When the point of the last helmet had disappeared, Berthine replaced the heavy plank of oak, thick as a wall, hard as steel, held in place by some hinges and dungeon lock, of which she gave two long turns to the key, and then she laughed, a mute, triumphant laugh, with a mad desire to dance over the heads of the prisoners.
They made no noise, shut in there as in a solid box of stone, receiving the air only from the venthole, which was protected by bars of iron.
Berthine immediately relighted the fire, put on the saucepan again, and made some more soup, murmuring: “Father will be tired tonight.” Then she sat down and waited. The pendulum of the clock, going back and forth with its regular ticktack, alone broke the silence.
From time to time the young woman cast a look at the dial, an impatient look which seemed to say: “You don’t go quickly enough!”
But soon there seemed to be a murmuring under her feet. Some low, confused words came to her through the arch of the cellar. The Prussians had surmised her ruse, and the officer now mounted the steps and began to pound on the trapdoor with his fists. He cried anew: “Oben!”
She got up and approached him, imitating his accent:
“What iss it you vant?”
“Oben!”
“I vill not oben.”
The man was angry. “Oben or I vill preak the door.”
She began to laugh. “Break, my good man, break,” she said.
He began to strike with his gun upon the oaken trapdoor closed over his head. But it would have resisted the blows of a catapult.
The woman of the forest heard him descend again. Then the soldiers came, one after the other, to try their strength and inspect the opening. But, without doubt judging their attempts useless, they descended again into the cellar and began to talk among themselves.
The young woman listened to them, and then she opened the outside door and hearkened out into the night. She heard a barking afar off. She whistled as a hunter does, and presently two enormous dogs bounded out of the shadow upon her, frisking about in joy. She seized them by the neck and hindered them from running, crying with all her force:
“Oh! Father!”
A voice afar off responded: “Berthine!”
She waited a few seconds, then repeated:
“Oh! Father!”
The voice nearer repeated:
“Oh! Berthine!”
The daughter shouted: “Don’t pass before the venthole. There are Prussians in the cellar.”
And suddenly the great silhouette of a man outlined itself at the left, stopped between the trunks of two trees, and a voice cried hurriedly:
“Prussians in the cellar? What are they doing there?”
The young woman began to laugh: “They are those of yesterday,” she answered. “They were lost in the forest, and I have put them in the cellar to keep fresh.”
And she related the adventure, how she had frightened them with the shots from the revolver and shut them up.
The old man gravely asked: “What do you want me to do now?”
She answered: “Go and get Monsieur Lavigne with his troops. He will take them prisoners. That will please him greatly.”
And father Pichon smiled: “It is true, it would please him.”
His daughter continued: “Take some soup, eat quickly, and then go.”
The old keeper seated himself and began to eat, after placing two platefuls on the floor for the dogs.
The Prussians, hearing them talk, were silent.
Father “Longlegs” set out a quarter of an hour later, and Berthine waited, her head in her hands.
The prisoners began to stir again. They now cried out, they called, and beat furiously against the unbreakable trapdoor with their guns, unceasingly. Then they began to shoot off their guns through the venthole, hoping without doubt to be heard by some German detachment that might be passing in the neighborhood.
The forester’s daughter did not move. But all this noise unnerved and irritated her. A wicked anger awoke in her; she wished to assassinate them, the scoundrels, in order to make them silent. Then, as her impatience grew, she fell to watching the clock and counting the minutes.
Her father had been gone an hour and a half. He had now reached the town. She believed she saw him. He was relating the story to Monsieur Lavigne, who paled with emotion and rung up his maid to get his uniform and his arms. She heard, it seemed to her, the drum as it went beating through the streets. Frightened heads appeared at the windows. The citizen soldiers came out of their houses, scarcely clothed, breathless, buckling their belts, and running, at gymnastic pace, toward the house of their commander.
Then the troop, “Longlegs” at the head, began to march, through the snow toward the forest. She looked at the clock. “They can get here in an hour,” she thought.
A nervous impatience took possession of her. The minutes seemed interminable.
Finally, the time that she had fixed for arrival was marked by the clock. Again she opened the door to see whether she could hear them approaching. She perceived a shadow moving with precaution. She was frightened and uttered a cry. It was her father. He said:
“They sent me ahead to see if anything had changed.”
“No, nothing.”
Then he sent into the night air a prolonged and strident whistle. And immediately something dark came toward him, approaching slowly from the shadow of trees: it was the advance guard of ten men.
“Longlegs” called out instantly: “Do not pass before the venthole.”
Then the first detachment showed to the next the dangerous venthole. Finally, the whole troop showed itself, two hundred men in all, each carrying two hundred cartridges.
Monsieur Lavigne, disturbed and trembling, placed them in such a way as to watch the house and leave a large free space before the little black hole where the sod was cleared to give air to the cellar.
Then he entered the dwelling and informed himself with regard to
