by Frank Wynne
“Oh! I beg of you, listen to me. If you die, I shall die. In an hour it will be daylight. I wish you to go at once.”
Then rapidly she explained her plan. The iron ladder ran down to the wheel; there he could take the paddles and get into the boat, which was in the recess. After that it would be easy for him to reach the other bank of the river and escape.
“But there must be sentinels there?” he said.
“Only one, opposite, at the foot of the first willow.”
“And if he sees me, if he tries calling out?”
Françoise shuddered. She put a knife she had brought with her into his hand. There was a silence.
“And your father, and you?” Dominique continued. “But no, I can’t run away. When I am gone, maybe these soldiers will slaughter you. You don’t know them. They proposed to show me mercy if I would be their guide through the Sauval forest. When they find me gone, they will stick at nothing.”
The young girl did not stop to discuss. She simply answered all the reasons he gave with—
“For the love of me, fly. If you love me, Dominique, don’t stay here a minute longer.”
Then she promised to climb back to her room. They would not know that she had helped him. She at last took him in her arms, kissed him to convince him, in an extraordinary outburst of passion. He was beaten. He asked not a question further.
“Swear to me that your father knows of what you are doing, and that he advises me to run away.”
“It was my father sent me,” Françoise answered boldly.
She lied. At this moment she felt nothing but a boundless need of knowing him in safety, of escaping from this abominable thought that the sun would give the signal for his death. When he was gone, all mishaps might rush down upon her; it would seem sweet to her as long as he was alive. The selfishness of her love wished him alive before all else.
“Very well,” said Dominique: “I will do as you prefer.”
Then they said nothing more. Dominique went to open the window again; but suddenly a noise chilled their blood. The door was shaken, and they thought it was being opened. Evidently a patrol had heard their voices; and both of them, standing pressed against each other, waited in an unspeakable anguish. Each gave a stifled sigh; they saw how it was,—it must have been the soldier lying across the threshold turning over. And really, silence was restored; the snoring began again.
Dominique would have it that Françoise must first climb back to her room. He took her in his arms; he bade her a mute farewell. Then he helped her to seize the ladder, and grappled hold of it in his turn. But he refused to go down a single rung before he knew she was in her room. When Françoise had climbed in, she whispered, in a voice as light as breath:—
“Au revoir; I love you!”
She stopped with her elbows resting on the window-sill, and tried to follow Dominique with her eyes. The night was still very dark. She looked for the sentinel, and did not see him; only the willow made a pale spot in the midst of the darkness. For an instant she heard the rustling of Dominique’s body along the ivy. Then the wheel creaked, and there was a gentle plashing that told that the young man had found the boat. A minute later, in fact, she made out the dark outline of a boat on the gray sheet of the Morelle. Then anguish stopped her breath. At every moment she thought to hear the sentinel’s cry of alarm. The faintest sounds, scattered through the darkness, seemed to be the hurried tread of soldiers, the clatter of arms, the click of hammers of their rifles. Yet seconds elapsed; the country slept in a sovereign peace. Dominique must have been landing on the other bank. Françoise saw nothing more. The stillness was majestic. And she heard a noise of scuffling feet, a hoarse cry, the dull thud of a falling body. Then the silence grew deeper; and as if she had felt death passing by, she waited on, all cold, face to face with the pitch-dark night.
III.
At daybreak, shouting voices shook the mill. Old Merlier had come down to open Françoise’s door. She came down into the court-yard, pale and very calm. But there she gave a shudder before the dead body of a Prussian soldier, which was stretched out near the well, on a cloak spread on the ground.
Around the body, soldiers were gesticulating, crying aloud in fury. Many of them shook their fists at the village. Meanwhile the officer had had old Merlier called, as mayor of the township.
“See here,” said he, in a voice choking with rage, “here’s one of our men who has been murdered by the river-side. We must make a tremendous example, and I trust you will help us to find out the murderer.”
“Anything you please,” answered the miller in his phlegmatic way. “Only it will not be easy.”
The officer had stooped down to throw aside a flap of the cloak that hid the dead man’s face. Then a horrible wound appeared. The sentinel had been struck in the throat, and the weapon was left in the wound. It was a kitchen knife with a black handle.
“Look at this knife,” said the officer to old Merlier: “perhaps it may help us in our search.”
The old man gave a start. But he recovered himself immediately, and answered, without moving a muscle of his face:—
“Everybody in these parts has knives like that. Maybe your man was tired of fighting, and did the job himself. Such things have been known to happen.”
“Shut up!” the officer cried furiously. “I don’t know what keeps me from setting fire to the four corners of the village.”
His anger luckily prevented his noticing the profound change that had come over Françoise’s face. She had to sit down on the stone bench near the wall. In spite of herself her eyes never left that dead body, stretched on the ground almost at her feet. He was a big, handsome fellow, who looked like Dominique, with light hair and blue eyes. This resemblance made her heart-sick. She thought of how the dead man had perhaps left some sweetheart behind who would weep for him over there in Germany. And she recognized her knife in the dead man’s throat. She had killed him.
Meanwhile the officer talked of taking terrible measures against Rocreuse, when some soldiers came up running. They had only just noticed Dominique’s escape. It occasioned an extreme agitation. The officer visited the premises, looked out of the window, which had been left open, understood it all, and came back exasperated.
Old Merlier seemed very much put out at Dominique’s flight.
“The idiot!” he muttered: “he spoils it all.”
Françoise, who heard him, was seized with anguish. For the rest her father did not suspect her complicity. He shook his head, saying to her in an undertone:—
“Now we are in a fine scrape!”
“It’s that rascal! it’s that rascal!” cried the officer. “He must have reached the woods. But he must be found for us, or the village shall pay for it.”
And addressing the miller:—
“Come, you must know where he is hiding?”
Old Merlier gave a noiseless chuckle, pointing to the wide extent of wooded hillside. “How do you expect to find a man in there?” said he.
“Oh, there must be holes in there that you know of. I will give you ten men. You shall be their guide.”
“All right. Only it will take us a week to beat all the woods in the neighborhood.”
The old man’s coolness infuriated the officer. In fact, he saw the ridiculousness of this battue. It was then that he caught sight of Françoise, pale and trembling on the bench. The young girl’s anxious attitude struck him. He said nothing for an instant, looking hard at the miller and Françoise by turns.
“Isn’t this young man,” he at last brutally asked the old man, “your daughter’s lover?”
Old Merlier turned livid; one would have thought him on the point of throwing himself upon the officer and strangling him. He drew himself up stiffly; he did not answer. Françoise put her face between her hands.
“Yes, that’s it,” the Prussian went on: “you or your daughter have helped him to run away. You are his accomplice. For the last time, will you give him up to us?”
The miller did not answer. He had turned away, looking off into the distance, as if the officer had not been speaking to him.
This put the last touch to the latter’s anger.
“Very well,” he said: “you shall be shot instead.”
And he once more ordered out the firing party. Old Merlier still kept cool. He hardly gave a slight shrug of his shoulders: this whole drama seemed to him in rather bad taste. No doubt he did not believe that a man was to be shot with so little ado. Then when the squad had come, he said gravely:—
“You’re in earnest, then?—All right. If you absolutely must have some one, I shall do as well as another.”
But Françoise sprang up, half crazed, stammering out:—
“Mercy, monsieur! don’t do any harm to my father. Kill me instead. It’s I who helped Dominique to escape. I am the only culprit.”
“Be quiet, little girl,” cried old Merlier. “What are you lying for? She spent the night locked up in her room, monsieur. She lies, I assure you.”
“No, I am not lying,” the young girl replied ardently. “I climbed down out of the window; I urged Dominique to fly. It’s the truth, the only truth.”
The old man turned very pale. He saw clearly in her eyes that she was not lying; and the story appalled him. Ah! these children with their hearts, how they spoiled everything! Then he grew angry.
“She’s crazy; don’t believe her. She is telling you stupid stories. Come, let’s have done with it.”
She tried to protest again. She knelt down, she clasped her hands. The officer looked quietly on the heart-rending struggle.
“Good God!” he said at last, “I take your father because I haven’t got the other one. Try and find the other one, and your father shall go free.”
For a moment she looked at him, her eyes staring wide at the atrocity of this proposal.
“It’s horrible,” she murmured. “Where do you expect me to find Dominique at this time? He’s gone; I don’t know where he is.”
“Well, choose. Him or your father.”
“O my God! how can I choose? but even if I knew where Dominique was, I could not choose! It is my heart you are breaking. I had rather die at once. Yes, it would be soonest over so. Kill me, I beg of you, kill me!”
The officer at last grew impatient at this scene of despair and tears. He cried out:—
“I’ve had enough of this! I’m willing to be good-natured,—I consent to give you two hours. If your sweetheart isn’t here in two hours, your father shall pay for him.”
And he had old Merlier taken to the room which had been used for Dominique’s prison. The old man asked for some tobacco, and fell to smoking. No emotion was detected in his impassive face. Only, when he was alone, two big tears ran slowly down his cheeks. His poor, dear child, how she suffered!
Françoise had stayed in the middle of the court-yard. Some Prussian soldiers passed by, laughing. Some of them called out to her jokes which she did not understand. She stared at the door through which her father had just disappeared. And with a slow movement she raised her hand to her forehead, as if to keep it from bursting. The officer turned on his heel repeating:
“You have two hours. Try to make good use of them.”
She had two hours. This sentence kept buzzing in her head. Then, mechanically, she went out of the court-yard, she walked straight before her. Whither should she go? What should she do? She did not even try to decide, because she felt convinced of the uselessness of her efforts. Yet she would have liked to find Dominique. They would have come to an understanding together; they might perhaps have hit upon an expedient. And amid the confusion of her thoughts, she went down to the bank of the Morelle, which she crossed below the dam, at a place where there were some large stones. Her feet led her under the first willow, at the corner of the field. As she bent down she saw a pool of blood that made her turn pale. That was clearly the place. And she followed Dominique’s tracks in the trodden grass: he must have run; a long line of strides was to be seen cutting through the field cornerwise. Then, farther on, she lost the tracks; but in a neighboring field she thought she found them again. This brought her to the outskirts of the forest, where all traces were wiped out.
Françoise plunged in under the trees, notwithstanding. It was a relief to be alone. She sat down for a moment; then, remembering her time was running out, she got up again. How long was it since she had left the mill? Five minutes? half an hour? She lost all consciousness of time. Perhaps Dominique had gone and hidden in a copse she knew of, where one afternoon they had eaten filberts together. She went to the copse and searched it. Only a blackbird flew out, whistling its soft, melancholy tune. Then she thought he had taken refuge in a hollow in the rocks, where he sometimes used to lie in ambush for game; but the hollow in the rocks was empty. What was the use of looking for him? she would not find him: and little by little her desire to find him grew furious; she walked on faster. The notion that he might have climbed up a tree suddenly struck her. From that moment she pushed on with up-turned eyes; and that he might know she was near, she called out to him every fifteen or twenty steps. The cuckoos answered her; a breath of air passing through the branches made her think he was there, and was coming down. Once she even thought she saw him; she stopped, choking, having a good mind to run away. What would she say to him? Had she come, then, to lead him away and have him shot? Oh, no, she would not mention these things. She would cry out to him to escape, not to stay in the neighborhood. Then the thought of her father waiting for her gave her a sharp pang. She fell upon the turf, weeping, repeating aloud:—
“My God, my God! why am I here!”
She must have been crazy to come. And as if seized with fright, she ran, she tried to find a way out of the forest. Three times she took the wrong path; and she thought she could not find the mill again, when she came out into a field just opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of the village, she stopped. Was she going to return alone?
As she stood there, a voice called to her softly:—
“Françoise! Françoise!”
And she saw Dominique raising his head above the edge of a ditch. Just God, she had found him! So Heaven wished his death? She held back a cry, she let herself slide down into the ditch.
“You were looking for me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, her head buzzing, not knowing what she said.
“What’s going on?”
She looked down; she stammered out:—
“Why nothing; I was anxious—I wanted to see you.”
Then, reassured, he told her that he had not wished to go far. He feared for them. Those rascals of Prussians were just the sort to wreak vengeance upon women and old men. Then all was going well; and he added, laughing:—
“Our wedding will be for this day week, that’s all.”
Then, as she was still overcome, he grew serious again.
“But what’s the matter with you? You are keeping something from me.”
“No, I swear to you. I ran to come—”
He kissed her, saying that it was imprudent for either of them to talk any longer; and he wished to get back to the forest. She held him back. She was trembling.
“Listen: perhaps it would be as well for you to stay here, all the same. Nobody is looking for you; you’re not afraid of anything.”
“Françoise, you are keeping something from me,” he repeated.
Again she swore she was keeping nothing from him. Only she had rather know he was near; and she stammered out other reasons besides. She struck him as acting so queerly, that now he himself would not have been willing to leave her. Besides, he believed the French would return. Troops had been sent over Sauval way.
“Ah! let them be in a hurry; let them be here as soon as possible!” he muttered fervently.
At this moment the Rocreuse church clock struck eleven. The strokes came clear and distinct. She sprang up in fright: it was two hours since she had left the mill.
“Listen,” she
said rapidly: “if we should need you, I will go up to my room and wave my handkerchief.”
And she left him, running; while Dominique, very anxious, stretched himself out on the edge of the ditch, to keep his eye on the mill. As she was just running into Rocreuse, Françoise met an old beggar, old Bontemps, who knew the whole country. He bowed to her: he had just seen the miller in the midst of the Prussians; then crossing himself and mumbling some disconnected words, he went his way.
“The two hours are over,” said the officer, when Françoise appeared.
Old Merlier was there, sitting on the bench by the well. He was still smoking. The young girl once more implored, wept, fell upon her knees. She wished to gain time. The hope of seeing the French return had grown in her; and while bewailing her fate, she thought she heard the measured tread of an army. Oh! if they had come, if they had delivered them all!
“Listen, monsieur, one hour, one hour more! You can surely grant me one hour!”
But the officer was still inflexible. He even ordered two men to take her in charge and lead her away, that they might proceed quietly with the old man’s execution. Then a frightful conflict went on in Françoise’s heart. She could not let her father be thus murdered. No, no, she would die with Dominique first; and she was bounding toward her room, when Dominique himself walked into the courtyard.
The officer and soldiers gave a shout of triumph. But he, as if no one but Françoise had been there, stepped up to her quietly, a little sternly.
“That was wrong,” said he. “Why didn’t you bring me back with you? Old Bontemps had to tell me everything. After all, here I am.”
IV.
It was three o’clock. Great black clouds had slowly filled the sky, the tail of some not distant thunder-storm. This yellow sky, these copper-colored rags, changed the valley of Rocreuse, so cheerful in the sunshine, to a cut-throat den, full of suspicious shadows. The Prussian officer had been content to have Dominique locked up, without saying anything about what fate he had in store for him. Ever since noon, Françoise had been a prey to infernal anguish. She would not leave the court-yard, in spite of her father’s urging. She was waiting for the French. But the hours passed by, night was at hand, and she suffered the more keenly that all this time gained did not seem likely to change the frightful catastrophe.
