by Emile Zola
And he went away. An hour later the contribution of war in provisions and money, demanded by the officer, was in the courtyard of the mill. Night came on. Francoise watched with anxiety the movements of the soldiers. She hung about the room in which Dominique was imprisoned. Toward seven o’clock she experienced a poignant emotion. She saw the officer enter the prisoner’s apartment and for a quarter of an hour heard their voices in loud conversation. For an instant the officer reappeared upon the threshold to give an order in German, which she did not understand, but when twelve men ranged themselves in the courtyard, their guns on their shoulders, she trembled and felt as if about to faint. All then was over: the execution was going to take place. The twelve men stood there ten minutes, Dominique’s voice continuing to be raised in a tone of violent refusal. Finally the officer came out, saying, as he roughly shut the door:
“Very well; reflect. I give you until tomorrow morning.”
And with a gesture he ordered the twelve men to break ranks. Francoise was stupefied. Pere Merlier, who had been smoking his pipe and looking at the platoon simply with an air of curiosity, took her by the arm with paternal gentleness. He led her to her chamber.
“Be calm,” he said, “and try to sleep. Tomorrow, when it is light, we will see what can be done.”
As he withdrew he prudently locked her in. It was his opinion that women were good for nothing and that they spoiled everything when they took a hand in a serious affair. But Francoise did not retire. She sat for a long while upon the side of her bed, listening to the noises of the house. The German soldiers encamped in the courtyard sang and laughed; they must have been eating and drinking until eleven o’clock, for the racket did not cease an instant. In the mill itself heavy footsteps resounded from time to time, without doubt those of the sentinels who were being relieved. But she was interested most by the sounds she could distinguish in the apartment beneath her chamber. Many times she stretched herself out at full length and put her ear to the floor. That apartment was the one in which Dominique was confined. He must have been walking back and forth from the window to the wall, for she long heard the regular cadence of his steps. Then deep silence ensued; he had doubtless seated himself. Finally every noise ceased and all was as if asleep. When slumber appeared to her to have settled on the house she opened her window as gently as possible and leaned her elbows on the sill.
Without, the night had a warm serenity. The slender crescent of the moon, which was sinking behind the forest of Sauval, lit up the country with the glimmer of a night lamp. The lengthened shadows of the tall trees barred the meadows with black, while the grass in uncovered spots assumed the softness of greenish velvet. But Francoise did not pause to admire the mysterious charms of the night. She examined the country, searching for the sentinels whom the Germans had posted obliquely. She clearly saw their shadows extending like the rounds of a ladder along the Morelle. Only one was before the mill, on the other shore of the river, beside a willow, the branches of which dipped in the water. Francoise saw him plainly. He was a tall man and was standing motionless, his face turned toward the sky with the dreamy air of a shepherd.
When she had carefully inspected the locality she again seated herself on her bed. She remained there an hour, deeply absorbed. Then she listened once more: there was not a sound in the mill. She returned to the window and glanced out, but doubtless one of the horns of the moon, which was still visible behind the trees, made her uneasy, for she resumed her waiting attitude. At last she thought the proper time had come. The night was as black as jet; she could no longer see the sentinel opposite; the country spread out like a pool of ink. She strained her ear for an instant and made her decision. Passing near the window was an iron ladder, the bars fastened to the wall, which mounted from the wheel to the garret and formerly enabled the millers to reach certain machinery; afterward the mechanism had been altered, and for a long while the ladder had been hidden under the thick ivy which covered that side of the mill.
Francoise bravely climbed out of her window and grasped one of the bars of the ladder. She began to descend. Her skirts embarrassed her greatly. Suddenly a stone was detached from the wall and fell into the Morelle with a loud splash. She stopped with an icy shiver of fear. Then she realized that the waterfall with its continuous roar would drown every noise she might make, and she descended more courageously, feeling the ivy with her foot, assuring herself that the rounds were firm. When she was at the height of the chamber which served as Dominique’s prison she paused. An unforeseen difficulty nearly caused her to lose all her courage: the window of the chamber was not directly below that of her apartment. She hung off from the ladder, but when she stretched out her arm her hand encountered only the wall. Must she, then, ascend without pushing her plan to completion? Her arms were fatigued; the murmur of the Morelle beneath her commenced to make her dizzy. Then she tore from the wall little fragments of plaster and threw them against Dominique’s window. He did not hear; he was doubtless asleep. She crumbled more plaster from the wall, scraping the skin off her fingers. She was utterly exhausted; she felt herself falling backward, when Dominique at last softly opened the window.
“It is I!” she murmured. “Catch me quickly; I’m falling!”
It was the first time that she had addressed him familiarly. Leaning out, he seized her and drew her into the chamber. There she gave vent to a flood of tears, stifling her sobs that she might not be heard. Then by a supreme effort she calmed herself.
“Are you guarded?” she asked in a low voice.
Dominique, still stupefied at seeing her thus, nodded his head affirmatively, pointing to the door. On the other side they heard someone snoring; the sentinel, yielding to sleep, had thrown himself on the floor against the door, arguing that by disposing himself thus the prisoner could not escape.
“You must fly,” resumed Francoise excitedly. “I have come to beg you to do so and to bid you farewell.”
But he did not seem to hear her. He repeated:
“What? Is it you; is it you? Oh, what fear you caused me! You might have killed yourself!”
He seized her hands; he kissed them.
“How I love you, Francoise!” he murmured. “You are as courageous as good. I had only one dread: that I should die without seeing you again. But you are here, and now they can shoot me. When I have passed a quarter of an hour with you I shall be ready.”
Little by little he had drawn her to him, and she leaned her head upon his shoulder. The danger made them dearer to each other. They forgot everything in that warm clasp.
“Ah, Francoise,” resumed Dominique in a caressing voice, “this is Saint Louis’s Day, the day, so long awaited, of our marriage. Nothing has been able to separate us, since we are both here alone, faithful to the appointment. Is not this our wedding morning?”
“Yes, yes,” she repeated, “it is our wedding morning.”
They tremblingly exchanged a kiss. But all at once she disengaged herself from Dominique’s arms; she remembered the terrible reality.
“You must fly; you must fly,” she whispered. “There is not a minute to be lost!”
And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness to clasp her again, she said tenderly:
“Oh, I implore you to listen to me! If you die I shall die also! In an hour it will be light. I want you to go at once.”
Then rapidly she explained her plan. The iron ladder descended to the mill wheel; there he could climb down the buckets and get into the boat which was hidden away in a nook. Afterward it would be easy for him to reach the other bank of the river and escape.
“But what of the sentinels?” he asked.
“There is only one, opposite, at the foot of the first willow.”
“What if he should see me and attempt to give an alarm?”
Francoise shivered. She placed in his hand a knife she had brought with her. There was a brief silence.
“What is to become of your father and yourself?” resumed Dominique. “No, I cannot
fly! When I am gone those soldiers will, perhaps, massacre you both! You do not know them. They offered me my life if I would consent to guide them through the forest of Sauval. When they discover my escape they will be capable of anything!”
The young girl did not stop to argue. She said simply in reply to all the reasons he advanced:
“Out of love for me, fly! If you love me, Dominique, do not remain here another moment!”
Then she promised to climb back to her chamber. No one would know that she had helped him. She finally threw her arms around him to convince him with an embrace, with a burst of extraordinary love. He was vanquished. He asked but one more question:
“Can you swear to me that your father knows what you have done and that he advises me to fly?”
“My father sent me!” answered Francoise boldly.
She told a falsehood. At that moment she had only one immense need: to know that he was safe, to escape from the abominable thought that the sun would be the signal for his death. When he was far away every misfortune might fall upon her; that would seem delightful to her from the moment he was secure. The selfishness of her tenderness desired that he should live before everything.
“Very well,” said Dominique; “I will do what you wish.”
They said nothing more. Dominique reopened the window. But suddenly a sound froze them. The door was shaken, and they thought that it was about to be opened. Evidently a patrol had heard their voices. Standing locked in each other’s arms, they waited in unspeakable anguish. The door was shaken a second time, but it did not open. They uttered low sighs of relief; they comprehended that the soldier who was asleep against the door must have turned over. In fact, silence succeeded; the snoring was resumed.
Dominique exacted that Francoise should ascend to her chamber before he departed. He clasped her in his arms and bade her a mute adieu. Then he aided her to seize the ladder and clung to it in his turn. But he refused to descend a single round until convinced that she was in her apartment. When Francoise had entered her window she let fall in a voice as light as a breath:
“Au revoir, my love!”
She leaned her elbows on the sill and strove to follow Dominique with her eyes. The night was yet very dark. She searched for the sentinel but could not see him; the willow alone made a pale stain in the midst of the gloom. For an instant she heard the sound produced by Dominique’s body in passing along the ivy. Then the wheel cracked, and there was a slight agitation in the water which told her that the young man had found the boat. A moment afterward she distinguished the somber silhouette of the bateau on the gray surface of the Morelle. Terrible anguish seized upon her. Each instant she thought she heard the sentinel’s cry of alarm; the smallest sounds scattered through the gloom seemed to her the hurried tread of soldiers, the clatter of weapons, the charging of guns. Nevertheless, the seconds elapsed and the country maintained its profound peace. Dominique must have reached the other side of the river. Francoise saw nothing more. The silence was majestic. She heard a shuffling of feet, a hoarse cry and the hollow fall of a body. Afterward the silence grew deeper. Then as if she had felt Death pass by, she stood, chilled through and through, staring into the thick night.
CHAPTER I V
Table of Contents
A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE
At dawn a clamor of voices shook the mill. Pere Merlier opened the door of Francoise’s chamber. She went down into the courtyard, pale and very calm. But there she could not repress a shiver as she saw the corpse of a Prussian soldier stretched out on a cloak beside the well.
Around the body troops gesticulated, uttering cries of fury. Many of them shook their fists at the village. Meanwhile the officer had summoned Pere Merlier as the mayor of the commune.
“Look!” he said to him in a voice almost choking with anger. “There lies one of our men who was found assassinated upon the bank of the river. We must make a terrible example, and I count on you to aid us in discovering the murderer.”
“As you choose,” answered the miller with his usual stoicism, “but you will find it no easy task.”
The officer stooped and drew aside a part of the cloak which hid the face of the dead man. Then appeared a horrible wound. The sentinel had been struck in the throat, and the weapon had remained in the cut. It was a kitchen knife with a black handle.
“Examine that knife,” said the officer to Pere Merlier; “perhaps it will help us in our search.”
The old man gave a start but recovered control of himself immediately. He replied without moving a muscle of his face:
“Everybody in the district has similar knives. Doubtless your man was weary of fighting and put an end to his own life. It looks like it!”
“Mind what you say!” cried the officer furiously. “I do not know what prevents me from setting fire to the four corners of the village!”
Happily in his rage he did not notice the deep trouble pictured on Francoise’s countenance. She had been forced to sit down on a stone bench near the well. Despite herself her eyes were fixed upon the corpse stretched our on the ground almost at her feet. It was that of a tall and handsome man who resembled Dominique, with flaxen hair and blue eyes. This resemblance made her heart ache. She thought that perhaps the dead soldier had left behind him in Germany a sweetheart who would weep her eyes out for him. She recognized her knife in the throat of the murdered man. She had killed him.
The officer was talking of striking Rocreuse with terrible measures, when soldiers came running to him. Dominique’s escape had just been discovered. It caused an extreme agitation. The officer went to the apartment in which the prisoner had been confined, looked out of the window which had remained open, understood everything and returned, exasperated.
Pere Merlier seemed greatly vexed by Dominique’s flight.
“The imbecile!” he muttered. “He has ruined all!”
Francoise heard him and was overcome with anguish. But the miller did not suspect her of complicity in the affair. He tossed his head, saying to her in an undertone:
“We are in a nice scrape!”
“It was that wretch who assassinated the soldier! I am sure of it!” cried the officer. “He has undoubtedly reached the forest. But he must be found for us or the village shall pay for him!”
Turning to the miller, he said:
“See here, you ought to know where he is hidden!”
Pere Merlier laughed silently, pointing to the wide stretch of wooden hills.
“Do you expect to find a man in there?” he said.
“Oh, there must be nooks there with which you are acquainted. I will give you ten men. You must guide them.”
“As you please. But it will take a week to search all the wood in the vicinity.”
The old man’s tranquillity enraged the officer. In fact, the latter comprehended the asburdity of this search. At that moment he saw Francoise, pale and trembling, on the bench. The anxious attitude of the young girl struck him. He was silent for an instant, during which he in turn examined the miller and his daughter.
At length he demanded roughly of the old man:
“Is not that fellow your child’s lover?”
Pere Merlier grew livid and seemed about to hurl himself upon the officer to strangle him. He stiffened himself but made no answer. Francoise buried her face in her hands.
“Yes, that’s it!” continued the Prussian. “And you or your daughter helped him to escape! One of you is his accomplice! For the last time, will you give him up to us?”
The miller uttered not a word. He turned away and looked into space with an air of indifference, as if the officer had not addressed him. This brought the latter’s rage to a head.
“Very well!” he shouted. “You shall be shot in his place!”
And he again ordered out the platoon of execution. Pere Merlier remained as stoical as ever. He hardly even shrugged his shoulders; all this drama appeared to him in bad taste. Without doubt he did not believe that they would shoot a man so lightly.
But when the platoon drew up before him he said gravely:
“So it is serious, is it? Go on with your bloody work then! If you must have a victim I will do as well as another!”
But Francoise started up, terrified, stammering:
“In pity, monsieur, do no harm to my father! Kill me in his stead! I aided Dominique to fly! I alone am guilty!”
“Hush, my child!” cried Pere Merlier. “Why do you tell an untruth? She passed the night locked in her chamber, monsieur. She tells a falsehood, I assure you!”
“No, I do not tell a falsehood!” resumed the young girl ardently. “I climbed out of my window and went down the iron ladder; I urged Dominique to fly. This is the truth, the whole truth!”
The old man became very pale. He saw clearly in her eyes that she did not lie, and her story terrified him. Ah, these children with their hearts, how they spoil everything! Then he grew angry and exclaimed:
