness of this verdurous nook, even in 
 the hottest days of July and August. The 
 Morelle comes down from the woods of Gagny, 
 and it would seem as if it gathered to itself on 
 48
 
 The Attack on the [Mill 
 
 the way all the delicious freshness of the foliage 
 beneath which it glides for many a league ; it 
 brings down with it the murmuring sounds, the 
 glacial, solemn shadows of the forest. And that 
 is not the only source of coolness; there are 
 running waters of all kinds singing among the 
 copses ; one cannot take a step without coming 
 on a gushing spring, and as he makes his way 
 along the narrow paths he seems to be treading 
 above subterranean lakes that seek the air and 
 sunshine through the moss above and profit by 
 every smallest crevice, at the roots of trees or 
 among the chinks and crannies of the rocks, to 
 burst forth in fountains of crystalline clearness. 
 So numerous and so loud are the whispering 
 voices of these streams that they silence the 
 song of the bullfinches. It is as if one were in 
 an enchanted park, with cascades falling on 
 every side. 
 
 The meadows below are never athirst. The 
 shadows beneath the gigantic chestnut trees are 
 of inky blackness, and along the edges of the 
 
 D 49
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 fields long rows of poplars stand like walls of 
 rustling foliage. There is a double avenue of 
 huge plane trees ascending across the fields to- 
 ward the ancient castle of Gagny, now gone to 
 rack and ruin. In this region, where drought is 
 never known, vegetation of all kind^ is wonder- 
 fully rank ; it is like a flower garden down there 
 in the low ground between those two wooded 
 hills, a natural garden, where the lawns are 
 broad meadows and the giant trees represent 
 colossal beds. When the noonday sun pours 
 down his scorching rays the shadows lie blue 
 upon the ground, the glowing vegetation slumbers 
 in the heat, while every now and then a breath 
 of icy coldness passes under the foliage. 
 
 Such was the spot where Father Merlier's 
 mill enlivened with its cheerful clack nature run 
 riot. The building itself, constructed of wood 
 and plaster, looked as if it might be coeval with 
 our planet. Its foundations were in part washed 
 by the Morelle, which here expands into a clear 
 pool. A dam, a few feet in height, afforded 
 so
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 sufficient head of water to drive the old wheel, 
 which creaked and groaned as it revolved, with 
 the asthmatic wheezing of a faithful servant who 
 has grown old in her place. Whenever Father 
 Merlier was advised to change it, he would shake 
 his head and say that like as not a young wheel 
 would be lazier and not so well acquainted with 
 its duties, and then he would set to work and 
 patch up the old one with anything that came 
 to hand, old hogshead-staves, bits of rusty iron, 
 zinc, or lead. The old wheel only seemed the 
 gayer for it, with its odd profile, all plumed and 
 feathered with tufts of moss and grass, and when 
 the water poured over it in a silvery tide its 
 gaunt black skeleton was decked out with a 
 gorgeous display of pearls and diamonds. 
 
 That portion of the mill which was bathed by 
 the Morelle had something of the look of a bar- 
 baric arch that had been dropped down there by 
 chance. A good half of the structure was built 
 on piles ; the water came in under the floor, and 
 there were deep holes, famous throughout the
 
 The Jttack on the U^ill 
 
 whole country for the eels and the huge craw- 
 fish that were to be caught there. Below the 
 fall the pool was as clear as a mirror, and when 
 it was not clouded by foam from the wheel one 
 could see troops of great fish swimming about 
 in it with the slow, majestic movements of a 
 squadron. There was a broken stairway leading 
 down to the stream, near a stake to which a boat 
 was fastened, and over the wheel was a gallery 
 of wood. Such windows as there were were 
 arranged without any attempt at order. The 
 whole was a quaint conglomeration of nooks 
 and corners, bits of wall, additions made here 
 and there as afterthoughts, beams and roofs, 
 that gave the mill the aspect of an old dismantled 
 citadel, but ivy and all sorts of creeping plants 
 had grown luxuriantly r.nd kindly covered up 
 such crevices as were too unsightly, casting a 
 mantle of green over the old dwelling. Young 
 ladies who passed that way used to stop and 
 sketch Father Merlier's mill in their albums. 
 The side of the house that faced the road was 
 52
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 less irregular. A gateway in stone afforded 
 access to the principal courtyard, on the right 
 and left hand of which were sheds and stables. 
 Beside a well stood an immense elm that threw 
 its shade over half the court. At the further 
 end, opposite the gate, stood the house, sur- 
 mounted by a dovecote, the four windows of its 
 first floor in a symmetrical line. The only vanity 
 that Father Merlier ever allowed himself was to 
 paint this fagade every ten years. It had just 
 been freshly whitened at the time of our story, 
 and dazzled the eyes of all the village when 
 the sun lighted it up in the middle of the day. 
 
 For twenty years had Father Merlier been 
 mayor of Rocreuse. He was held in great con- 
 sideration on account of his fortune ; he was 
 supposed to be worth something like eighty 
 thousand francs, the result of patient saving. 
 When he married Madeleine Guillard, who 
 brought him the mill as her dowry, his entire 
 capital lay in his two strong arms, but Madeleine 
 had never repented of her choice, so manfully 
 
 53
 
 The Attack on the Mill 
 
 had he conducted their joint affairs. Now his 
 wife was dead, and he was left a widower with 
 his daughter Francjoise. Doubtless he might 
 have sat himself down to take his rest nnd 
 suffered the old mill-wh^el to sleep among its 
 moss, but he would have found idleness too irk- 
 some and the house would have seemed dead to 
 him. He kept on working still, for the pleasure 
 of it. In those days Father Merlier was a tall 
 old man, with a long, silent face, on which a 
 laugh was never seen, but beneath which there 
 lay, none the less, a large fund of good-humour. 
 He had been elected niayor on account of his 
 money, and also for the impressive air that he 
 knew how to assume when it devolved on him 
 to marry a couple. 
 
 Frangoise Merlier had just completed her 
 eighteenth year. She was small, and for that 
 reason was not accounted one of the beauties of 
 the country. Until she reached the age of 
 fifteen she had been even homely ; the good 
 folks of Rocreuse could not see how it was that 
 
 54
 
 The Jttack on the [Mill 
 
 the daughter of F"ather and Mother Merlier, 
 such a hale, vigorous couple, had such a hard 
 time of it in getting her growth. When she was 
 fifteen, however, though still remaining delicate, 
 a change came over her and she took on the 
 prettiest little face imaginable. She had black 
 hair, black eyes, and was red as a rose withal ; 
 her mouth was always smiling, there were 
 delicious dimples in her cheeks, and a crown of 
 sunshine seemed to be ever resting on her fair, 
 candid forehead. Although small as girls went 
 in that region, she was far from being thin ; she 
 might not have been able to raise a sack of 
 wheat to her shoulder, but she became quite 
 plump as she grew older, and gave promise of 
 becoming eventually as well-rounded and 
 appetising as a partridge. Her father's habits 
 of taciturnity had made her reflective while yet 
 a young girl ; if she always had a smile on her 
 lips it was in order to give pleasure to others. 
 Her natural disposition was serious. 
 As was no more than to be expected, she had
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 every young man in the countryside at her heels 
 as a suitor, more even for her money than for 
 her attractiveness, and she had mnde a choice 
 at last, a choice that had been the talk and 
 scandal of the entire neighbourhood. On the 
 other side of the Morelle lived a strapping 
 young fellow who went by the name of 
 Dominique Penquer. He was not to the manor 
 born ; ten years previously he had come to 
 Rocreuse from Belgium to receive the inherit- 
 ance of an uncle who had owned a small 
 property on the very borders of the forest of 
 Gagny, just facing the mill and distant from it 
 only a few musket-shots. His object in coming 
 was to sell the property, so he said, and return 
 to his own home again ; but he must have 
 found the land to his liking, for he made no 
 move to go away. He was seen cultivating his 
 bit of a field and gathering the few vegetables 
 that afforded him an existence. He fished, he 
 hunted ; more than once he was near coming in 
 contact with the law through the intervention of 
 56
 
 The Jttack on the (Mill 
 
 the keepers. This independent way of living, of 
 which the peasants could not very clearly see 
 the resources, had in the end given him a bad 
 name. He was vaguely looked on as nothing 
 better than a poacher. At all events he was 
 lazy, for he was frequently found sleeping in the 
 grass at hours when he should have been at 
 work. Then, too, the hut in which he lived, in 
 the shade of the last trees of the forest, did not 
 seem like the abode of an honest young man ; 
 the old women would not have been surprised at 
 any time to hear that he was on friendly terms 
 with the wolves in the ruins of Gagny. Still, 
 the young girls would now and then venture to 
 stand up for him, for he was altogether a 
 splendid specimen of manhood, was this in- 
 dividual of doubtful antecedents, tall and 
 straight as a young poplar, with a milk-white 
 skin and ruddy hair and beard that seemed to 
 be of gold when the sun shone on them. Now 
 one fine morning it came to pass that Frangoise 
 told Father Merlier that she loved Dominique, 
 
 57
 
 The Jttack on the SVLill 
 
 and that never, never would she consent to 
 marry any other young man. 
 
 It may be imagined what a knockdown blow 
 it was that Father Merlier received that day ! 
 As was his wont, he said never a word ; his 
 countenance wore its usual reflective look, only 
 the fun that used to bubble up from within no 
 longer shone in his eyes. Frangoise, too, was 
 very serious, and for a week father and daughter 
 scarcely spoke to each other. What troubled 
 Father Merlier was to know how that rascal 
 of a poacher had succeeded in bewitching his 
 daughter. Dominicjue had never shown himself 
 at the mill. The miller played the spy a little, and 
 was rewarded by catching sight of the gallant, 
 on the other side of the Morelle, lying among the 
 grass and pretending to be asleep. Frangoise 
 could see him from her chamber window. The 
 thing was clear enough ; they had been making 
 sheep's eyes at each other over the old mill- 
 wheel, and so had fallen in love. 
 
 A week slipped by ; Frangoise became moie 
 .58
 
 The Jttack o?i the Mill 
 
 and more serious. Father Merlier still con- 
 tinued to say nothing. Then, one evening, of 
 his own accorJ, he brought Dominique to the 
 house, without a word. Frangoise was just 
 setting the table. She made no demonstration 
 of surprise; all she did was to add another 
 plate, but her laugh had come back to her, and 
 the little dimples appeared again upon her 
 cheeks. Father Merlier had gone that morn- 
 ing to look for Dominique at his hut on the 
 edge of the forest, and there the two men had 
 had a conference, with closed doors and windows 
 that lasted three hours. No one ever knew 
 what they said to each other ; the only thing 
 certain is that when Father Merlier left the hut 
 he already treated Dominique as a son. Doubt- 
 less the old man had discovered that he whom 
 he had gone to visit was a worthy young fellow, 
 even though he did lie in the grass to gain the 
 love of young girls. 
 
 All Rocreuse was up in arms. The women 
 gathered at their doors, and could not find words 
 
 59
 
 The Attack on the (Mill 
 
 strong enough to characterise Father Merher's 
 folly in thus receiving a ne'er-do-well into his 
 family. He let them talk. Perhaps he thought 
 of his own marriage. Neither had he possessed 
 a penny to his name at the time he married 
 Madeleine and her mill, and yet that had not 
 prevented him from being a good husband to 
 her. Moreover, Dominique put an end to their 
 tittle-tattle by settirg to work in such strenuous 
 fashion that all the countryside was amazed. 
 It so happened just then that the boy of the mill 
 drew an unlucky number and had to go for a 
 soldier, and Dominique would not hear of their 
 engaging another. He lifted sacks, drove the 
 cart, wrestled with the old wheel when it took 
 an obstinate fit and refused to turn, and all so 
 pluckily and cheerfully that people came from 
 far and near merely for the pleasure of seeing 
 him. Father Merlier laughed his silent laugh. 
 He was highly elated that he had read the 
 youngster aright. There is nothing like love to 
 hearten up young men. 
 60
 
 The Jttack on the (Mill 
 
 In the midst of all that laborious toil Frangoise 
 and Dominique fairly worshipped each other. 
 They had not much to say, but their tender 
 smiles conveyed a world of meaning. Father 
 Merlier had not said a word thus far on the 
 subject of their marriage, and they had both 
 respected his silence, waiting until the old man 
 should see fit to give expression to his will. At 
 last; one day along toward the middle of July, 
 he had had three tables laid in the courtyard, 
 in the shade of the big elm, and had invited his 
 friends of Rocreuse to come that afternoon and 
 drink a glass of wine with him. When the 
 courtyard was filled with people, and every 
 one there had a full glass in his hand, Father 
 Merlier raised his own high above his head, 
 and said : 
 
 " I have the pleasure of announcing to you 
 that Frangoise and this lad will be married 
 in a month from now, on Saint Louis' fete- 
 day." 
 
 Then there was a universal touching of glasses, 
 
 61
 
 The Jttach on the S^Iill 
 
 attended by a tremendous uproar ; everyone was 
 laughing. But Father Merlier, raising his voice 
 above the din, again spoke : 
 
 " Dominique, kiss your wife that is to be. It is 
 no more than customary." 
 
 And they kissed, very red in the face, both of 
 them, while the company laughed louder still. 
 It was a regular fete ; they emptied a small cask. 
 Then, when only the intimate friends of the house 
 remained, conversation went on in a calmer 
 strain. Night had fallen, a starlit night, and 
 very clear. Dominique and Fran^oise sat on a 
 bench, side by side, and said nothing. An old 
 peasant spoke of the war that the Emperor had 
 declared against Prussia. All the lads of the 
 village were already gone off to the army. 
 Troops had passed through the place only the 
 night before. There were going to be hard 
 knocks. 
 
 "Bah !" said Father Tvlerlier, with the selfish- 
 ness of a man who is quite happy, " Dominique 
 is a foreigner ; he won't have to go — and if the 
 6a
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 Prussians come this way, he will be here to 
 defend his wife." 
 
 The idea of the Prussians coming there seemed 
 to the company an exceedingly good joke. 
 The army would give them one good con- 
 scientious thrashing, and the affair would be 
 quickly ended. 
 
 " I ha\e seen them before, I have seen them 
 before," the old peasant repeated, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 There was silence for a little, then they all 
 touched glasses once again. Frangoise and 
 Dominique had heard nothing ; they had 
 managed to clasp hands behind the bench in 
 such a way as not to be seen by the others, and 
 this condition of affairs seemed so beatific to 
 them that they sat there, mute, their gaze lost in 
 the darkness of the night. 
 
 What a magnificent, balmy night ! The 
 village lay slumbering on either side of the 
 while road as peacefully as a little child. The 
 deep silence was undisturbed save by the occa- 
 
 63
 
 The Attack on the (Mill 
 
 sional crow of a cock in some distant barnyard 
 acting on a mistaken impression that dawn was at 
 hand. Perfumed breaths of air, like long-drawn 
 sighs, came down from the great woods that 
 lay around and above, sweeping softly over 
 the roofs, as if caressing them. The meadows, 
 with their black intensity of shadow, took on a 
 dim, mysterious majesty of their own, while all 
 the springs, all the brooks and watercourses that 
 gurgled in the darkness, might have been taken 
 for the cool and rhythmical breathing of the sleep- 
 ing country. Every now and then the old dozing 
 mill-wheel seemed to be dreaming like a watch- 
 dog that barks uneasily in his slumber ; it creaked, 
 it talked to itself, rocked by the fall of the Morelle, 
 whose current gave forth the deep, sustained 
 music of an organ-pipe. Never was there a more 
 charming or happier nook, never did a deeper 
 peace came down to cover it. 
 
 64
 
 The Jttack on the S\lill 
 
 II. 
 
 One month later to a day, on the eve of the fete 
 of Saint Louis, Rocreuse was in a state of alarm 
 and dismay. The Prussians had beaten the 
 Emperor, and were advancing on the village by 
 forced marches. For a week past people pass- 
 ing along the road had brought tidings of the 
 enemy : " They are at Lormieres, they are at 
 •Nouvelles ; " and by dint of hearing so many 
 stories of the rapidity of their advance, Rocreuse 
 woke up every morning in the full expectation 
 of seeing them swarming down out of Gagny 
 wood. They did not come, however, and that 
 only ser\'ed to make the affright the greater. 
 They would certainly fall upon the village in 
 the night-time, and put every soul to the sword. 
 There had been an alarm the night before, a 
 little before daybreak. The inhabitants had 
 been aroused by a great noise of men tramping 
 upon the road. The women were already throw- 
 
 E 65
 
 l^he Jttnck 071 the Mill 
 
 ing themselves upon their knees and making the 
 sign of the cross, when some one, to whom it 
 happily occurred to peep through a half-opened 
 window, caught sight of red trousers. It was a 
 French detachment. The captain had forth- 
 with asked for the mayor, and, after a long con- 
 versation with Father Merlier, had remained at 
 the mill. 
 
 The sun shone bright and clear that morning, 
 giving promise of a warm day. There was a 
 golden light floating over the woodland, while 
 in the low grounds white mists were rising from 
 the meadows. The pretty village, so neat and 
 trim, awoke in the cool dawning, and the coun- 
 try, with its streams and its fountains, was as 
 gracious as a freshly plucked bouquet. But the 
 beauty of the day brought gladness to the face 
 of no one ; the villagers had watched the cap- 
 tain, and seen him circle round and round the 
 old mill, examine the adjacent houses, then pass 
 to the other bank of the Morelle, and from thence 
 scan the country with a field-glass ; Father 
 66
 
 The Jttack on the IMill 
 
 Merlier, who accompanied him, appeared to be 
 giving explanations. After that the captain 
 had posted some of his men behind walls, be- 
 hind trees, or in hollows. The main body of 
 the detachment had encamped in the courtyard 
 of the mill. So there was going to be a fight, 
 then? And when Father Merlier returned, 
 they questioned him. He spoke no woid, but 
 slowly and sorrowfully nodded his head. Yes, 
 there was going to be a fight. 
 
 Frangoise and Dominique were there in the 
 courtyard, watching him. He finally took his 
 pipe from his lips and gave utterance to these 
 few words : 
 
 "Ah ! my poor children, I shall not be able to 
 marry you to-day ! " 
 
 Dominique, with lips tight set and an angry 
 frown upon his forehead, raised himself on tiptoe 
 from time to time and stood with eyes bent on 
 Gagny wood, as if he would have been glad to 
 see the Prussians appear and end the suspense 
 they were in. Frangoise, whose face was grave 
 
 67
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 and very pale, was constantly passing back and 
 forth, supplying the needs of the soldiers. They 
 were preparing their soup in a corner of the 
 courtyard, joking and chaffing one another while 
 awaiting their meal. 
 
 The captain appeared to be highly pleased. 
 He had visited the chambers and the great hall 
 of the mill that looked out on the stream. Now, 
 seated beside the well, he was conversing with 
 Father Merlier. 
 
 "You have a regular fortress here," he was 
 saying. " We shall have no trouble in holding 
 it until evening. The bandits are late ; they 
 ought to be here by this time.'" 
 
 The miller looked very grave. He saw his 
 beloved mill going up in flame and smoke, but 
 uttered no word of remonstrance or complaint, 
 considering that it would be useless. He only 
 opened his mouth to say : 
 
 "You ought to take steps to hide the boat; 
 there is a hole behind the wheel fitted to hold it. 
 Perhaps you may find it of use to you." 
 68 
 
 i
 
 The Attack on the (Mill 
 
 The captain gave an order to one of his men. 
 This captain was a tall, fine-looking man of 
 about forty, with an agreeable expression of 
 countenance. The sight of Dominique and 
 Frangoise seemed to afford him much pleasure ; 
 he watched ihem as if he had forgotten all about 
 the approaching conflict. He followed Fran- 
 9oise with his eyes as she moved about the 
 courtyard, and his manner showed clearly 
 enough that he thought her charming. Then, 
 turning to Dominique: 
 
 "You are not with the army, I see, my boy?" 
 he abruptly asked. 
 
 " I am a foreigner,'' the young man replied. 
 
 The captain did not seem particularly pleased 
 with the answer ; he winked his eyes and smiled. 
 Fran^oise was doubtless a more agreeable com- 
 panion than a musket would have been. Domi- 
 nique, noticing his smile, made haste to add : 
 
 " I am a foreigner, but I can lodge a rifle- 
 bullet in an apple at five hundred yards. See, 
 there's my rifle, behind you." 
 
 69
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 " You may find use for it,"' the captain dryly 
 answered. 
 
 Franqoise had drawn near ; she was trembHng 
 a little, and Dominique, regardless of the by- 
 standers, took and held firmly clasped in his 
 own the two hands that she held forth to him, 
 as if committing herself to his protection. The 
 captain smiled again, but said nothing more. 
 He remained seated, his sword between his legs, 
 his eyes fixed on space, apparently lost in dreamy 
 reverie. 
 
 It was ten o'clock. The heat was already 
 oppressive. A deep silence prevailed. The 
 soldiers had sat down in the shade of the sheds 
 in the courtyard and begun to eat their soup. 
 Not a sound came from the village, where the 
 inhabitants had all barricaded their houses, 
 doors and windows. A dog, abandoned by his 
 master, howled mournfully upon the road. 
 From the woods and the near-by meadows, that 
 lay fainting in the heat, came a long-drawn, 
 whispering, soughing sound, produced by the 
 70
 
 The -Attack on the [Mill 
 
 union of what wandering breaths of air there 
 were. A cuckoo called. Then the silence 
 became deeper still. 
 
 And all at once, upon that lazy, sleepy air, a 
 shot rang out. The captain rose quickly to his 
 feet, the soldiers left their half-emptied plates. 
 In a few seconds all were at their posts ; the 
 mill was occupied from top to bottom. And yet 
 the captain, who had gone out through the gate, 
 saw nothing ; to right and left the road stretched 
 away, desolate and blindingly white in the fierce 
 sunshine. A second report was heard, and still 
 nothing to be seen, not even so much as a 
 shadow ; but just as he was turning to re-enter 
 he chanced to look over toward Gagny and 
 there beheld a little puff of smoke floating away 
 on the tranquil air, like thistle-down. The deep 
 peace of the forest was apparently unbroken. 
 
 "The rascals have occupied the wood," the 
 officer murmured. " They know we are here." 
 
 Then the firing went on, and became more 
 and more continuous, between the French 
 
 71
 
 The Attack on the SVLill 
 
 soldiers posted about the mill and the Prussians 
 concealed among the trees. The bullets 
 whistled over the Morelle without doing any 
 mischief on either side. The firing was 
 irregular ; every bush seemed to have its marks- 
 man, and nothing was to be seen save those 
 bluish smoke wreaths that hung for a moment 
 on the wind before they vanished. It lasted 
 thus for nearly two hours. The officer hummed 
 a tune with a carelrss air. Franc^oise and 
 Dominique, who had remained in the courtyard, 
 raised themselves to look out over a low wall. 
 They were more particularly interested in a little 
 soldier who had his post on the bank of the 
 Morelle, behind the hull of an old boat ; he 
 would lie face downward on the ground, watch 
 his chance, deliver his fire, then slip back into a 
 ditch a few steps in his rear to reload, and his 
 movements were so comical, he displayed such 
 cunning and activity, that it was difficult for any 
 one watching him to refrain from smiling. He 
 must have caught sight of a Prussian, for he rose 
 72
 
 The Jttack 071 the [Mill 
 
 quickly and brought his piece to the shoulder, 
 but before he could discharge it he uttered a 
 loud cry, whirled completely around in his tracks 
 and fell backward into the ditch, where for an 
 instant his Irgs moved convulsively, just as the 
 claws of a fowl do when it is beheaded. The 
 little soldier had received a bullet directly 
 through his heart. It was the first casualty of 
 the day. Frangoise instinctively seized Domi- 
 nique's hand and held it tight in a convulsive 
 grasp. 
 
 " Come away from there," said the captain. 
 "The bullets reach us here." 
 
 As if to confirm his words a slight, sharp sound 
 was heard up in the old elm, and the end of a 
 branch came to the ground, turning over and 
 over as it fell, but the two young people never 
 stirred, riveted to the spot as they were by the 
 interest of the spectacle. On the edge of the wood 
 a Prussian had suddenly emerged from behind 
 a tree, as an actor comes upon the stage from 
 the wings, beating the air with his arms and
 
 The Jttack 071 the {Mill 
 
 falling over upon its back. And beyond that 
 there was no movement ; the two dead men ap- 
 peared to be sleeping in the bright sunshine; there 
 was not a soul to be seen in the fields on which 
 the heat lay heavy. Even the sharp rattle of the 
 musketry had ceased. Only the Morelle kept 
 on whispering to itself with its low, musical 
 murmur. 
 
 Father Merlier looked at the captain with an 
 astonished air, as if to inquire whether that were 
 the end of it. 
 
 " Here comes their attack," the officer mur- 
 mured. " Look out for yourself ! Don't stand 
 there ! " 
 
 The words were scarcely out of his mouth 
 when a terrible discharge of musketry ensued. 
 The great elm was riddled, its leaves came 
 eddying down as thick as snowflakes. For- 
 tunately the Prussians had aimed too high. 
 Dominique dragged, almost carried Fran9oise 
 from the spot, while Father Meilier follow^ed 
 them, shouting : 
 74 
 
 I
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 " Get into the small cellar, the walls are 
 thicker there," 
 
 But they paid no attention to him ; they made 
 their way to the main hall, where ten or a 
 dozen soldiers were silently waiting, watching 
 events outside through the chinks of the closed 
 shutters. The captain was left alone in the 
 courtyard, where he sheltered himself behind 
 the low wall, while the furious fire was main- 
 tained uninterruptedly. The soldiers whom he 
 had posted outside only yielded their ground 
 inch by inch ; they came crawling in, however, 
 one after another, as the enemy dislodged them 
 from their positions. Their instructions were to 
 gain all the time they could, taking care not to 
 show themselves, in order that the Prussians 
 might remain in ignorance of the force they had 
 opposed to them. Another hour passed, and as 
 a sergeant came in, reporting that there were 
 now only two or three men left outside, the 
 officer took his watch from his pocket, mur- 
 muring : 
 
 75
 
 The Attack on the Mill 
 
 " Half-past two. Come, we must hold out for 
 four hours yet." 
 
 He caused the great gate of the courtyard to 
 be tightly secured, and everything was made 
 ready for an energetic defence. The Prussians 
 were on the other side of the Morelle, conse- 
 quently there was no reason to fear an assault 
 at the moment. There was a bridge, indeed, a 
 mile and a quarter away, but they were probably 
 unaware of its existence, and it was hardly to be 
 supposed that they would attempt to cross the 
 stream by fording. The officer, therefore, simply 
 caused the road to be watched ; the attack, when 
 it came, was to be looked for from the direction 
 of the fields. 
 
 The firing had ceased again. The mill ap- 
 peared to lie there in the sunlight, void of all 
 life. Not a shutter was open, not a sound came 
 from within. Gradually, however, the Prussians 
 began to show themselves at the edge of Gagny 
 wood. Heads were protruded here and there ; 
 they seemed to be mustering up their courage. 
 76
 
 The Attack on the {Mill 
 
 Several of the soldiers within the mill brought 
 up their pieces to an aim, but the captain 
 shouted : 
 
 "No, no; not yet; wait. Let them come 
 nearer." 
 
 They displayed a great deal of prudence in 
 their advance, looking at the mill with a dis- 
 trustful air ; they seemed hardly to know what 
 to make of the old structure, so lifeless and 
 gloomy, with its curtain of ivy. Still they kept 
 on advancing. When there were fifty of them 
 or so in the open, directly opposite, the officer 
 uttered one word : 
 
 " xMow ! " 
 
 A crashing, tearing discharge burst from the 
 position, succeeded by an irregular, dropping 
 fire. Frangoise, trembling violently, involun- 
 tarily raised her hands to her ears. Dominique, 
 from his position behind the soldiers, peered out 
 upon the field, and when the smoke drifted away 
 a little, counted three Prussians extended on 
 their backs in the middle of the meadow. The 
 
 77
 
 The Jttack on tke Mill 
 
 others had sought sheher among the willows 
 and the poplars. And then commenced the 
 siege. 
 
 For more than an hour the mill was riddled 
 with bullets ; they beat and rattled on its old 
 walls like hail. The noise they made was plainly 
 audible as they struck the stonework, were flat- 
 tened, and fell back into the water ; they buried 
 themselves in the woodwork with a dull thud. 
 Occasionally a creaking sound would announce 
 that the wheel had been hit. Within the build- 
 ing the soldiers husbanded their ammunition, 
 firing only when they could see something to 
 aim at. The captain kept consulting his watch 
 every few minutes, and as a ball split one of 
 the shutters in halves and then lodged in the 
 ceiling : 
 
 "Four o'clock," he murmured. "We shall 
 never be able to hold the position." 
 
 The old mill, in truth, was gradually going to 
 pieces beneath that terrific fire. A shutter that 
 had been perforated again and again, until it 
 78
 
 The .Attack on the 3\ItU 
 
 looked like a piece of lace, fell off its hinges into 
 the water, and had to be replaced by a mattress. 
 Every moment, almost, Father Merlier exposed 
 himself to the fire in order to take account of the 
 damage sustained by his poor wheel, every wound 
 of which was like a bullet in his own heart. Its 
 period of usefulness was ended this time for cer- 
 tain ; he would never be able to patch it up 
 again. Dominique had besought Frangoise to 
 retire to a place of safety, but she was determined 
 to remain with him ; she had taken a seat be- 
 hind a great oaken clothes-press, which afforded 
 her protection. A ball struck the press, how- 
 ever, the sides of which gave out a dull, hollow 
 sound, whereupon Dominique stationed himself 
 in front of Frangoise. He had as yet taken no 
 part in the firing, although he had his rifle in his 
 hand ; the soldiers occupied the whole breadth 
 of the windows, so that he could not get near 
 them. At every discharge the floor trembled. 
 
 " Look out ! look out ! " the captain suddenly 
 shouted . 
 
 79
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 He had just descried a dark mass emerging 
 from the wood. As soon as they gained the 
 open they set up a telling platoon fire. It struck 
 the mill like a tornado. Another shutter parted 
 company, and the bullets came whistling in 
 through the yawning aperture. Two soldiers 
 rolled upon the floor ; one lay where he fell and 
 never moved a limb ; his comrades pushed him 
 up against the wall because he was in their 
 way. The o.her writhed and twisted, beseech- 
 ing some one to end his agony, but no one had 
 ears for the poor wretch ; the bullets were still 
 pouring in, and every one was looking out for 
 himself and searching for a loophole whence he 
 might answer the enemy's fire. A third soldier 
 was wounded ; that, one said not a word, but 
 with staring, haggard eyes sank down beneath a 
 table. Frangoise, horror-stricken by the dread- 
 ful spectacle of the dead and dying men, 
 mechanically pushed away her chair and seated 
 herself on the floor, against the wall ; it seemed 
 to her that she would be smaller there and less 
 80
 
 The Jtttack on the (Mill 
 
 exposed. In the meantime men had gone and 
 secured all the mattresses in the house ; the 
 opening of the window was partially closed again. 
 The hall was filled with debris of every descrip- 
 tion, broken weapons, dislocated furniture. 
 
 '' Five o'clock," said the captain. " Stand 
 fast, boys. They are going to make an attempt 
 to pass the stream." 
 
 Just then Frangoise gave a shriek. A bullet 
 had struck the floor, and, rebounding, grazed 
 her forehead on the ricochet. A few drops of 
 blood appeared. Dominique looked at her, then 
 went to the window and fired his first shot, and 
 from that, time kept on firing uninterruptedly. 
 He kept on loading and discharging his piece 
 mechanically, paying no attention to what was 
 passing at his side, only pausing from time to 
 time to cast a look at Frangoise. He did not 
 fire hurriedly or at rand )m, moreover, but took 
 deliberate aim. As the captain had predicted, 
 the Prussians were skirting the belt of poplars 
 and attempting the passage of the Morelle, but
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 each time that one of them showed himself he 
 fell with one of Dominique's bullets in his brain. 
 The captain, who was watching the perform- 
 ance, was amazed ; he complimented the young 
 man, telling him that he would like to have 
 many more marksmen of his skill. Dominique 
 did not hear a word he said. A ball struck him 
 in the shoulder, another raided a contusion on 
 his arm. And still he kept on firing. 
 
 There were two more deaths. The mattresses 
 were torn to shreds and no longer availed to 
 stop the windows. The last volley that was 
 poured in seemed as if it would carry away the 
 mill bodily, so fierce it was. The position was 
 no longer tenable. Still, the officer kept re- 
 peating : 
 
 " Stand fast. Another half-hour yet." 
 He was counting the minutes, one by one, 
 now. He had promised his commanders that 
 he would hold the enemy there until nightfall, 
 and he would not budge a hair's-breadth before 
 the moment that he had fixed on for his with- 
 82
 
 The Attack on the CMill 
 
 drawal. He maintained his pleasant air of 
 good-humour, smiling at Frangoise by way of 
 reassuring her. He had picked up the musket 
 of one of the dead soldiers and was firing away 
 with the rest. 
 
 There were but four soldiers left in the room. 
 The Prussians were showing themselves en masse 
 on the other bank of the Morelle, and it was 
 evident that they might now pass the stream at 
 any moment. A few moments more elapsed ; 
 the captain was as determined as ever, and 
 would not give the order to retreat, when a 
 sergeant came running into the room, saying : 
 
 "They are on the road; they are going to 
 take us in rear." 
 
 The Prussians must have discovered the 
 bridge. The captain drew out his watcn again. 
 
 " Five minutes more," he said. " They won't 
 be here wiihin five minutes." 
 
 Then exactly at six o'clock he at last with- 
 drew his men through a little postern that 
 opened on a narrow lane, whence they threw 
 
 83
 
 The Attack on the {Mill 
 
 themselves into the ditch, and in that way 
 reached the forest of SauvaL The captain took 
 leave of Father Merlier with much politeness, 
 apologising profusely for the trouble he had 
 caused. He even added : 
 
 " Try to keep them occupied for a while. We 
 shall return." 
 
 While this was occurring Dominique had re- 
 mained alone in the hall. He was still firing 
 away, hearing noihing, conscious of nothing ; 
 his sole thought was to defend Fran^oise. The 
 soldiers were all gone, and he had not the 
 remotest idea of the fact ; he aimed and brought 
 down his man at every shot. All at once there 
 was a great tumult. The Prussians had entered 
 the courtyard from the rear. He fired his last 
 shot, and they fell upon him with his weapon 
 still smoking in his hand. 
 
 It required four men to hold him ; the rest of 
 them swarmed about him, vociferating like mad- 
 men in their horrible dialect. Frangoise rushed 
 forward to intercede with her prayers. They 
 84
 
 The Jttack on the [Mill 
 
 were on the point of killing him on tlie spor, but 
 an officer came in and made them turn the 
 prisoner over to him. After exchanging a few 
 words in German with his men he turned to 
 Dominique and said to him roughly, in very good 
 French : 
 
 " You will be shot in two hours from now," 
 
 III. 
 
 It was the standing regulation, laid down by 
 the German staff, that every Frenchman, not 
 belonging to the regular r.rmy, taken with arms 
 in his hands, should be shot. Even the 
 contpagnies /ranches were not recognised as 
 belligerents. It was the intention of the Ger- 
 mans, in making such terrible examples of the 
 peasants who attempted to defend their fire- 
 sides, to prevent a rising efi masse, which they 
 greatly dreaded. 
 
 The officer, a tall, spare man about fifty years 
 old, subjected Dominique to a brief examination. 
 
 85
 
 The Jttad on the Mill 
 
 Although he spoke French fluently, he was un- 
 mistakably Prussian hi the stiffness of his 
 manner. 
 
 "You are a native of this country?" 
 
 " No, I am a Belgian." 
 
 "Why did you take up arms? These are 
 matters with which you have no concern." 
 
 Dominique made no reply. At this moment 
 the officer cauglrt sight of Francoise where she 
 stood'listening, very pale ; her slight wound had 
 marked her white forehead with a streak of red. 
 He looked from one to the other of the young 
 people and appeared to understand the situation : 
 he merely added : 
 
 J' You do not deny having fired on my 
 men ? " 
 
 " I fired as 'long as I was able to do so," 
 Dominique quietly replied. 
 
 The admission was scarcely necessary, for he 
 was black with powder, wet with sweat, and the 
 blood from the wound in his shoulder had trickled 
 down and stained his clothing. 
 86
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 " Very well," the officer- repeated. " You will 
 be shot two hours ^ence." 
 
 Frangoise uttered no cry. She clasped her 
 hands and raised them above her head in a 
 gesture of mute despair. Her action, was not 
 lost «pon the officer. Two soldiers had led 
 Dominicjue away to an adjacent room, where 
 their orders were to guard him and not lose 
 sight of him. The girl had sunk upon a chair ; 
 her strength had failed her, her legs refused to 
 support her ; she was denied the relief of tears, 
 it seemed as if her emotion was strangling her. 
 The officer continued to examine her attentively, 
 and finally addressed her : 
 
 "Is that young man your brother?"' he 
 inquired. 
 
 She shook her head in negation. He was as 
 rigid and unbending as ever, without the 
 suspicion of a smile on his face. Then, after an 
 interval of silence, he spoke again : 
 
 "Has he been living in the neighbourhood 
 
 long?" 
 
 87
 
 The ,4 track on the (Mill 
 
 She answered yes, by another motion of the 
 head, 
 
 "Then he must be well acquainted with the 
 woods about here ? " 
 
 This time she made a verbal answer. " Yes, 
 sir," she said, looking at him with some astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 He said nothing more, but turned on his heel, 
 requesting that the mayor of the village should 
 be brought before him. But Fran^oise had 
 risen from her chair, a faint tinge of colour on 
 her cheeks, believing that she had caught the 
 significance of his questions, and with renewed 
 hope she ran off to look for her father. 
 
 As soon as the firing had ceased Father 
 Merlier had hurriedly descended by the wooden 
 gallery to have a look at his wheel. He adored 
 his daughter and had a strong feeling of affection 
 for Dominique, his son-in-law who was to be ; 
 but his wheel also occupied a large space in his 
 heart. Now that the two little ones, as he 
 called them, had come safe and sound out of the 
 
 {
 
 T^he Jttack 071 the (Mill 
 
 fray, he thought of his other love, which must 
 have suffered sorely, poor thing, and bending 
 over the great wooden skeleton he was scru- 
 tinising its wounds with a heart-broken air. Five 
 of the buckets were reduced to splinters, the 
 central framework was honeycombed. He was 
 thrusting his fingers into the cavities that the 
 bullets had made to see how deep they were, 
 and reflecting how he was ever to repair all that 
 damage. When Frangoise found him he was 
 already plugging up the crevices with moss and 
 such debris as he could lay hands on. 
 
 "They are asking for you, father," said she. 
 
 And at last she wept as she told him what she 
 had just heard. Father Merlier shook his head. 
 It was not customary to shoot people like that. 
 He would have to look into the matter. And he 
 re-entered the mill with his usual placid, silent 
 air. When the officer made his demand for 
 supplies for his men, he answered that the 
 people of Rocreuse were not accustomed to be 
 ridden roughshod, and that nothing would be 
 
 89
 
 The Jttack on the u^ill 
 
 obtained from them throu^^h violence ; he was 
 wilHng to assume all the responsibility, but only 
 on condition that he was allowed to act 
 independently. The officer at first appeared to 
 take umbrage at this easy way of viewing 
 matters, but finally ga\-e way before the old 
 man's brief and distinct representations. As 
 the latter was leaving the room the other recalled 
 him to ask : 
 
 "Those woods there, opposite, what do you 
 call them?" 
 
 " The woods of Sauval." 
 
 " And how far do they extend ? " 
 
 The miller looked him straight in the face. " I 
 do not know," he replied. 
 
 And he withdrew. An hour later the subven- 
 tion in money and provisions that the officer had 
 demanded was in the courtyard of the mill. 
 Night was closing in ; Frangoise followed every 
 movement of the soldiers with an anxious eye. 
 She never once left the vicinity of the room in 
 which Dominique was imprisoned. About seven 
 90
 
 The Jttack on the SVLUl 
 
 o'clock she had a harrowing emotion ; she saw 
 the officer enter the prisoner's apartment, and for 
 a quarter of an hour heard their voices raised in 
 violent discussion. The officer came to the door 
 for a moment and gave an order in German 
 which she did not understand, but when twelve 
 men came and formed in the courtyard with 
 shouldered muskets, she was seized with a fit of 
 trembling- and felt as if she should die. It was 
 all over, then ; the execution was about to take 
 place. The twelve men remained there ten 
 minutes ; Dominique's voice kept rising higher 
 and higher in a tone of vehement denial. 
 Finally the officer came out, closing the door 
 behind him with a vicious bang and saying: 
 
 "Very well; think it over. I give you until 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 And he ordered the twelve men to break ranks 
 by a motion of his hand. Fran(;oise was stupefied. 
 Father Merlier, who had continued to puff away 
 at his pipe while watching the platoon with a 
 simple, curious air, came and took her by the 
 
 91
 
 The -it tack on the Mill 
 
 arm with fatherly gentleness. He led her to her 
 chamber. 
 
 " Don't fret," he said to her ; " try to get some 
 sleep. To-morrow it will be light and we shall 
 see more clearly." 
 
 He locked the door behind him as he left the 
 room. It was a fixed principle with him that 
 women are good for nothing, and that they spoil 
 everything whenever they meddle in important 
 matters. Franqoise did not lie down, however ; 
 she remained a long time seated on her bed, 
 listening to the various noises in the house. The 
 German soldiers quartered in the courtyard were 
 singing and laughing ; they must have kept up 
 their eating and drinking until eleven o'clock, 
 for the riot never ceased for an instant. Heavy 
 footsteps resounded from time to time through 
 the mill itself, doubtless the tramp of the guards 
 as they were relieved. What had most interest 
 for her was the sounds that she could catch in 
 the room th;it lay directly under lier own ; 
 several times she threw herself prone upon the 
 92
 
 The Attack on the SWtll 
 
 floor and applied her ear to the boards. That 
 room was the one in which they had Uicked up 
 Dominique. He must have been pacing the 
 apartment, for she could hear for a long time 
 his regular, cadenced tread passing from the 
 wall to the window and back again ; then there 
 was a deep silence ; doubtless he had seated 
 himself. The other sounds ceased too ; every- 
 thing was still. When it seemed to her that the 
 house was sunk in slumber she raised her 
 window as noiselessly as possible and leaned 
 out. 
 
 Without, the night was serene and balmy. 
 The slender crescent of the moon, which was 
 just setting behind Sauval wood, cast a dim 
 radiance over the landscape. The lengthening 
 shadows of the great trees stretched far athwart 
 the fields in bands of blackness, while in such 
 spots as were unobscured the grass appeared of 
 a tender green, soft as velvet. But Fran^oise 
 did not stop to consider the mysterious charm 
 of night. She was scrutinising the country and 
 
 93
 
 The J t tack on the Mill 
 
 looking to see where the Germans had posted 
 their sentinels. She could clearly distinguish 
 their dark forms outlined along the course of the 
 Morelle. There was only one stationed opposite 
 the mill, on the far bank of the stream, by a 
 willow whose branches dipped in the water- 
 Frangoise had an excellent view of him ; he was 
 a tall young man, standing quite motionless with 
 face upturned toward the sky, with the medita- 
 tive air of a shepherd. 
 
 When she had completed her careful inspection 
 of localities she returned and took her former 
 seat upon the bed. She remained there an hour, 
 absorbed in deep thou.^ht. Then she listened 
 again : there was not a breath to be heard in the 
 house. She went again to the window- and took 
 another look outside, but one of the moon's horns 
 was still hanging above the edge of the forest, 
 and this circumstance doubtless appeared to her 
 unpropitious, for she resumed her waiting. At 
 last the moment seemed to have arrived ; the 
 night was now quite dark ; she could no longer 
 94
 
 The Attack on the (Mill 
 
 discern the sentinel opposite her, the landscape 
 lay before her black as a sea of ink. She lis- 
 tened intently for a moment, then formed her 
 resolve. Close beside her window was an iron 
 ladder made of bars set in the wall, which 
 ascended from the mill-wheel to the granary at 
 the top of the building, and had formerly served 
 the miller as a means of inspecting certain por- 
 tions of the gearing, but a change having been 
 made in the machinery the ladder had long since 
 become lost to sight beneath the thick ivy that 
 covered all that side of the mill. 
 
 Fran(^oise bravely climbed over the balustrade 
 of the little balcony in front of her window, 
 grasped one of the iron bars and found herself 
 suspended in space. She commenced the de- 
 scent ; her skirts were a great hindrance to her. 
 Suddenly a stone became loosened from the wall, 
 and fell into the Morelle with a loud splash. 
 She stopped, benumbed with fear, but reflection 
 quickly told her that the waterfall, with its con- 
 linuous roar, was sufficient to deaden any noise 
 
 95
 
 The Attack on the (Mill 
 
 that she could make, and then she descended 
 more boldly, putting aside ihe ivy with her foot, 
 testing each round of her ladder. When she 
 was on a level with the room that had been con- 
 verted into a prison for her lover she stopped. 
 An unforeseen difficulty came near depriving her 
 of all her courage : the window of the room be- 
 neath was not situated directly under the window 
 of her bedroom ; there was a wide space between 
 it and the ladder, and when she extended her 
 hand it only encauntered the naked wall. 
 
 Would she have to go back the way she came 
 and leave her project unaccomplished 1 Her 
 arms were growing very tired ; the murmuring of 
 the Morelle, far down below, was beginning to 
 make her dizzy. Then she broke oft" bits of 
 plaster from the wall and threw them against 
 Dominique's window. He did not hear; per- 
 haps he was asleep. Again she crumbled frag- 
 ments from the wall, until the skin was peeled 
 from her fingers. Her strength was exhausted ; 
 she felt that she was about to fall backward into 
 96
 
 The Jttack on the (Mill 
 
 the stream, when at last Dominique softly raised 
 his sash. 
 
 " It is I," she murmured. " Take rae quick ; I 
 am about to fall." Leaning from the window he 
 grasped her and drew her into the room, where 
 she had a paroxysm of weeping, stifling her 
 sobs in order that she might not be heard. 
 Then, by a supreme effort of the will she over- 
 came her emotion. 
 
 "Are you guarded?" she asked in a low voice. 
 
 Dominique, not yet recovered from his stupe- 
 faction at seeing her there, made answer by 
 simply pointing toward his door. There was a 
 sound of snoring audible on the outside ; it was 
 evident that the sentinel had been overpowered 
 by sleep and had thrown himself upon the floor 
 close against the door in such away that it could 
 not be opened without arousing him. 
 
 " You must fly," she continued earnestly. " I 
 came here to bid you fly and say farewell." 
 
 But he seemed not to hear her. He kept re- 
 peating : 
 
 G 97
 
 The Jttack on the Mil 
 
 " What, is it you, is it you ? Oh, what a fright 
 you gave me ! You might have killed yourself." 
 He took her hands, he kissed them again and 
 again. " How I love you, Frangoise ! You are 
 as courageous as you are good. The only thing 
 I feared was that 1 might die without seeing 
 you again; but you are here, and now they 
 may shoot me when they will. Let me but 
 have a quarter of an hour with you and I am 
 ready." 
 
 He had gradually drawn her to him ; her head 
 was resting on his shoulder. The peril that 
 was so near at hand brought them closer to each 
 other, and they forgot everything in that long 
 embrace. 
 
 "Ah, Frangoise ! " Dominique went on in low, 
 caressing tones, "to-day is the fete of Saint Louis, 
 our wedding-day, that we have been waiting for 
 so long. Nothing has been able to keep us 
 apart, for we are both here, faithful to our ap- 
 pointment, are we not ? It is now our wedding 
 
 morning." 
 
 98
 
 T^he Jttack on the Mill 
 
 " Yes, yes," she repeated after liim, " our 
 wedding morning." 
 
 They shuddered as they exchanged a kiss. 
 But suddenly she tore herself from his arms ; the 
 terrible reality arose before her eyes. 
 
 " You must fly, you must fly," she murmured 
 breathlessly. " There is not a moment to lose." 
 And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness 
 to draw her to him again, she went on in tender, 
 beseeching tones : " Oh ! listen to me, I entreat 
 you. If you die, I shall die. In an hour it will 
 be daylight. Go, go at once; I command you to 
 go." 
 
 Then she rapidly explained her plan to him. 
 The iron ladder extended downward to the 
 wheel ; once he had got so far he could climb 
 down by means of the buckets and get into the 
 boat, which was hidden in a recess. Then it 
 would be an easy matter for him to reach 
 the other bank of the stream and make his 
 escape. 
 
 " But are there no sentinels i" " said he. 
 
 99
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 " Only one, directly opposite here, at the foot 
 of the first willow." 
 
 " And if he sees me, if he gives the alarm ?" 
 
 Franqoise shuddered. She placed in his hand 
 a knife that she had brought down with her. 
 They were silent. 
 
 "And your father — and you?" Dominique 
 continued. " But no, it is not to be thought of; 
 I must not fly. When I ;im no longer here those 
 soldiers are capable of murdering you. You do 
 not know them. They offered to spare my life 
 if I would guide them into Sauvel forest. When 
 they discover that I have escaped, their fury 
 will be such that they will be ready for every 
 atrocity." 
 
 The girl did not stop to argue the question. 
 To all the considerations that he adduced her 
 one simple answer was : " Fly. For the love of 
 me, fly. If you love me, Dominique, do not 
 linger here a single moment longer." 
 
 .She promised that she would return to her bed- 
 room ; no one should know that she had helped 
 
 lOO
 
 The Jttack on the [Mill 
 
 him. She conchided by folding him in her 
 arms and smothering him with kisses, in an 
 extravagant outburst of passion. He was van- 
 quished. He put only one more question to her : 
 
 " Will you swear to me that your father 
 knows what you are doing, and that he counsels 
 my flight ? " 
 
 "It was my father who sent me to you," Fran- 
 goise unhesitatingly replied. 
 
 She told a falsehood. At that moment she 
 had but one great, overmastering longing, to 
 know that he was in safety, to escape from the 
 horrible thought that the morning's sun was to be 
 the signal for his death. When he should be far 
 away, then calamity and evil might burst upon 
 her head ; whatever fate might be in store for 
 her would seem endurable, so that only his life 
 might be spared. Before and above all other 
 considerations, the selfishness of her love de- 
 manded that he should be saved. 
 
 " It is well," said Dominique ; " I will do as 
 you desire." 
 
 lOI
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 No further word was spoken. Dominique 
 went to the window to raise it again. But sud- 
 denly there was a noise that chilled them with 
 affright. The door was shaken violently ; they 
 thought that some one was about to open it ; 
 it was evidently a party going the rounds who 
 had heard their voices. They stood by the 
 window, close locked in each other's arms, 
 awaiting the event with anguish unspeakable. 
 Again there came the rattling at the door, but 
 it did not open. Each of them drew a deep 
 sigh of relief; they saw how it was. The 
 soldier lying across the threshold had turned 
 over in his sleep. Silence was restored indeed, 
 and presently the snoring began again. 
 
 Dominique insisted that Frangoise should 
 return to her room first of all. He took her in 
 his arms, he bade her a silent farewell, then 
 helped her to grasp the ladder, and himself 
 climbed out on it in turn. He refused to de- 
 scend a single step, however, until he knew that 
 she was in her chamber. When she was safe 
 
 102
 
 The Jttack on the (Mill 
 
 in her room she let fall, in a voice scarce louder 
 than a whisper, the words : 
 
 " All revolt: I love you ! " 
 
 She kneeled at the window, resting her elbows 
 on the sill, straining her eyes to follow Dominique. 
 The right was still very dark. She looked for 
 the sentinel, but could see nothing of him; 
 the willow alone was dimly visible, a pale spot 
 upon the surrounding blackness. For a moment 
 she heard the rustling of the ivy as Dominique 
 descended, then the wheel creaked, and there 
 was a faint plash which told that the young man 
 had found the boat. This was confirmed when, 
 a minute later, she descried the shadowy outline 
 of the skiff on the grey bosom of the Morelle. 
 Then a horrible feeling of dread seemed to 
 clutch her by the throat. Every moment she 
 thought she heard the sentry give the alarm ; 
 every faintest sound among the dusky shadows 
 seemed to her overwrought imagination to be 
 the hurrying tread of soldiers, the clash of steel, 
 the click of musket-locks. The seconds slipped 
 
 103
 
 The Attack on the Mill 
 
 by, however, the landscape still preserved its 
 solemn peace. Dominique must have landed 
 safely on the other bank. Frangoise no longer 
 had eyes for anything. The silence was oppres- 
 sive. And she heard the sound of trampling 
 feet, a hoarse cry, the dull thud of a heavy body 
 falling. This was followed by another silence, 
 even deeper than that which had gone before. 
 Then, as if conscious thnt Death had parsed 
 that way, she becan.e very cold in presence of 
 the impenetrable night. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At early daybreak the repose of the mill was 
 disturbed by the clamour of angry voices. 
 Father Merlier had gone and unlocked Fran- 
 noise's door. She descended to the courtyard, 
 pale and very calm, but when there, could not 
 repress a shudder upon being brought face to 
 face with the body of a Prussian soldier that lay 
 104
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 on the ground beside the well, stretched out 
 upon a cloak. 
 
 Around the corpse soldiers were shouting and 
 gesticulating angrily. Several of them shook 
 their fists threateningly in the direction of the 
 village. The officer had just sent a summons 
 to Father Merlier to appear before him in his 
 capacity as mayor of the commune. 
 
 " Here is one of our men," he said, in a voice 
 that was almost unintelligible from anger, " who 
 was found murdered on the bank of the stream. 
 The murderer must be found, so that we may 
 make a salutary example of him, and I shall 
 expect you to co-operate with us in finding 
 him." 
 
 "Whatever you desire," the miller replied, 
 with his customary impassiveness. " Only it 
 will be no easy matter." 
 
 The officer stooped down and drew aside the 
 skirt of the cloak which concealed the dead 
 man's face, disclosing as he did so a frightful 
 wound. The sentinel had been struck in the 
 
 105
 
 The Jttacli on the Mill 
 
 throat and the weapon had not been withdrawn 
 from the wound. It was a common kitchen- 
 knife, with a black handle. 
 
 " Look at that knife," the officer said to Father 
 Merlier. " Perhaps it will assist us in our in- 
 vestigation." 
 
 The old man had started violently, but re- 
 covered himself at once ; not a muscle of his 
 face moved as he replied : 
 
 "Every one about here has knives like that. 
 Like enough your man was tired of fighting and 
 did the business himself Such things have 
 happened before now." 
 
 " Be silent ! " the officer shouted in a fury, 
 " I don't know what it is that keeps me from 
 setting fire to the four corners of your village." 
 
 His anger fortunately kept him from noticing 
 the great change that had come over Frangoise's 
 countenance. Her feelings had compelled her 
 to sit down upon the stone bench beside the 
 well. Do what she would she could not remove 
 her eyes from the body that lay stretched upon 
 io6
 
 The Jttack on the (Mill 
 
 the ground, almost at her feet. He had been a 
 tall, handsome young man in life, very like 
 Dominique in appearance, with blue eyes and 
 yellow hair. The resemblance went to her 
 heart. She thought that perhaps the dead man 
 had left behind him in his German home some 
 sweetheart who would weep for his loss. And 
 she recognised her knife in the dead man's 
 throat. She had killed him. 
 
 The officer, meantime, was talking of visiting 
 Rocreuse with some terrible punishment, when 
 two or three soldiers came running in. The 
 guard had just that moment ascertained the fact 
 of Dominique's escape. The agitation caused 
 by the tidings was extreme. The officer went 
 to inspect the locality, looked out through the 
 still open window, saw at once how the event 
 had happened, and returned in a state of exas- 
 peration. 
 
 Father Merlier appeared greatly vexed by 
 Dominique's flight. " The idiot ! " he mur- 
 mured ; "he has upset everything." 
 
 107
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 Frangoise heard him, and was in an agony of 
 suffering. Her father, moreover, had no sus- 
 picion of her complicity. He shook his head, 
 saying to her in an undertone : 
 
 " We are in a nice box, now ! " 
 
 " It was that scoundrel ! it was that scoundrel ! ' 
 cried the officer. "He has got away to the 
 woods ; but he must be found, or the village 
 shall stand the consequences." And addressing 
 himself to the miller : " Come, you must know 
 where he is hiding?" 
 
 Father Merlier laughed in his silent way, and 
 pointed to the wide stretch of wooded hills. 
 
 " How can you e.xpect to find a man in that 
 wilderness?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh ! there are plenty of hiding-places that 
 you are acquainted with. I am going to give 
 you ten men ; you shall act as guide to them." 
 
 " I am perfectly willing. But it will take a 
 week to beat up all the woods of the neighbour- 
 hood." 
 
 The old man's serenity enraged the officer ; 
 io8
 
 The Jttack on the (Mill 
 
 he saw, indeed, what a ridiculous proceeding 
 such a hunt would be. It was at that moment 
 that he caught sight of Frangoise where she sat, 
 pale and tremblin-, on her bench. His atten- 
 tion was aroused by the girl's anxious attitude. 
 He was silent for a moment, glancing sus- 
 piciously from father to daughter and back 
 again. 
 
 "Is not that man," he at last coarsely asked 
 the old man, "your daughter's lover?" 
 
 Father Merlier's face became ashy pale, and 
 he appeared for a moment as if about to throw 
 himstlf on the officer and throttle him. He 
 straightened himself up and made no reply. 
 Franqoise had hidden her face in her hands. 
 
 "Yes, that is how it is," the Prussian con- 
 tinued ; "you or your daughter have helped him 
 to escape. You are his accomplices. For the 
 last time, will you surrender him?" 
 
 The miller did not answer. He had turned 
 away and was looking at the distant landscape 
 with an air of indifference, just as if the officer 
 
 109
 
 The Jttack on the Milh 
 
 were talking to some other person. That put 
 the finishing touch to the latter's wrath. 
 
 " Very well, then ! " he declared, " you shall be 
 shot in his stead." 
 
 And again he ordered out the firing-party. 
 Father Merlier was as imperturbable as ever. 
 He scarcely did so much as shrug his shoulders; 
 the whole drama appeared to him to be in very 
 doubtful taste. He probably believed that they 
 would not take a man's life in that unceremo- 
 nious manner. When the platoon was on the 
 ground he gravely said : 
 
 " So, then, you are in earnest .'' Very well, I 
 am willing it should be so. If you feel you must 
 have a victim, it may as well be I as another." 
 
 But Francjoise arose, greatly troubled, stam- 
 mering : " Have mercy, sir ; do not harm my 
 father. Kill me instead of him. It was I who 
 helped Dominique to escape ; I am the only 
 guilty one." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, my girl," Father Merlier 
 e.\claimed. " Why do you tell such a falsehood .'' 
 
 IJO
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 She passed the night locked in her room, sir ; 
 I assure you that she does not speak the 
 truth." 
 
 " I n)>i speaking the truth," the girl eagerly 
 replied. " I got down by the window ; I incited 
 Dominicjue to fly. It is the truth, the whole 
 truth." 
 
 The old man's face was very white. He could 
 read in her eyes that she was not lying, and her 
 story terrified him. Ah, those children ! those 
 children ! how they spoiled everything, with 
 their hearts and their feelings ! Then he said 
 angrily : 
 
 " She is crazy ; do not listen to her. It is a 
 lot of trash she is telling you. Come, let us get 
 through with this business." 
 
 She persisted in her protestations ; she kneeled, 
 she raised her clasped hands in supplication. 
 The officer stood tranquilly by and watched the 
 harrowing scene. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " he said at last, " I take your 
 father because the other has escaped me. Bring 
 
 III
 
 The Jttack o?i the Mill 
 
 me back the other man, and your father shall 
 have his liberty." 
 
 She looked at him for a moment with eyes 
 dilated by the horror which his proposal inspired 
 in her. 
 
 "It is dreadful," she murmured. "Where 
 can I look for Dominique now ? He is gone ; I 
 know nothing beyond that." 
 
 "Well, make your choice between them ; him 
 or your father." 
 
 " Oh, my God I how can I choose .'' Even if 
 I knew where to find Dominique I could not 
 choose. You are breaking my heart. I would 
 rather die at once. Yes, it would be more 
 quickly ended thus. Kill me, I beseech you, kill 
 me " 
 
 The officer finally became weary of this scene 
 of despair and tears. He cried : 
 
 "Enough of this I I wish to treat you kindly; 
 I will give you two hours. If your lover is not 
 here within two hours, your father shall pay the 
 penalty that he has incurred," 
 
 118
 
 The Jttack on the [Mill 
 
 And he ordered Father Merlier away to the 
 room that had served as a prison for Dominique. 
 The old man asked for tobacco, and began to 
 smoke. There was no trace of emotion to be 
 descried on his impassive face. Only when he 
 was alone he wept two big tears that coursed 
 slowly down his cheeks. His poor, dear child, 
 what a fearful trial she was enduring ! 
 
 Fran9oise remained in the courtyard. Prus- 
 sian soldiers passed back and forth, laughing. 
 Some of them addressed her with coarse 
 pleasantries which she did not understand. 
 Her gaze was bent upon the door through 
 which her father had disappeared, and with a 
 slow movement she raised her hand to her fore- 
 head, as if to keep it from bursting. The officer 
 turned sharply on his heel, and said to her : 
 
 "You have two hours. Try to make good 
 use of them." 
 
 She had two hours. The words kept buzzing, 
 buzzing in her ears. Then she went forth 
 mechanically from the courtyard ; she walked 
 
 H 113
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 straight ahead with no definite end. Where 
 was she to go ? what was she to do ? She did 
 not even endeavour to arrive at any decision, 
 for she felt how utterly useless were her efforts. 
 And yet she would liave liked to see Dominique; 
 they could have come to some understanding 
 together, perhaps they might have hit on some 
 plan to extricate them from their difficulties. 
 And so, amid the confusion of her whirling 
 thoughts, slij took lier way downward to the 
 bank of the Morelle, which she crossed below 
 the dam by means of some stepping-stones 
 which were there. Proceeding onward, still 
 involuntarily, she came to the first willow, at the 
 corner of the meadow, and stooping down, 
 beheld a sight that made her grow deathly pale 
 — a pool of blood. It was the spot. And she 
 followed the track that Dominique had left in 
 the tall grass ; it was evident that he had run, 
 for the footsteps that crossed the meadow in a 
 diagonal line were separated from one another 
 by wide intervals. Then, beyond that point, 
 114
 
 The Jttack on the (Mill 
 
 she lost the trace, but thought she had dis- 
 covered it again in an adjoining field. It led 
 her onward to the border of the forest, where 
 the trail came abruptly to an end. 
 
 Though conscious of the futility of the pro- 
 ceeding, Frangoise penetrated into the wood. 
 It was a comfort to her to be alone. She sat 
 down for a moment, then, reflecting that time 
 was passing, rose again to her feet. How long 
 was it since she left the mill ? Five minutes, 
 or a half-hour ? She had lost all idea of time. 
 Perhaps Dominique had sought concealment in 
 a clearing that she knew of, where they had 
 gone together one afternoon and eaten hazel- 
 nuts. She directed her steps toward the clear- 
 ing ; she searched it thoroughly. A blackbird 
 flew out, whistling his sweet and melancholy 
 note ; that was all. Then she thought that he 
 might have taken refuge in a hollow among the 
 rocks where he went sometimes with his gun, 
 but the spot was untenanted. What use was 
 there in looking for him ? She would never find 
 
 "5
 
 The Attack on the (Mill 
 
 him, and little by little the desire to discover 
 his hiding-place became a passionate longing. 
 She proceeded at a more rapid pace. The idea 
 suddenly took possession of her that he had 
 climbed into a tree, and thenceforth she went 
 along with eyes raised aloft and called him by 
 name every fifteen or twenty steps, so that he 
 might know she was near him. The cuckoos 
 answered her ; a breath of air that rustled the 
 leaves made her think that he was there and was 
 coming down to her. Once she even imagined 
 that she saw him ; she stopped with a sense of 
 suffocation, with a desire to run away. What 
 was she to say to him ? Had she come there to 
 take him back with her and have him shot ? 
 Oh ! no, she would not mention those things ; 
 she would tell him that he must fly, that he must 
 not remain in the neighbourhood. Then she 
 thought of her father awaiting her return, and the 
 reflection caused her most bitter anguish. She 
 sank upon the turf, w^eeping hot tears, crying 
 aloud : 
 ii6
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 " My God ! My God ! why am I here ! " 
 
 It was a mad thing for her to have come. 
 And as if seized with sudden panic, she ran 
 hither and thither, she sought to make her way 
 ■out of the forest. Three times she lost her way, 
 and had begun to think she was never to see the 
 mill again, when she came out into a meadow, 
 directly opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she 
 caught sight of the village she stopped. Was 
 she going to return alone.'' 
 
 She was standing there when she heard a 
 voice calling her by name, softly : 
 
 " Frangoise ! Frangoise ! " 
 
 And she beheld Dominique raising his heid 
 above the edge of a ditch. Just God ! she had 
 found him. 
 
 Could it be, then, that Heaven willed his 
 death ? She suppressed a cry that rose to her 
 lips, and slipped into the ditch beside him. 
 
 " You were looking for me ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she repHed bewilderedly, scarce know- 
 ing what she was saying, 
 
 117
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 " Ah ! what has happened ? " 
 
 She stammered, with eyes do\\-ncast : "Why, 
 nothing ; I was anxious, I wanted to see you." 
 
 Thereupon, his fears alleviated, he went on to 
 tell her how it was that he had remained in the 
 vicinity. He was alarmed for them. Those ras- 
 cally Prussians were not above wreaking their 
 vengeance on women and old men. All had 
 ended well, however, and he added, laughing : 
 " The wedding will be put off for a week, that's 
 
 all." 
 
 He became serious, however, upon noticing 
 that her dejection did not pass away. 
 
 " But what is the matter ? You are concealing 
 something from me." 
 
 " No, I give you my word I am not. I am 
 tired ; I ran all the way here." 
 
 He kissed her, saying it was imprudent for 
 them both to talk there any longer, and was 
 about to climb out of the ditch in order to re- 
 turn to the forest. She stopped him ; she was 
 trembling violently. 
 ii8
 
 The Mtack on the (Mill 
 
 " Listen, Dominique ; perhaps it will be as 
 well for you to stay here, after all. There is 
 no one looking for you ; you have nothing to 
 fear." 
 
 " Frangoise, you are concealing something 
 from me," he said again. 
 
 Again she protested that she was concealing 
 nothing. She only liked to know that he was 
 near her. And there were other reasons still 
 that she gave in stammering accents. Her 
 manner ^as so strange that no consideration 
 could now have induced him to go away. 
 He believed, moreover, that the French would 
 return presently. Troops had been seen over 
 toward Sauval. 
 
 " Ah ! let them make haste ; let them come 
 as quickly as possible," she murmured fervently. 
 
 At that moment the clock of the church at 
 Rocreuse struck eleven ; the strokes reached 
 them, clear and distinct. She arose in terror ; 
 it was two hours since she had left the mill. 
 
 " Listen," she said, with feverish rapidity, 
 
 "9
 
 The Attack 071 the Mill 
 
 " should we need you, I will go up to my room 
 and wave my handkerchief from the window." 
 
 And she started off homeward on a run, while 
 Dominique, greatly disturbed in mind, stretched 
 himself at length beside the ditch to watch the 
 mill. Just as she was about to enter the village 
 Frangoise encountered an old beggar man, 
 Father Bontemps, who knew every one and 
 everything in that part of the country. He 
 saluted her; he had just seen the miller, he 
 said, surrounded by a crowd of Prussians ; 
 then, making numerous signs of the Cross 
 and mumbling some inarticulate words, he went 
 his way. 
 
 " The two hours are up," the officer said when 
 Frangoise made her appearance. 
 
 Father Merlier was there, seated on the bench 
 beside the well. He was smoking still. The 
 young girl again proffered her supplication 
 kneeling before the officer and vveeping^. Her 
 wish was to gain time. The hope that she 
 might yet behold the return of the French had 
 1 20
 
 The Jttack on the (Mill 
 
 been gaining strength in her bosom, and amid 
 her tears and sobs she thought she could dis- 
 tinguish in the distance the cadenced tramp 
 of an advancing army. Oh ! if they would but 
 come and dehver them all from their fearful 
 trouble ! 
 
 " Hear me, sir : grant us an hour, just one 
 little hour. Surely you will not refuse to grant 
 us an hour ! " 
 
 But the officer was inflexible. He even 
 ordered two men to lay hold of her and take 
 her away, in order that they might proceed un- 
 disturbed with the execution of the old man. 
 Then a dreadful conflict took place in Fran- 
 goise's heart. She could not allow her father to 
 be murdered in that manner ; no, no, she would 
 die in company with Dominique rather ; and she 
 was just darting away in the direction of her 
 room in order to signal to her fiance^ when 
 Dominique himself entered the courtyard. 
 
 The officer and his soldiers gave a great 
 shout of triumph, but he, as if there had been 
 
 121
 
 The Attack on the Mill 
 
 no soul there but Franqoise, walked straight up 
 to her ; he was perfectly calm, and his face wore 
 a slight expression of sternness. 
 
 " You did wrong," he said. " Why did you 
 not bring me back with you ? Had it not been for 
 Father Bontemps I should have known nothing 
 of all this. Well, I am here, at all events." 
 
 V. 
 
 It was three o'clock. The heavens were piled 
 high with great black clouds, the tail-end of a 
 storm that had been raging somewhere in the 
 vicinity. Beneath the coppeiy sky and ragged 
 scud the valley of Rocreuse, so bright and 
 smiling in the sunlight, became a grim chasm, 
 full of sinister shadows. The Prussian officer 
 had done nothing with Dominique beyond 
 placing him in confinement, giving no indica- 
 tion of his ultimate purpose in regard to him. 
 Franqoise, since noon, had been suffering un- 
 endurable agony ; notwithstanding her father's 
 
 122
 
 The Attack on the Mill 
 
 entreaties, she would not leave the courtyard. 
 She was waiting for the French troops to 
 appear, but the hours slipped by, night was 
 approaching, nnd she suffered all the more since 
 it appeared as if the time thus gained would 
 have no effect on the final result. 
 
 About three o'clock, however, the Prussians 
 began to make their preparations for departure. 
 The officer had gone to Dominique's room and 
 remained closeted with him for some minutes, 
 as he had done the day before. Frangoise 
 knew that the young man's life was hanging in 
 the balance ; she clasped her hands and put up 
 fervent prayers. Beside her sat Father Merlier, 
 rigid and silent, declining, like the true peasant 
 he was, to attempt any interference with accom- 
 plished facts. 
 
 " Oh I my God I my God I " Frangoise ex- 
 claimed, " they are going to kill him ! " 
 
 The miller drew her to him, and took her on 
 his lap as if she had been a little child. At 
 this juncture the officer came from the room, 
 
 123
 
 The Attack on the SMil/ 
 
 followed by two men conducting Dominique 
 between them. 
 
 " Never, never ! " the latter exclaimed. " I 
 am ready to die." 
 
 " You had better think the matter over," the 
 officer replied. " 1 shall have no trouble in find- 
 ing some one else to render us the service which 
 you refuse. I am generous with )0u ; I offer 
 you your life. It is simply a matter of guiding 
 us across the forest to Montredon ; there must 
 be paths." 
 
 Dominique made no answer. 
 
 " Then you persist in your obstinacy ? " 
 
 " Shoot me, and let's have done with it," he 
 replied. 
 
 Fran^oise, in the distance, entreated her 
 lover with clasped hands ; she was forgetful of 
 all considerations save one — she would have had 
 him commit a treason. But Father Merlier 
 seized her hands, that the Prussians might not 
 see the wild gestures of a woman whose mind 
 was disordered by her distress. 
 124
 
 The Jttack on the CMill 
 
 "He is right," he murmured, "it is best for 
 him to die." 
 
 The firing-party was in readiness. The officer 
 still had hopes of bringing Dominique over, and 
 was waiting to see him exhibit some signs of 
 weakness. Deep silence prevailed. Heavy 
 peals of thunder were heard in the distance, 
 the fields and woods lay lifeless beneath the 
 sweltering heat. And it was in the midst of 
 this oppressive silence that suddenly the cry 
 arose : 
 
 " The French ! the French ! " 
 
 It was a fact; they were coming. The line 
 of red trousers could be seen advancing along 
 the Sauval road, at the edge of the forest. 
 In the mill the confusion was extreme ; the 
 Prussian soldiers ran to and fro, giving vent 
 to guttural cries. Not a shot had been fired as 
 yet. 
 
 " The French ! the French ! " cried Fran- 
 ^oise, clapping her hands for joy. She was like 
 a woman possessed. She had escaped from her
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 father's embrace and was laughing boisterously, 
 her arms raised high in the air. They had 
 come at last, then, and had come in time, since 
 Dominique was still there, alive ! 
 
 A crash of musketry that rang in her ears like 
 a thunderclap caused her to suddenly turn her 
 head. The officer had muttered, "We will 
 finish this business first," and with his own 
 hands pushing Dominique up against the wall 
 of a shed, had given the command to the squad 
 to fire. When Fran^oise turned, Dominique 
 was lying on the ground, pierced by a dozen 
 bullets. 
 
 She did not shed a tear ; she stood there like 
 one suddenly rendered senseless. Her eyes 
 were fixed and staring, and she went and seated 
 herself beneath the shed, a few steps from ihe 
 lifeless body. She looked at it wistfully ; now 
 and then she would make a ii.ovement with 
 her hand in an aimlebs, childish way. The 
 Prussians had seized Father Merlier as a 
 hostage. 
 126
 
 The Jttack on the [Mill 
 
 It was a pretty fight. The officer, perceiving 
 that he could not retreat without being cut to 
 pieces, rapidly made the best disposition pos- 
 sible of his men ; it was as well to sell their 
 lives dearly. The Prussians were now the 
 defenders of the mill and the French were the 
 attacking party. The musketry fire began 
 with unparalleled fuiy ; for half an hour there 
 was no lull in the storm. Then a deep report 
 was heard, and a ball carried away a main 
 branch of the old elm. The French had 
 artillery ; a battery, in position just beyond the 
 ditch where Dominique had concealed himself, 
 commanded the main street of Rocreuse. The 
 conflict could not last long after that. 
 
 Ah! the poor old mill! The cannon-balls 
 raked it from wall to wall. Half the roof was 
 carried away ; two of the walls fell in. But it 
 was on the side toward the Morelle that the 
 damage was most lamentable. The ivy, torn 
 from the tottering walls, hung in tatters, debris 
 of every description floated away upon the 
 
 127
 
 The Jttack on the [Mill 
 
 bosom of the stream, and through a great 
 breach Frangoise's chamber was visible, with its 
 little bed, the snow-white curtains of which 
 were carefully drawn. Two balls struck the old 
 wheel in quick succession, and it gave one 
 parting groan ; the buckets were carried away 
 down stream, the frame was crushed into a 
 shapeless mass. It was the soul of the stout old 
 mill parting from the body. 
 
 Then the French came forward to carry the 
 place by storm. Tiiere was a mad hand-to- 
 hand conflict with the bayonet. Under the dull 
 sky the pretty valley became a huge slaughter- 
 pen ; the broad meadows looked on in horror, 
 with their great isolated trees and their rows of 
 poplars, dotting them with shade, while to 
 right and left the forest was like the walls of a 
 tilting-ground enclosing the combatants, and in 
 Nature's universal panic the gentle murmur of 
 the springs and water-courses sounded like sobs 
 and wails. 
 
 Frangoise had not stirred from the shed 
 128
 
 The Jttack on the Mill 
 
 where she remained hanging over Dominique's 
 body. Father MerUer had met his death from 
 a stray bullet. Then the French captain, the 
 Prussians being exterminated and the mill on 
 fire, entered the courtyard at the head of his 
 men. It was the first success that he had 
 gained since the breaking out of the war, so, 
 all inflamed with enthusiasm, drawing himself 
 up to the full height of his lofty stature, he 
 laughed pleasantly, as a handsome cavalier like 
 him might laugh. Then, perceiving poor 
 idiotic Fran^oise where she crouched between 
 the corpses of her father and her intended, 
 among the smoking ruins of the mill, he saluted 
 her gallantly with his sword, and shouted : 
 
 "Victory! Victory!" ^ 
 
 T2g
 
 THREE WARS
 
 THREE WARS 
 
 War ! In France, to men of my generation, 
 men who have passed their fiftieth year, this 
 terrible word awakens three special memories, 
 the memory of the Crimean expedition, of the 
 campaign in Italy, and of our disasters in 1870. 
 What victories, what defeats, and what a 
 lesson ! 
 
 Assuredly, war is accursed. It is a horrible 
 thing that nations should cut each other's 
 throats. According to our progressive humani- 
 tarian ideas, war must disappear on the day 
 when nations come to exchange a kiss of peace. 
 There are exalted minds which, beyond their 
 native country, behold humanity, and prophesy 
 universal concord. But how these theories fall 
 
 131
 
 three Wars 
 
 to pieces on the day when the country is 
 threatened ! The philosophers themselves 
 snatch a gun and shoot. All declarations of 
 fraternity are over ; and only a cry for extermi- 
 nation rises from the breast of the whole nation. 
 For war is a dark necessity, like death. It may 
 be that we must have something of a dungheap 
 to keep civilisation in flower. It is necessary 
 that death should affirm life ; and war is like 
 those cataclysms of the antediluvian world which 
 prepared the world of man. 
 
 We have grown tender ; we make moan over 
 every existence that passes away. And yet, do 
 we know how many existences, more or less, 
 are needed to balance the life of the earth ? 
 We yield to the idea that an existence is sacred. 
 Perhaps the fatalism of the ancients, which 
 could behold the massacres of old without leap- 
 ing to a Utopia of universal brotherhood, 
 had a truer greatness. To keep ourselves 
 manly, to accept the dark work wrought by 
 death in that night wherein none of us can 
 132
 
 Three Wars 
 
 read, to tell ourselves that, after all, people die, 
 and that there are merely hours in which they 
 die more — this, when all is said, is the wise 
 man's attitude. Those who are angry with war 
 should be angry with all human infirmities. 
 The soft-hearted philosophers who have been 
 loudest in their curses of war, have been 
 obliged to perceive that war will be the weapon 
 of progress until the day when, ideal civilisation 
 being attained, all nations join in the festival 
 of universal peace. But that ideal civilisation 
 lies so remote in the blue future, that there will 
 assuredly be fighting for centuries yet. It is 
 the fashionable thing, just now, to consider war 
 as an old remnant of barbarism, from which the 
 Republic will one day set us free. To declaim 
 against war is one way of setting up as a pro- 
 gressive person. But let a single cry of alarm 
 arise upon the frontier, let a trumpet sound in 
 the street, and we shall all be shouting for arms. 
 War is in the blood of man. 
 Victor Hugo wrote that only kings desired 
 
 133
 
 Three Wars 
 
 war, that nations desired only to exchange 
 marks of nfifection. Alas ! that was but a 
 poetic aspiration. The poet has been the high- 
 priest of that dream-peace of which I spoke ; 
 he celebrated the United States of Europe, he 
 put forward the brotherhood of nations, and 
 prophesied the new golden age. Nothing could 
 be sweeter or larger. But to be brothers is a 
 trifle ; the first thing is to love one another, and 
 the nations do not iove one another at all. A 
 falsehood is bad, merely in that it is a falsehood. 
 Undoubtedly, a sovereign, when he sees himself 
 in danger, may try the fortune of war against a 
 neighbour, in the hope of consolidating his 
 throne by victory. But after the first victory, or 
 the first defeat, the nation makes the war its 
 own, and fights for itself. If it were not fighting 
 for itself, it would not go on fighting. And 
 what shall we say of really national wars ? Let 
 us suppose that France and Germany some day 
 again find themselves face to face. Republic, 
 empire, or kingdom, the Government will count 
 134
 
 Three Wars 
 
 for nothing ; it will be the whole nation which 
 will rise. A great thrill will run from end to 
 end of the land. The bugles will sound of 
 themselves to call the people together. There 
 has been war germinating in our midst, in spite 
 of ourselves, these twenty years, and if ever the 
 hour strikes, it will rise, an overflowing harvest, 
 in every furrow. 
 
 Three times in my life, I repeat, have I felt the 
 passage of war over France ; and never shall I 
 forget the particular sound made by her wings. 
 First of all comes a far-off murmur, heralding 
 the approach of a great wind. The murmur 
 grows, the tumult bursts, every heart beats : a 
 dizzy enthusiasm, a need of killing and conquer- 
 ing takes hold of the nation. Then, when the 
 men are gone and the noise has sunk, an 
 anxious silence reigns, and every ear is on the 
 stretch for the first cry from the army. Will it 
 be a cry of triumph or of defeat ? It is a 
 terrible moment. Contradictory news comes ; 
 every tiniest indication is seized, every word is 
 
 135
 
 Three Wars 
 
 pondered and discussed until the hour when the 
 truth is known. And what an hour that is, of 
 dehrious joy or horrible despair ! 
 
 I. 
 
 I WAS fourteen at the time of the Crimean war. 
 I was a pupil in the College of Aix, shut up 
 with two or three hundred other urchins in an 
 old Benedictine convent, whose long corridors 
 and vast halls retained a great dreariness. 
 But the two courts were cheerful under the 
 spreading blue immensity of that glorious 
 Southern sky. It is a tender memory that I 
 keep of that college, in spite of the sufferings 
 that I endured there. 
 
 I was fourteen then ; I was no longer a small 
 boy, and yet I feel to-day how complete was the 
 ignorance of the world in which we were living. 
 In that forgotten corner, even the echo of great 
 events hardly reached us. The town, a sad, 
 old, dead capital, slumbered in the midst of its 
 136
 
 Three Wars 
 
 arid landscape ; and the college, c'.ose to the 
 ramparts, in the deserted quarter of the town, 
 slumbered even more deeply. I do not remem- 
 ber any political catastrophe ever passing its 
 walls while I was cloistered there. The Crimean 
 war alone moved us, and even as to that it is 
 probable that weeks elapsed before the fame of 
 it reached us. 
 
 When I recall my memories of tbat time, I 
 smile to think what war was to us country school- 
 boys. In the first place, everything was extremely 
 vague. The theatre of the struggle was so dis- 
 tant, so lost in a strange and savage country, 
 that we seemed to be looking on at a story come 
 true out of the " Arabian Nights." We did not 
 clearly know where the fighting was ; and I do 
 not remember that we had at any time curiosity 
 enough to consult the atlases in our hands. It 
 must be said that our teachers kept us in abso- 
 lute ignorance of modern life. They themselves 
 read the papers and learned the news ; but they 
 never opened their mouths to us about such 
 
 137
 
 Three Wars 
 
 things, and if we had questioned them, they 
 would have dismissed us sternly to our exercises 
 and essays. We knew nothing precise, except 
 that France was fighting in the East, for reasons 
 not within our ken. 
 
 Certain points, however, stood out clear. We 
 repeated the classic jokes about the Cossacks. 
 We knew the names of two or three Russian 
 generals, and we were not far from attributing 
 to these generals the heads of child-devouring 
 monsters. Moreover, we did not for one 
 moment admit the possibility that the French 
 could be beaten. That would have appeared to 
 us contrary to the laws of nature. Then there 
 were gaps. As the campaign was prolonged, 
 we would forget, for months at a time, that there 
 was any fighting, until some day some report 
 came to arouse our attention again. I cannot tell 
 whether we knew of the battles as they happened, 
 or whether we felt the thrill which the fall of 
 Sebastopol gave to France. All these things 
 138
 
 Three Wars 
 
 were confused. Virgil and Homer were realities 
 which caused us more concern than the contem- 
 porary quarrels of nations. 
 
 I only remember that for a time there was a 
 game greatly in favour in our playgrounds. We 
 divided ourselves into two camps. We drew 
 two lines on the ground, and proceeded to fight. 
 It was "prisoners' base" simplified. One camp 
 represented the Russian and one the French 
 army. Naturally, the Russians ought to have 
 been flefeated, but the contrary sometimes 
 occurred ; the fury was extraordinary and the 
 riot frightful. At the end of a week the super- 
 intendent was obliged to forbid this delightful 
 game : two boys had had to be put on the sick 
 list, with broken heads. 
 
 Among the most distinguished in these con- 
 flicts was a tall, fair lad, who always got chosen 
 General. Louis, who belonged to an old Breton 
 family that had come to live in the South, 
 assumed victorious airs. I can see him yet, 
 
 139
 
 Three Wars 
 
 with a handkerchief tied on his forehead by 
 way of plume, a leather belt girded round him, 
 leading on his soldiers with a wave of the hand 
 as if it were the great wave of a sword. He 
 filled us with admiration ; we even felt a sort of 
 respect for him. Strangely enough he had a 
 twin-brother, Julien, who was much smaller, 
 frail and delicate, and who greatly disliked 
 these violent games. When we divided into 
 two camps, he would go apart, sit dowTi on a 
 stone bench, and thence watch us with his sad 
 and rather frightened eyes. One day, Louis, 
 hustled and attacked by a whole band, fell 
 under their blows, and Julien gave a cry, pallid, 
 trembhng, half-fainting like a woman. The 
 two brothers adored each other, and none of us 
 would have dared to laugh at the little one 
 about his want of courage, for fear of the big one. 
 The memor)' of these twins is closely in- 
 volved for me in the memory of that time. 
 Towards the spring, I became a day-boarder, 
 and no longer slept at the college, but came in 
 140
 
 Three Wars 
 
 the morning for the seven o'clock lessons. The 
 two brothers, also, were day-boarders. The 
 three of us were inseparable. As we lived in 
 the same street we used to wait to go in to 
 college together. Louis, who was very preco- 
 cious and dreamed of adventures, seduced us. 
 We agreed to leave home at six, so as to have a 
 whole hour of freedom in which we could be 
 men. For us "to be men" meant to smoke 
 cigars And to go and have drinks at a shabby 
 wine-shop, which Louis had discovered in an 
 out-of-the-way street. The cigars and the 
 drinks made us frightfully ill ; but, then, what 
 an emotion it was to step into the wine-shop, 
 casting glances to right and left, and in terror 
 of being observed. 
 
 These fine doings occurred towards the close 
 of the winter. I remember there were mornings 
 when the rain fell in torrents. We waded 
 through, and arrived drenched. After that, the 
 mornings became mild and fair, and then a 
 mania took hold of us — that of going to see ofif 
 
 141
 
 Three Wars 
 
 the soldiers. Aix is on the road to Marseilles. 
 Regiments came into the town by the road from 
 Avignon, slept one night, and started off on the 
 morrow by the road to Marseilles. At that 
 time, fresh troops, especially cavalry and artil- 
 lery, were being sent to the Crimea. Not a 
 week elapsed without troops passing. A local 
 paper even announced these movements before- 
 hand, for the benefit of the inhabitants with 
 whom the men lodged. Only we did not read 
 the paper, and we were much concerned to 
 know overnight whether there would be soldiers 
 leaving in the morning. As the departure 
 occurred at five in the morning, we were 
 obliged to get up very early, often to no 
 purpose. 
 
 What a happy time it was ! Louis and 
 Juhen would come and call me from the middle 
 of the street, where not a person was yet to be 
 seen. I hurried down. It would be chilly, not- 
 withstanding the spring-time mildness of the 
 days, and we three would cross the empty town. 
 142
 
 Three Wars 
 
 When a regiment was leaving, the soldiers 
 would be assembling on the Cours, before a 
 hotel where the colonel generally stayed. 
 Therefore, the moment that we turned into the 
 Cours, our necks were stretched out eagerly. 
 If the Cours was empty, what a blow ! And it 
 was often empty. On these mornings, though 
 we did not say so, we regretted our beds, and 
 cooled our heels till seven o'clock, not knowing 
 what to do with our freedom. But, then, what 
 joy it was, when we turned the street and saw 
 the Cours full of men and horses ! An amazing 
 commotion arose in the slight morning chill. 
 Soldiers came in from every direction, while the 
 drums beat and the bugles called. The officers 
 had great difficulty in forming them on this 
 esplanade. However, order was established, 
 little by little, the ranks closed up, while we 
 talked to the men and slipped under the horses 
 legs, at the risk of being crushed. Nor were 
 we the only people to enjoy this scene. Small 
 proprietors appeared one by one, early towns- 
 
 143
 
 Three Wars 
 
 folk, and all that part of the population which 
 rises betimes. Soon there were crowds. The 
 sun rose. The gold and steel of the uniforms 
 shone in the clear morning light. 
 
 We thus beheld, on the Cours of that peace- 
 ful and still drowsy town, Dragoons, Cavalry 
 Chasseurs, Lancers, and, in fact, all branches of 
 light and heavy cavalry. But our favourites, 
 those who aroused our keenest enthusiasm, 
 were the Cuirassiers. They dazzled us as they 
 sat square on their stout horses, with the glow- 
 ing star of their breastplates before them. Their 
 helmets took fire in the rising sun ; their ranks 
 were like rows of suns, whose rays shone on the 
 neighbouring houses. When we knew that 
 there were Cuirassiers going, we got up at four, 
 so eager were we to fill our eyes with their 
 glories. 
 
 At last, however, the colonel would appear. 
 
 The colours, which had passed the night with 
 
 him, were displayed. And all at once, after two 
 
 or three words of command cried aloud, the re- 
 
 144
 
 Three Wars 
 
 giment gave way. It went down the Cours, and 
 with the first fall of the hoofs on the dry earth, 
 rose a beat of drums which made our hearts 
 leap within us. We ran to keep at the head of 
 the column, abreast of the band, which was 
 greeting the town, as it went at a double. 
 First there came three shrill bugle notes as a 
 summons to the players, then the trumpet call 
 broke out, and covered everything with its 
 sounds. Outside the gates the "double" was 
 ended in the open, where the last notes died 
 away. Then there was a turn to the left along 
 the Marseilles road, a fine road planted with 
 elms hundreds of years old. The horses went 
 at a foot pace, in rather open order, on the wide 
 highway, white with dust. We felt as if we 
 were going, too. The town was remote, college 
 was forgotten ; we ran and ran, delighted with 
 our outbreak. It was like setting out to war 
 ourselves every week. 
 
 Ah, those lovely mornings ! It was six 
 o'clock, the sun, already high, lighted the 
 
 K 145
 
 Three Wars 
 
 country with great sloping rays. A milder 
 warmth breathed through the little chill breeze 
 of morning. Groups of birds flew up from the 
 hedges. Far off the meadows were bathed in 
 pink mist ; and amid this smiling landscape 
 these beautiful soldiers, the Cuirassiers shining 
 like stars, passed with their glowing breasts. 
 The road turned suddenly at the dip of a deep 
 valley. The curious townsfolk never went far- 
 ther; soon we .vere the only ones persisting. 
 We went down the slope and reached the 
 bridge crossing the river at the very bottom. 
 It was only there that uneasiness would fall on 
 us. It must be nearly seven; we had only just 
 time to run home, if we did not wish to miss 
 college. Often we suffered ourselves to be 
 carried away ; we pushed on farther still ; and 
 on those da\ s we played truant, roaming about 
 till noon, hiding ourselves in the grassy holes at 
 the edge of the waterfall. At other times we 
 stopped at the bridge, sitting on the stone 
 parapet, and never losing sight of the regiment, 
 146
 
 Three Wars 
 
 as it went up the opposite slope of the valley 
 before us. It was a moving spectacle. The 
 road went up the hillside in a straight line for 
 rather more than a mile. The horses slackened 
 their pace yet more, the men grew smaller with 
 the rhythmic swaying of their steeds. At first, 
 each breastplate and each helmet was like a 
 sun. Then the suns dwindled, and soon there 
 was only an army of stars on the march. Finallv , 
 the last man disappeared and the road was bare. 
 Nothing was left of the beautiful regiment that 
 had passed by, except a memory. 
 
 We were only children ; but, all the same, 
 that spectacle made us grave. As the regiment 
 slowly mounted the steep, we would be taken 
 by a great silence, our eyes fixed upon the 
 troop, in despair at the thought of losing it, and 
 when it had disappeared, something tightened 
 in our throats, and for a moment or two we still 
 watched the distant rock behind which it had 
 just vanished. Would it ever come back.? 
 Would it some day come down this hillside 
 
 147
 
 Three Wars 
 
 again ? These questions, stirring sadly within 
 us, made us sad. Good-bye, beautiful regi- 
 ment. 
 
 Julien, in particular, always came home very 
 tired. He only came so far in order not to 
 leave his brother. These excursions knocked 
 him up, and he had a mortal terror of the horses. 
 I remember that one day we had lingered in 
 the train of an artillery regiment, and spent the 
 day in the open fields. Louis was wild with 
 enthusiasm. When we had breakfasted on an 
 omelette, in a village, he took us to a bend of 
 the river, where he was set upon bathing. Then 
 he talked of going for a soldier as soon as he was 
 old enough. 
 
 "No, no!" cried Julien, flinging his arms 
 round his neck. He was quite pale. His 
 brother laughed, and called him a great stupid. 
 But he repeated : " You would be killed, I 
 know you would." 
 
 On that day, Julien, excited, and jeered at by 
 us, spoke his mind. He thought the soldiers 
 148
 
 Three Wan 
 
 horrid, he did not see what there was in them to 
 attract us. It was all the soldiers' fault, because 
 if there were not any soldiers, there would not be 
 any fighting. In fact, he hated war ; it terrified 
 him, and, later on, he would find some way to 
 prevent his brother from going. It was a sort of 
 morbid, unconquerable aversion which he felt. 
 
 Weeks and months went by. We had got 
 tired of the regiments ; we had found out 
 another sport, which was to go fishing, of a 
 morning, for the little fresh-water fish, and to 
 eat what we caught in a third-rate tavern. The 
 water was icy. Julien got a cold on the 
 chest, of which he nearly died. In college, war 
 was no longer talked about. We had fallen 
 back deeper than ever into Homer and Virgil. 
 All at once, we learned that the French had 
 conquered, which seemed to us quite natural. 
 Then, regiments again began to pass, but in the 
 other direction. They no longer interested us ; 
 still, we did see two or three. They did not 
 seem to us so fine, diminished as they were by 
 
 149
 
 Three Wars 
 
 half — and the rest is lost in a mist. Such was 
 the Ciimean war, in France, for schoolboys shut 
 up in a country college. 
 
 II. 
 
 In 1859 I was in Paris, finishing my studies at 
 the Lycee St. Louis. As it happened, I was 
 there with my two school-fellows from Aix, 
 Louis and Julien. Louis was preparing for his 
 entrance examination to the Ecole Polytech- 
 nique ; Julien had decided to go in for law. 
 We were all out-students. 
 
 By this time we had ceased to be savages, 
 entirely ignorant of the contemporary world. 
 Paris had ripened us. Thus, when the war 
 with Italy broke out, we were abreast of the 
 stream of political events which had led to it. 
 We even discussed the war in the character of 
 politicians and military adepts. It was the 
 fashion at college to take interest in the cam- 
 paign, and to follow the movements of the troops 
 150
 
 Three Wars 
 
 on the map. During our college hours we used 
 to mark our positions with pins and fight and 
 lose battles. In order to be well up to date, we 
 devoured an enomious supply of newspapers. 
 It was the mission of us out-students to bring 
 them in. We used to arrive with our pockets 
 stuffed, with thicknesses of paper under our 
 coats, enclosed from head to foot in an armour 
 of newspapers. And while lectures were going 
 on these papers were circulated ; lessons and 
 studies were neglected ; we drank our fill of 
 news, shielded by the back of a neighbour. In 
 order to conceal the big sheets we used to cut 
 them in four, and open them inside our books. 
 The professors were not always blind, but they 
 let us go our own way with the tolerance of men 
 resigned to let the idler bear the burden of his 
 idleness. 
 
 At first, Julien shrugged his shoulders. He 
 was possessed by a fine adoration of the poets of 
 1830, and there was always a volume of Musset 
 or Hugo in his pocket which he used to read at 
 
 151
 
 Three Wars 
 
 lecture. So when anyone handed him a news- 
 paper he used to pass it on scornfully without 
 even condescending to look at it, and would 
 continue reading the poem which he had begun. 
 To him it seemed monstrous that anybody could 
 care about men who were fighting one another. 
 But a catastrophe which changed the whole 
 course of his life caused him to alter his opinion. 
 One fine day Louis, who had just failed in his 
 examination, enlisted. It was a rash step which 
 had long been in his mind. He had an uncle 
 who w-as a general, and he thought himself sure 
 of making his way without passing through the 
 military schools. Besides, when the war was over, 
 he could still try Saint-Cyr. When Julien heard 
 this news, it came upon him like a thunderbolt. 
 He was no longer the boy declaiming against 
 war with missish arguments, but he still had 
 an unconquerable aversion. He wished to show 
 himself a hardened man ; and he succeeded 
 in not shedding tears beforerus. But from the 
 time his brother went, he became one of the 
 152
 
 Three Wars 
 
 most eager devourers of newspapers. We came 
 and went from college together ; and our con- 
 versations turned on nothing but possible battles. 
 I remember that he used to drag me almost 
 every day to the Luxembourg Gardens. He 
 would lay his books on a bench and trace a 
 whole map of Northern Italy in the sand. That 
 kept his thoughts with his brother. In the 
 depths of his heart he was full of terror at the 
 idea that he might be killed. 
 
 Even now, when I inquire of my memory, I 
 find it difficult to make clear the elements of 
 ihis horror of war on Julien's part. He was by 
 no means a coward. He merely had a distaste 
 f r bodily exercises, to which he reckoned ab- 
 stract mental speculations far superior. To live 
 the life of a learned man or a poet, shut into a 
 quiet room, seemed to him the real end of man 
 on this earth : while the turmoils of the street, 
 battles, whether with fist or sword, and every- 
 thing which develops the muscles seemed to him 
 only fit for a nation of savages. He despised 
 
 153
 
 Three Wars 
 
 athletes and acrobats and wild beast tamers. 
 I must add that he had no patriotism. On this 
 subject we heaped contempt upon him, and I 
 can still see the smile and shrug of the shoulders 
 with which he answered U5. 
 
 One of the most vivid memories of that time 
 which remains with me is the memory of the 
 fine summer day on which the news of the vic- 
 tory of Magenta became known in Paris. It 
 was June — a splciidid June, such as we seldom 
 have in France. It was Sunday. Julien and I 
 had planned the evening before to take a walk 
 in the Champs Elysees. He was very uneasy 
 about his brother, from whom he had had no 
 letter, and I wanted to distract his thoughts. I 
 called for him at one o'clock, and we strolled 
 down towards the Seine at the idle pace of 
 school-boys with no usher behind them. 
 
 Paris on a holiday in very hot weather is 
 
 something that deserves knowing. The black 
 
 shadow of the houses cuts the white pavement 
 
 sharply. Between the shuttered, drowsy house 
 
 154
 
 Three Wars 
 
 fronts is visible but a strip of sky of a hard blue. 
 I do not know any place in the world where, 
 when it is hot, it is hotter than in Paris ; it is a 
 furnace, suffocating, asphyxiating. Some cor- 
 ners of Paris are deserted, among others the 
 quays, whence the loungers have fled to subur- 
 ban copses. And yet, what a delightful wall it 
 is, along the wide, quiet quays, with their row of 
 little thick trees, and below, the magnificent rush 
 of the river all alive with its moving populace of 
 vessels. 
 
 Well, we had come to the Seine and were 
 walking along the quays in the shadow of the 
 trees. Slight sounds came up from the river, 
 whose waters quivered in the sun and were 
 marked out as with lines of silver into large 
 wavering patterns. There was something special 
 in the holiday air of this fine Sunday. Paris 
 was positively being filled already by the news 
 of which everybody, and even the very houses, 
 seemed expectant. Tue Italian campaign, which 
 was, as everybody knows, so rapid, had opened
 
 Three Wars 
 
 with successes ; but so far there had been no 
 important battle, and it was this battle which 
 Paris had for two days been feeling. The great 
 city held her breath and heard the distant 
 cannon. 
 
 I have retained the memory of this impression 
 very clearly. I had just confided to Julien the 
 strange sensation which I felt, by saying to 
 him that Paris " looked queer," when, as we 
 came to the Quai Voltaire, we saw, afar off, in 
 front of the printing-office of the Mofuteur^ a 
 little knot of people, standing to read a notice. 
 There were not more than seven or eight persons. 
 From the pavement where we stood, we could 
 see them gesticulating, laughing, calling out. 
 We crossed the road quickly. The notice was a 
 telegram, written, not printed ; it announced the 
 victory uf Magenta, in four lines. The wafers 
 which fixed it to ihe wall were not yet dry. 
 Evidently we were the first to know in all this 
 great Paris, that Sunday. People came running, 
 and their enthusiasm was a sight to see. They 
 156
 
 Three Wars 
 
 fraternised at once, strangers shook hands with 
 each other. A gentleman, with a ribbon at his 
 button-hole, explained to a workman how the 
 battle must have occurred ; women were laugh- 
 ing with a pretty laughter and looking as if they 
 were inclined to throw themselves into the arms 
 of the bystanders. Little by little the crowd 
 grew; passers-by were beckoned; coachmen 
 stopped their vehicles and came down from 
 their seats. When «e came away there were 
 more than a thousand people there. 
 
 After that it was a glorious day. In a few 
 minutes the news had spread to the whole town. 
 We thought to bear it with us, but it out-stripped 
 us, for we could not turn a corner or pass along 
 a street without at once understanding by the 
 joy on every face that the thing was known. It 
 floated in the sunshine; it came on the wind. 
 In half-an-hour the aspect of Paris was changed ; 
 solemn expectancy had given place to an out- 
 burst of triumph. We sauntered for a couple of 
 hours in the Champs Elysees among crowds 
 
 157
 
 Three Wars 
 
 who laughed for joy. The eyes of the women 
 had a special tenderness. And the word 
 " Magenta " was in every mouth. 
 
 But Julien was still very pale ; he was much 
 disturbed and I knew what was his secret 
 terror, when he murmured : — 
 
 "They laugh to-day, but how many will be 
 crying to-morrow ? " 
 
 He was thinking of his brother. I made jokes 
 to try and reassuie him, and told him that Louis 
 was sure to come back a captain. 
 
 "If rnly he does come back," he answered, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 As soon as night fell, Paris was illuminated. 
 Venetian lanterns swung at all the windows. 
 The poorest persons had lighted candles ; I 
 even saw some rooms whose tenants had 
 merely pushed a table to the window and set 
 their lamp on it. The night was exquisite, and 
 all Paris was in the streets. There were people 
 sitting all along upon the doorsteps as if they 
 were waiting for a procession. Crowds were 
 158
 
 Three Wars 
 
 standing in the squares, the cafds and the wine- 
 shops were thronged, and the urchins were 
 letting off crackers which scented the air with 
 a fine smell of powder. 
 
 I repeat I never saw Paris so beautiful. That 
 day, all joys were united, sunshine, a Sunday, 
 and a victory. Afterwards, when Paris heard 
 of the decisive battle of Solferino, there was not 
 the same enthusiasm, even though it brought 
 the immediate conclusion of the war. On the 
 day when the troops made their entry, the 
 demonstration was more solemn, but it lacked 
 that spontaneous popular joy. 
 
 We got a two days' holiday from Magenta. 
 We grew even more eager about the war, and 
 were among those who thought that peace had 
 been made too hastily. The school year was 
 drawing to its end. The holidays were coming, 
 bringing the feverish excitement of libei ty ; and 
 Italy, the army, and the victories, all disappeared 
 in the general setting free of the prize distribu- 
 tion. I remember that I was to go and spend 
 
 159
 
 Three Wars 
 
 my holidays in the South that year. When I 
 was just about to start, in the beginning of 
 August, Juhen begged me to stay till the 14th, 
 the date fixed for the triumphal entry of the 
 troops. He was full of joy. Louis was coming 
 back with the rank of sergeant, and he wished 
 me to be present at his brother's triumph. I 
 promised to stay. 
 
 Great preparations were made for the recep- 
 tion of the army which had for some days been 
 encamped in the immediate neighbourhood of 
 Paris. It was to enter by the Place de la Bas- 
 tille, to follow the line of the Boulevards, to go 
 down the Rue de la Paix, and cross the Place 
 Vendome. The Boulevards were decorated 
 with flags. On the Place Vendome, immense 
 stands had been erected for the members of the 
 Government and their guests. The weather 
 was splendid. When the troops came into 
 sight along the Boulevards, vast applause burst 
 forth. The crowd thronged on both sides of the 
 pavement. Heads rose above heads at the 
 160
 
 Three Wars 
 
 windows. Women waved their handkerchiefs 
 and threw down the flowers from their dresses 
 to the soldiers. All the while, the soldiers kept 
 on passing with their regular step, in the midst 
 of frantic hurrahs. The bands played ; the 
 colours fluttered in the sun. Several, which had 
 been pierced by balls, received applause, and one 
 in particular, which was in rags, and crowned. 
 At the corner of the Rue du Temple an old 
 woman flung herself headlong into the ranks and 
 embraced a corporal, her son, no doubt. They 
 came near to carrying that happy mother in 
 triumph. 
 
 The official ceremony took place in the Place 
 Vendome. There, ladies in full dress, magis- 
 trates in their robes, and officials in uniform 
 applauded with more gravity. In the evening, 
 the Emperor gave a banquet to three hundred 
 persons at the Louvre, in the Salle des Etats. 
 As he was proposing a toast, which has remained 
 historic, he exclaimed : " If France has done so 
 much for a friendly people what would she not
 
 Three Wars 
 
 do for her own independence?" An imprudent 
 speech which he must have regretted later. 
 Juhen and I had seen the march past from a 
 window in the Boulevard Poissoniere. He had 
 been to the camp the night before and had told 
 Louis where we should be. Thus when his 
 regiment passed Louis lifted his head to greet 
 us. He was much older, and his face was 
 brown and thin. I could hardly recognise him. 
 He looked like a man, compared with us who 
 were still children, slender and pale like 
 women. Julien followed him with his eyes as 
 long as he could, and I heard him murmur, 
 with tears in his eyes, while a nervous emotion 
 shook him : " It is beautiful after all — it is 
 beautiful." 
 
 In the evening I met them both again in a little 
 cafe of the Quartier Latin. It was a small 
 place at the end of an alley where we generally 
 went, because we were alone there and could 
 talk at our ease. When I arrived, Julien, with 
 both elbows on the table, was already listening 
 162
 
 Three Wars 
 
 to Louis, who was telling him about Solferino. 
 He said that no battle had ever been less foreseen. 
 The Austrians w^ere thought to be in retreat and 
 the allied armies were advancing when suddenly, 
 about five in the morning, on the 24th, they had 
 heard guns— it was the Austrians who had 
 turned and were attacking us. Then a series of 
 fights had begun, each division taking its turn. 
 All day long, the different generals had fought 
 separately, without having any clear idea of the 
 total form of the struggle. Louis had taken part 
 ill a terrible hand-to-hand conflict in a cemetery, 
 in the midst of graves ; and that was about all 
 he had seen. He also spoke of the terrible 
 storm which had broken out towards the even- 
 ing. The heavens took part and the thunder 
 silenced the guns. The Austrians had to give 
 up the field in a veritable deluge. They had 
 been firing on each other for sixteen hours, and 
 the night which followed was full of terrors, for 
 the soldiers did not exactly know which way the 
 victory had gone, and at every sound in the 
 
 163
 
 Three Wars 
 
 darkness they thought that the battle was begin- 
 ning again. 
 
 During this tale Julian kept on looking at his 
 brother. Perhaps he was not even listening, 
 but was happy in merely having him before his 
 eyes. I shall never forget the evening spent 
 thus in that obscure and peaceful cafe, whence 
 we heard the murniur of festival Paris, while 
 Louis was leading us across the bloody fields of 
 Solferino. When he had finished Julien said 
 quietly : — 
 
 " Anyway, you are here and what does 
 anything else matter ? " 
 
 III. 
 
 Eleven years later, in 1870, we were grown 
 men. Louis had reached the rank of captain. 
 Julien, after various beginnings, had settled 
 down to the idle, ever-occupied life of those 
 wealthy Parisians who frequent literary and 
 164
 
 Three Wars 
 
 artistic society without themselves ever touching 
 pen or paint brush. 
 
 There was great excitement at the first report 
 of a war with Germany. People's brains were 
 fevered : there was talk about our natural 
 frontier on the Rhine, and aljout avenging 
 Waterloo, which had remained a weight on our 
 hearts. If the campaign had been opened by a 
 victory, France would certainly have blessed 
 this war which she ought to have cursed. 
 
 Paris certainly would have felt disappointed if 
 peace had been maintained, after the stormy 
 sittings of the Corps Legislatif. On the day 
 when conllict became inevitable, all hearts beat 
 high. I am not speaking now of the scenes 
 which took place in the evenings on the 
 boulevards, of the shrieking crowds, or the 
 shouts of men who may have been paid, as, later 
 on, it was declared that they had been. I only 
 say that, among sober citizens, the greater 
 number were marking out on maps the different 
 stages of our army as far as Berlin. The 
 
 i6s
 
 Three Wars 
 
 Prussians were to be driven back with the butt 
 end of the rifle. This absolute confidence of 
 victory was our inheritance from the days in 
 which our soldiers had passed, always conquer- 
 ing, from one end of Europe to the other. Now- 
 adays we are thoroughly cured of that very 
 dangerous patriotic vanity. 
 
 One evening when I was on the Boulevard des 
 Capucines, watching hordes of men in blouses 
 who passed along, yelling, " A Berlin I A 
 Berlin^'' I felt someone touch me on the shoulder. 
 Itwasjuhen. He was very gloomy. I reproached 
 him with his lack of enthusiasm. 
 
 "We shall be beaten," said he, quieily. 
 
 I protested, but he shook his head, without 
 giving any reasons. He felt it, he said. I spoke 
 of his brother. Louis was already at Metz with 
 his regiment, and Julien showed me a letter 
 which he had received the night before, a letter 
 full of gaiety, in which the captain declared that 
 he should have died of barrack-life if the war 
 had not come to lift him out of it. He vowed 
 166
 
 Three Wars 
 
 that he would come home a colonel, with a 
 medal. 
 
 But when I tried to use this letter as an argai- 
 ment against Julien's dark prognostications, he 
 merely repeated : 
 
 "We shall be beaten." 
 
 Paris's time of anxiety began once more. I 
 knew that solemn silence of the great city ; I had 
 witnessed it in 1859 before the first hostilities of 
 the Italian campaign. But this time the silence 
 seemed more tremulous. Xo one seemed in 
 doubt about the victor)' ; yet sinister rumours 
 were current, coming no one knew whence. 
 Surprise was felt that our army had not taken 
 the initiative and carried the war at once into 
 the enemy's territory. 
 
 One afternoon on the Exchange a great piece 
 of news broke forth ; we had gained an Immense 
 victory, taken a considerable number of cannons, 
 and made prisoners a whole division. Houses 
 were actually beginning to be decorated, people 
 were embracing one another in the street, when 
 
 167
 
 Three Wars 
 
 the falsehood of the news had to be acknow- 
 ledged. There had been no battle. The victory 
 had not seemed natural in the expected order of 
 events, but the sudden contradiction, the trick 
 played on a populace that had been too ready 
 withits rejoicings and had to put off its enthusiasm 
 to another day, struck a chill to my heart. All 
 at once I felt an immense sadness, I felt the 
 quivering wing of some unexampled disaster 
 passing over us. 
 
 I shall always remember that ill-omened Sun- 
 day. It was a Sunday again, and many people 
 must have remembered the radiant Sunday of 
 Magenta. It was early in August ; the sunshine 
 had not the young brightness of June. The 
 weather was heavy, great flags of stormcloud 
 weighed upon the city. I was returning from a 
 liitle town in Normandy, and I was particularly 
 struck by the funereal aspect of Paris. On the 
 boulevards, people were standing about in groups 
 of three or four, and talking in low tones. At 
 last I heard the horrible news : we had been 
 168
 
 Three Wars 
 
 defeated at Worth, and the torrent of invasion 
 was flowing" into France. 
 
 I never beheld such deep consternation. All 
 Paris was stupefied. What ! Was it possible ? 
 We were conquered ! The defeat seemed to us 
 unjust and monstrous. It not only struck a blow 
 at our patriotism ; it destroyed a religion in us. 
 We could not yet measure all the disastrous 
 consequences of this reverse, we still hoped that 
 our soldiers might avenge it ; and yet we 
 remained as it were annihilated. The despairing- 
 silence of the town was full of a great shame. 
 
 That day and that evening were frightful. 
 The public gaiety of victorious days was not. 
 Women no longer wore that tender smile, nor 
 did people pass from group to group making 
 friends. Night fell black on this despairing 
 populace. Not a firework in the street ; not a 
 lamp at a window. Early on the morrow I saw 
 a regiment going down the boulevard. People 
 were pausing with sad faces, and the soldiers 
 passed, hanging their heads, as if they had had 
 
 169
 
 Three Wars 
 
 their share in the defeat. Nothing saddened me 
 so much as that regiment, applauded by no 
 one, passing over the same ground where I had 
 seen the army from Italy marching past amid 
 rejoicings that shook the houses. 
 
 Then began the days cursed with suspense. 
 Every two or three hours I used to go to the 
 door of the Mairie in the ninth ai-rondisseinent^ 
 which is in the Rue Drouot, where the telegrams 
 were put up. There were always people gathered 
 there, waiting, to the number of a hundred or so- 
 Often the crowd would extend right to the 
 boulevard. There was nothing noisy about 
 these crowds. People spoke in low tones, as if 
 they were in a sick-room. Directly a clerk 
 appeared to put a telegram on the board, there 
 was a rush. Soon the news ran from mouth to 
 mouth. But the news had long been persistently 
 bad, and public consternation grew. Even to- 
 day 1 cannot pass along the Rue Drouot without 
 thinking of those days of mourning. There, on 
 that pavement, the people of Paris had to undergo 
 170
 
 Three Wars 
 
 the most awful of torments. From hour to hour 
 we could hear the gallop of the German armies 
 drawing nearer to Paris. 
 
 I saw Julien very often. He did not boast to 
 me of having foreseen the defeat. He only 
 seemed to think what had happened was natural 
 and in the order of things. Many Parisians 
 shrugged their shoulders when they heard talk 
 of a siege of Paris. Could there be a siege of 
 Paris 1 And others would demonstrate mathe- 
 matically that Paris could not be invested. 
 Julien, by a sort of foreknowledge, which struck 
 me later, declared that we should be surrounded 
 on September 15th. He was still the schoolboy 
 to whom physical exercises were strangely re- 
 pulsive. All this war, upsetting all his customary 
 ways, put him beside himself Why, in the name 
 of God, did people want to fight ? And he would 
 lift up his hands with a gesture of supreme 
 protestation. Yet he read the telegrams 
 greedily, 
 
 " If Louis were not out there," he would repeat, 
 
 171
 
 Three Wars 
 
 " I might make verses while we are waiting for 
 the end of the commotion." 
 
 At long intervals letters came to him from 
 Louis. The news was terrible, the army was 
 getting discouraged. On the day when we 
 heard of the battle of Borny I met Julien at the 
 corner of the Rue Drouot. Paris had a gleam 
 of hope that day. There was talk of a success. 
 He, on the other hand, seemed to me gloomier 
 than usual. He had read, somewhere, that his 
 brother's regiment had done heroically, and that 
 its losses had been severe. 
 
 Three days later a common friend came to 
 tell me the terrible news. A letter had brought 
 word to Julien the night before of his brother's 
 death. He had been killed at Borny by the 
 bursting of a shell. I immediately hurried to go 
 to the poor fellow, but I found no one at his 
 lodging. The next morning, while I was still in 
 bed, a young man came in dressed as a franc- 
 Ureter. It was Julien. At first I hardly knew 
 him. Then I folded him in my arms and em- 
 
 172
 
 Three Wars 
 
 braced him heartily, while my eyes were full of 
 tears. He did not weep. He sat down for 
 a moment and made a sign to stop my con- 
 dolences. 
 
 " There," said he, quietly, " I wanted to say 
 'good-bye' to you. Now that I am alone I 
 
 could not endure to do nothing So as I 
 
 found that a company of franc-tireins was 
 going, I joined yesterday. That will give me 
 something to do." 
 
 " When do you leave Paris ?" I asked him. 
 
 "Why, in a couple of hours. Good-bye." 
 
 He embraced me in his turn. I did not dare 
 to ask him any more questions. He went, and 
 the thought of him was always with me. 
 
 After the catastrophe of Sedan, some days 
 before the surrounding of Paris, I had news of 
 him. One of his comrades came to tell me that 
 this young fellow, so pale and slender, fought 
 like a wolf. He kept up a savage warfare 
 against the Prussians, watching them from be- 
 hind a hedge, using a knife rather than his gun. 
 
 173
 
 Three Wars 
 
 Whole nights long he would be on the hunt, 
 watching for men as for his prey, and cutting 
 the throat of anyone who came within his 
 reach. I was stupefied. I could not think that 
 this was Julien ; I asked myself whether it was 
 possible that the nervous poet could have be- 
 come a butcher. 
 
 Then Paris was isolated from the rest of the 
 world, and the siege began with all its fits of 
 sleepiness and of fever. I could not go out 
 without remembering Aix on a winter evening. 
 The streets were dark and empty, the houses 
 were shut up early. There were, indeed, dis- 
 tant sounds of cannon and of shots, but the 
 sounds seemed to get lost in the dull silence of 
 the vast town. Some days, breaths of hope 
 would come over, and then the whole popula- 
 tion would awake, forgetful of the long standing 
 at the baker's door, the rations, the cold chim- 
 neys, the shells showering upon some districts 
 of the left side of the river. Then the crowd 
 174
 
 Three Wars 
 
 would be struck dumb by some disaster, and 
 the silence began again — the silence of a capital 
 in the death agony. Yet, in the course of this 
 long siege, I saw little glimpses of quiet happi- 
 ness ; people who had a little to live on, who 
 kept up their daily " constitutional " in the pale 
 wintry sunshine, lovers smiling at each other in 
 some out of the way nook and never hearing 
 the cannonade. We lived from day to day. All 
 our illusions had fallen ; we counted on some 
 miracle, help from the provincial armies, or a 
 sortie of the whole populace, or some prodigious 
 intervention to arise in its due time. 
 
 I was at one of the outposts, one day, when a 
 man was brought in, who had been found in a 
 trench. I recognised Julien. He insisted on 
 being taken to a general, and gave him sundry 
 pieces of information. I stayed with him, and 
 we spent the night together. Since September 
 he had never slept in a bed, but had given 
 himself up obstinately to his vocation as a cut-
 
 Three Wars 
 
 throat. He seemed chary of details, shrugged 
 his shoulders, and told me that all expeditions 
 were alike ; he killed as many Prussians as he 
 could, and killed them how he could : with a 
 gun or with a knife. According to him it was 
 after all a very monotonous life, and much 
 less dangerous than people thought. He had 
 run no real danger, except once when the 
 French took him for a spy and wanted to shoot 
 him. 
 
 The next day he talked of going off again, 
 across fields and woods. I entreated him to 
 stay in Paris. He was sitting beside me, but 
 did not seem to listen to me. Then he said, all 
 at once : 
 
 "You are right, it is enough — I have killed 
 my share." 
 
 Two days later he announced that he had en- 
 listed in the Chasseurs-k-pied. I was stupefied. 
 Had he not avenged his brother enough .'' 
 Had the idea of his country awakened in him ? 
 176
 
 'Three Wars 
 
 And, as I smiled in looking at him, he said 
 quietly : 
 
 " I take Louis' place. I cannot be anything 
 but a soldier. Oh, powder intoxicates ! And 
 one's country, you see, is the earth where they 
 lie, whom we loved," 
 
 Printed hy Ballantvne Hanson & Co. 
 London and Edinburgh 
 
 M 177
 
 B Selecttoii 
 
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