Short Fiction

with startled eyes; he seemed at once satisfied and abashed, near laughter and near tears; he looked like a madman, so expressively distorted was his face by the rapid movement of his eyes, his lips, and his cheeks.

He observed, as if he were announcing an amazing piece of news to his pupils:

“It’s a boy.”

Then he added immediately:

“Monsieur de Sarcagnes, pass me the bottle of water in the rack. That’s right. Take out the stopper. That’s quite right. Pour me out a few drops in my hand, only a few drops.⁠ ⁠… That’s enough.”

And he scattered the water on the bald forehead of the little creature he was holding, and announced:

“I baptise thee in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The train drew into the station of Clermont. The face of Madame de Bridoie appeared in the doorway. Then the abbé, quite losing his head, presented her with the tiny human animal that he had just acquired, and murmured:

“This lady has had a slight accident on the journey.”

He conveyed the impression that he had picked the child up in a gutter; and, his hair wet with sweat, his bands round on his shoulder, his gown soiled, he repeated:

“They saw nothing⁠ ⁠… nothing at all⁠—I’ll answer for that.⁠ ⁠… All three of them looked out of the window.⁠ ⁠… I’ll answer for that⁠ ⁠… they saw nothing.”

And he descended from the compartment with four boys instead of the three he had gone to fetch, while Mesdames de Bridoie, de Vaulacelles, and de Sarcagnes, very pale, exchanged stupefied glances and found not a word to utter.

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That evening, the three families dined together to celebrate the homecoming of the schoolboys. But no one had anything much to say; fathers, mothers, and children alike seemed preoccupied.

Suddenly the youngest, Roland de Bridoie, asked: “Tell me, mamma, where did the abbé find that little boy?”

His mother evaded a direct answer:

“Come, get on with your dinner, and let us alone with your questions.”

He was silent for some minutes, and then went on:

“There was no one there except the lady who had stomachache. The abbé must be a conjurer, like Robert Houdin who made a bowl full of fishes come under a cloth.”

“Be quiet now. It was God who sent him.”

“But where did God put him? I didn’t see anything. Did he come in by the door? Tell me.”

Madame de Bridoie, losing patience, replied:

“Come now, that’s enough, be quiet. He came from under a cabbage, like all little babies. You know that quite well.”

“But there wasn’t a cabbage in the carriage.”

Then Gontran de Vaulacelles, who was listening with a sly look on his face, smiled and said:

“Yes, there was a cabbage. But no one saw it except the abbé.”

The Little Soldier

Every Sunday, as soon as they were off duty, the two little soldiers set out for a walk.

On leaving the barracks, they turned to the right, crossed Courbevoie with quick strides as if they were marching on parade; then, as soon as they had left the houses behind, they walked at a quieter pace down the bare dusty high road to Bezons.

They were small, thin, lost in army coats that were too large and too long, with sleeves falling over their hands, and embarrassed by red trousers so uncomfortably baggy that they were compelled to stretch their legs wide apart in order to walk at a good pace. And under the tall stiff shakos, hardly a glimpse was visible of their faces, two humble sunken Breton faces, innocent like the faces of animals, with gentle placid blue eyes.

They spoke no word during the whole journey, walking straight on, with the same thought in both their heads, which did instead of conversation, for on the edge of the little wood of Champioux they had found a spot that reminded them of their own country, and they felt happy nowhere else.

At the crossroads from Colombes to Chatou, where the trees begin, they took off the hats that crushed their heads, and mopped their brows.

They always stopped for a short while on Bezons bridge to look at the Seine. They lingered there two or three minutes, bent double, hanging over the parapet; they looked long at the wide reaches of Argenteuil, where the white leaning sails of the clippers raced over the water, bringing to their minds perhaps the Breton sea, the port of Vannes near their own homes, and the fishing-boats sailing across the Morbihan to the open sea.

As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they bought their provisions from the pork butcher, the baker, and the man who sold the light wine of the district. A piece of black pudding, four ha’p’orth of bread, and a pint of cheap claret made up their rations and were carried in their handkerchiefs. But, once beyond the village, they sauntered very slowly on and began at last to talk.

In front of them a stretch of poor land, dotted with clumps of trees, led to the wood, to the little wood which they had thought like Kermarivan wood. Corn and oats bordered the narrow path lost under the green shoots of the crops, and every time they came, Jean Kerderen said to Luc Le Ganidec:

“It is just like Plounivon.”

“Yes, it’s just like it.”

They wandered on, side by side, their minds filled with vague memories of their own place, filled with new-awakened pictures, crude and simple pictures like those on cheap picture postcards. They saw in thought a corner of a field, a hedge, an edge of moor, a crossroads, a granite cross.

Each time they came, they stopped beside the stone marking the boundaries of an estate, because it had a look of the dolmen at Locneuven.

Every Sunday, when they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec cut himself a switch, a hazel switch; he began carefully peeling off the thin bark, thinking all the time of people at home.

Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.

Now and then Luc mentioned a name, recalled an incident of their