by Paul Negri
“It’s me,” she murmured. “Catch me fast, I’m falling.”
It was the first time she had ever used a familiar verb form in addressing him. He grabbed her, leaning out, and brought her into the room. Once inside, she had a crying fit, stifling her sobs so that she wouldn’t be heard. Then, making a supreme effort, she calmed down.
“Are you being guarded?” she asked in a low voice.
Dominique, still amazed at seeing her arrive that way, merely nodded, pointing to his door. On the other side of it they could hear snoring ; the sentry, succumbing to his weariness, must have lain down on the floor, up against the door, certain that, in that way, the prisoner would be unable to get out.
“You must run away,” she continued briskly. “I’ve come to beg you to run away and to say good-bye to you.”
But he didn’t seem to hear her. He kept repeating:
“What! It’s you, it’s you . . . Oh, how you scared me! You could have been killed.”
He took her hands and kissed them.
“How I love you, Françoise! . . . You’re as brave as you’re beautiful. I had only one fear: dying without seeing you again . . . But here you are, and now they can shoot me. After spending a quarter of an hour with you, I’ll be ready.”
Gradually he had drawn her close to him, and she was resting her head on his shoulder. Their danger brought them closer together. They forgot everything else while embracing that way.
“Oh, Françoise,” Dominique went on in a caressing voice, “today is Saint Louis’s Day, our wedding day that we waited for so long. Nothing has been able to separate us, since here we are alone together, faithful to the appointed date . . . Isn’t that so? Right now it’s our wedding morning.”
“Yes, yes,” she repeated, “our wedding morning.”
They exchanged a kiss tremblingly. But all at once she pulled away from him; the awful reality loomed up before her.
“You must flee, you must flee,” she stammered. “Don’t waste a minute.”
And as he reached out his arms in the darkness to take hold of her again, she addressed him as tu once more:
“Oh, please, listen to me . . . If you die, I’ll die. In an hour it will be daylight. I want you to leave at once.”
Then, rapidly, she detailed her plan. The iron ladder went all the way down to the wheel; there, he could use the wheel paddles and get into the boat that was located in a recess. Then he could easily reach the far bank of the stream and get away.
“But there must be sentries there,” he said.
“Just one, directly opposite, at the foot of the nearest willow.”
“And what if he notices me, what if he calls out?”
Françoise shuddered. She placed in his hands a knife she had brought down with her. There was a silence.
“And your father? And you?” Dominique went on. “No, no, I can’t run away . . . After I’m gone, these soldiers might murder you . . . You don’t know them. They offered to spare me if I agreed to guide them through the Forest of Sauval. When they find that I’m gone, they’re capable of anything.”
The girl wasted no time arguing. To every reason he gave she merely replied:
“Out of love for me, run away . . . If you love me, Dominique, don’t stay here a minute longer.”
Then she promised she would go back up to her room. No one would know she had helped him. Finally she took him in her arms, to kiss him, to persuade him, in an unusual burst of passion. He was vanquished. He didn’t ask another question.
“Swear to me that your father knows what you’re doing and that he advises me to run away.”
“It was my father who sent me,” Françoise boldly replied.
She was lying. At that moment she felt only one overpowering need, to know he was safe, to rid herself of the abominable thought that sunrise would be the signal for his death. Once he was far away, any misfortune could befall her; it would seem sweet to her, provided he was alive. The egotism of her affection wanted him alive, above all else.
“All right,” said Dominique, “I’ll do as you wish.”
After that, they spoke no more. Dominique went and opened the window again. But suddenly a sound chilled them with fright. The door was shaken, and they thought it was being opened. Obviously, soldiers making their rounds had heard their voices. And the two of them, standing there close together, waited in unspeakable anguish. The door was rattled again, but it didn’t open. Both of them stifled a sigh; they had just realized it must be the soldier sleeping on the threshold, who had turned over. In fact, silence ensued and the snoring resumed.
Dominique absolutely insisted that Françoise must first climb back up to her room. He took her in his arms, and took leave of her wordlessly. Then he helped her take hold of the ladder and clung to it himself. But he wouldn’t go down a single rung before he was sure she was in her room. When Françoise was back in, she called down in a voice as light as a breath:
“Good-bye, I love you!”
She remained leaning out, trying to follow Dominique’s movements. The night was still very dark. She looked for the sentry but couldn’t see him; only the willow created a pale spot amid the darkness. For a moment she heard Dominique’s body brushing against the ivy. Then the wheel creaked and there was a light lapping of water that indicated that the young man had just found the boat. In fact, a minute later, she made out the dark silhouette of the boat on the gray surface of the Morelle. Then a terrible anguish seized her by the throat again. Any moment she expected to hear the sentry’s shout of alarm; the slightest sounds, scattered in the darkness, seemed to her like the hurried steps of soldiers, the clatter of weapons, the sound of rifles being cocked. And yet the seconds were passing, and the countryside retained its prevailing peace. Dominique must be reaching the far bank. Françoise could no longer see a thing. The silence was majestic. And she heard a stamping of feet, a hoarse cry, the fall of a body. Next, the silence became deeper. Then, as if she felt death passing by, she remained there, completely chilled, looking out onto the dense night.
IV
As soon as day broke, shouts rocked the mill. Old Merlier had come to unlock Françoise’s door. She went down into the courtyard, pale and very calm. But, once there, she was unable to repress a shudder at the sight of the corpse of a Prussian soldier stretched out near the well on an outspread cloak.
Around the body soldiers were gesticulating and shouting in rage. Several of them were shaking their fists at the village. Meanwhile, the captain had just had old Merlier summoned, as mayor of the parish.
“Here,” he said to him in a voice choked with anger, “is one of our men who has been found murdered on the bank of the stream . . . We must make a conspicuous example, and I’m counting on you to help us locate the killer.”
“I’ll do anything you want,” the miller replied with his customary nonchalance. “But it won’t be easy.”
The officer had stooped down to remove a corner of the cloak that was concealing the dead man’s face. A terrible wound was thus revealed. The sentry had been struck in the throat, and the weapon had remained in the wound. It was a kitchen knife with a black handle.
“Look at this knife,” the officer said to old Merlier. “Maybe it will help us in our investigation.”
The old man had given a start. But he controlled himself at once; he replied, without moving a muscle in his face:
“Everyone in our area has knives like this . . . Maybe your man was tired of fighting and polished himself off. Things like that happen.”
“Be still!” the officer shouted furiously. “I don’t know what’s keeping me from setting fire to the entire village.”
Fortunately his anger prevented him from noticing the strong emotions in Françoise’s face. She had felt it necessary to sit down on the stone bench near the well. In spite of herself, she couldn’t take her eyes off that corpse stretched out on the ground almost at her feet. He was a tall, good-looking young fellow, who resembled Dominique, with blond h
air and blue eyes. That resemblance made her heartsick. She was thinking that the dead man might have left behind, there in Germany, some sweetheart who was going to mourn for him. And she recognized her knife in the dead man’s throat. She had killed him.
Meanwhile, the officer was speaking of taking awful measures against Rocreuse, when some soldiers ran up to him. Only now had they noticed that Dominique had escaped. That caused an enormous row. The officer went to the scene of the deed, looked out of the window, which had been left open, understood the whole thing, and returned, exasperated.
Old Merlier seemed quite annoyed at Dominique’s flight.
“The fool!” he muttered. “He’s ruining everything.”
Françoise, who heard him, was anguish-stricken. But her father didn’t suspect her complicity. He shook his head, saying to her quietly:
“Now we’re in for it!”
“It’s that scoundrel! It’s that scoundrel!” the officer was shouting. “He probably made it into the woods . . . But we’ve got to find him again, or else the village will pay for what he did.”
And, addressing the miller:
“Come on now, you must know where he’s hiding.”
Old Merlier gave one of his silent laughs, pointing to the wide extent of the wooded hills.
“How do you expect to find a man in there?” he said.
“Oh, there must be hiding places there that you know. I’ll give you ten men. You’ll guide them.”
“I’m perfectly willing. But it’ll take us a week to comb through all the woods in the vicinity.”
The old man’s calmness infuriated the officer. Of course he understood how ridiculous such a search would be. It was then that he noticed Françoise, pale and trembling on the bench. He was struck by the anxiety in the girl’s appearance. He kept silent for a moment, examining now the miller, now Françoise.
Finally he asked the old man harshly, “Isn’t that man your daughter’s lover?”
Old Merlier turned livid, and looked as if he was going to pounce on the officer and choke him. He stiffened up and didn’t reply. Françoise had put her hands to her face.
“Yes, that’s it,” the Prussian continued; “you or your daughter helped him get away. You’re his accomplice . . . For the last time, will you turn him over to us?”
The miller didn’t reply. He had turned aside and was looking into the distance with an unconcerned expression, as if the officer weren’t taking to him. That raised the captain’s anger to the highest pitch.
“Very well,” he announced, “you’ll be shot in his place.”
And once again he called out a firing squad. Old Merlier kept calm. He merely shrugged his shoulders slightly; all this drama struck him as being in poor taste. Most likely, he didn’t believe that they would shoot a man so readily. Then, when the firing squad was there, he said earnestly:
“So you’re serious? . . . I’m willing. If you must absolutely have somebody, it may as well be me as anyone else.”
But Françoise had risen, mad with fright, stammering:
“Mercy, sir, don’t hurt my father! Kill me instead . . . I’m the one who helped Dominique get away. I’m the only guilty party.”
“Quiet, daughter!” old Merlier exclaimed. “Why are you lying? . . . She spent the night locked up in her room, sir. She’s lying, I assure you.”
“No, I’m not lying,” the girl went on ardently. “I climbed down through the window, I urged Dominique to run away . . . It’s the truth, that and nothing else . . .”
The old man had become very pale. He could see from her eyes that she wasn’t lying, and the whole affair frightened him. Oh, these children, with their emotions, how they ruined everything! Then he got angry.
“She’s crazy, don’t listen to her. She’s telling you stupid stories . . . Come, let’s get it over with.”
She tried to protest again. She knelt down, she joined her hands. The officer was a calm spectator of that painful struggle.
“By God!” he finally said. “I’m taking your father because I no longer have the other man . . . Try to locate the other one, and your father will be free.”
For a moment she looked at him, her eyes wide open at the atrociousness of that proposition.
“It’s awful,” she muttered. “Where do you expect me to find Dominique by this time? He’s gone, I don’t know where.”
“Well, choose. He or your father.”
“Oh, God, am I able to choose? Even if I knew where Dominique is, I couldn’t choose! . . . You’re breaking my heart . . . I’d rather die on the spot. Yes, that would be an end of it. Kill me, I beg you, kill me . . .”
This scene of tearful despair finally made the officer impatient. He exclaimed:
“Enough of this! I want to be kind; I consent to give you two hours . . . If your sweetheart isn’t here in two hours, your father will pay the price for him.”
And he had old Merlier led to the room that had served as Dominique’s prison. The old man asked for tobacco and started smoking. No emotion could be read on his impassive face. But when he was alone, smoking, he shed two fat tears that slowly trickled down his cheeks. How his poor, dear child was suffering!
Françoise had remained in the middle of the courtyard. Prussian soldiers passed by laughing. Some of them flung remarks at her, jokes she didn’t understand. She was looking at the door through which her father had just disappeared. And, in a slow gesture, she raised her hand to her forehead, as if to keep it from bursting.
The officer turned on his heels, repeating:
“You have two hours. Try to make good use of them.”
She had two hours. That sentence kept buzzing in her head. Then, like an automaton, she left the courtyard and walked straight ahead. Where to go? What to do? She wasn’t even attempting to make a decision, because she was well aware how futile her efforts would be. And yet, she would have liked to see Dominique. They would have reached an understanding together, they might have found a way out of their difficulties. And, amid the confusion of her thoughts, she went down to the bank of the Morelle, which she crossed downstream from the sluice in a spot where there were big stepping stones. Her feet led her to the nearest willow, at the corner of the meadow. As she bent down, she saw a pool of blood that made her turn pale. That must have been the spot. And she followed Dominique’s trail in the trodden grass; he must have run; you could see a line of widely spaced steps cutting across the meadow obliquely. Then, beyond that, she lost the trail. But in a nearby meadow she thought she picked it up again. That led her to the edge of the forest, where all signs were obliterated.
All the same, Françoise plunged in beneath the trees. It was a relief to her to be alone. She sat down for a while. Then, recalling that time was slipping away, she stood up again. How long was it since she had left the mill? Five minutes? A half-hour? She was no longer aware of the time. Maybe Dominique had gone to hide in a thicket she knew, where they had eaten hazelnuts together one afternoon. She went to the thicket and inspected it. A single blackbird flew out, whistling its sweet, sad phrase. Then it occurred to her that he might have hidden out in a rocky hollow where he sometimes lay in ambush for game; but the rocky hollow was empty. What was the good of looking for him? She wouldn’t find him. And gradually the desire to discover him excited her, and she walked more quickly. Suddenly she got the idea that he must have climbed a tree. From then on she walked with her eyes raised, and, so that he would know she was near him, she called him every fifteen or twenty paces. Cuckoos answered her; a breeze blowing through the branches made her think he was there and climbing down. Once she even imagined she saw him; she stopped, choking and feeling an urge to run away. What would she tell him? Had she really come to take him back and get him shot? Oh, no, she wouldn’t talk about those things at all. She would call to him to escape, not to remain in the vicinity. Then, the thought of her father, who was awaiting her, caused her a burning grief. She fell onto the grass, weeping, and repeating out loud:
&n
bsp; “My God! My God! Why am I here?”
It was mad of her to have come. And, as if terror-stricken, she ran, trying to get out of the forest. Three times she took a wrong turn, and she was thinking that she’d never find the mill again, when she emerged onto a meadow directly opposite Rocreuse. As soon as she saw the village, she halted. Was she going to go back alone?
She was still standing there when a voice softly called her:
“Françoise! Françoise!”
And she saw Dominique raising his head over the rim of a ditch. Good God! She had found him! Did heaven, then, want him to die? She held back a cry, and slid into the ditch.
“You were looking for me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, her head buzzing, not knowing what she was saying.
“Ah! What’s been going on?”
“Nothing, I was worried, I wanted to see you.”
Then, feeling calmer, he explained to her that he hadn’t wanted to go far away. He was afraid for them. Those scoundrelly Prussians were quite capable of taking revenge on women and old men. But after all, everything was going well; and he added, laughing:
“Our wedding will be postponed for a week, that’s all.”
Then, since she was still obviously upset, he became serious again.
