Short Fiction

to his mother:

“ ‘It was not my fault, mamma, it was not my fault. I was asleep and I fell. You mustn’t scold me, for it was not my fault.’

“I turned toward the woman and said:

“ ‘What does he mean?’

“She seemed sad and embarrassed. But finally she said in a broken voice:

“ ‘What can you expect? I do not earn enough to put the child to school! I must take care of him somehow, and I cannot afford to hire another room. He sleeps with me when I have no one. When someone comes for an hour or two, he can stay in the closet very well and keep quiet; he knows how. But when one remains all night, as you have, his muscles are fatigued from sleeping on the chair⁠—and it is not the child’s fault. I would like to see you⁠—you⁠—sleep all night on a chair⁠—you would sing another song⁠—’

“She was angry, wrought up, and was shouting.

“The child was still crying. A poor child, delicate and timid, the child of the closet, of the cold, dark closet, a child who came from time to time to get a little warmth in the bed when, for a moment, it was empty.

“I, too, had an inclination to weep.

“I returned home to my own bed.”

Military Honors

There was no noise in the forest except the light trembling of the snow falling upon the trees. It had fallen since midday: a soft, fine snow which powdered the branches with a glittering moss and threw upon the dead leaves of the thicket a covering of silver, spreading along the way an immense carpet, soft and white, and making still greater the illimitable silence in this ocean of trees.

Before the door of the forest house a young woman with bare arms was cutting wood, between the heavy blows of the ax and a great stone. She was tall, thin, and strong, a daughter of the forest, daughter and wife of foresters.

A voice cried from the interior of the house: “We are alone tonight, Berthine, you must come in, for it is getting dark and the Prussians or wolves may be prowling around.”

The woodcutter responded, striking a stump a great blow and then another, which obliged her to straighten her neck at each movement of the arms:

“I have finished, mamma. I’m coming, I’m coming, have no fear; it is still day.”

Then she entered with some fagots and the logs of wood and piled them up beside the fireplace, going out again to close the outer doors, enormous doors of the heart of oak, and finally came in and pushed the bolts.

Her mother was knitting before the fire, a wrinkled old woman whom age had rendered full of fear. “I do not like it when your father is away,” said she. “Two women are not very strong.”

The young woman answered: “Oh! I could kill a wolf or a Prussian, the one as well as the other.”

And she cast her eye at a large revolver hanging above the hearth. Her husband had been drafted into the army at the beginning of the Prussian invasion, and the two women were left alone with the father, the old keeper, Nicholas Pichon, called “Longlegs,” who had absolutely refused to leave his dwelling and go into the town.

The nearest town was Rethel, an old stronghold perched upon a rock. They were patriotic there; and the citizens, having decided to resist the invaders, had shut themselves up in their houses for a siege, according to the traditions of the city. Twice already, under Henry IV and under Louis XIV, the inhabitants of Rethel had distinguished themselves for their heroic defense. They could do it again this time, be sure of that! or they would let themselves be burned within their walls.

So, they had bought some cannons and some guns, equipped a milita, formed some battalions and companies and drilled them every day in the square. Everybody, bakers, grocers, woodcutters, notaries, attorneys, carpenters, librarians, chemists even, took turns in the role at regular hours under the orders of Monsieur Lavigne, a former sub-officer of dragoons, now a merchant, having married the daughter and inherited the shop of the elder Monsieur Ravaudan.

He took the rank of major, and as all the young men were away in the army, he enrolled all others who had any power of resistance. The large ones were no longer in the streets but were now always in the gymnasium trying to reduce their fat and prolong their breath, the weak striving to increase their strength and harden their muscles.

And now they were waiting for the Prussians. But the Prussians nowhere appeared. They were not far off, nevertheless; for twice already their spies had pushed across the woods as far as the house of Nicholas Pichon, the forester, called “Longlegs.”

The old keeper, who could run like a fox, had come to warn the town. The cannons were pointed but the enemy did not show itself. The dwelling of the forester, in the Aveline forest, served as an outpost of the citizen soldiers. And Nicholas, twice a week, went for provisions and brought the news of the surrounding country.

He had set out on this particular day to announce that a small detachment of German infantry had stopped at his house on the day before, toward two o’clock in the afternoon, and had immediately gone away again. The sub-officer could speak French.

When the old man left home, he always led with him his two big dogs, with jaws like lions, from fear of the wolves, which were beginning to be ferocious, and left the two women to depend upon barricading themselves in the house at the approach of night. The young woman was afraid of nothing, but her mother was always afraid, saying:

“It will end badly, all this. You will see that will end badly.”

On this particular evening she was more disturbed than usual:

“Do you know what time your father will return?” she asked.

“Oh! not before eleven o’clock, surely.