Part 2

The forester lives in one of these houses, the other is never let. Mine, a kind of irregular and curious turret, is chiefly remarkable for the Virginian creeper that completely covers it. I have cut away just enough of it to be able to open my windows. Leaving untouched the great worm-eaten beams in the kitchen and the worn step on the threshold, I contented myself with heightening a hayloft under the roof, replacing the walls by glass, and thus making a beautiful studio, where my only neighbours are the nests of the wood-pigeon and magpie swaying to and fro on the top of the trees.

When I am there, the forest surrounds me like an ocean, with the swell of the foliage, the ebb and flow of the breezes, the murmuring softness of a calm. On a summer’s afternoon, at the hour of silent and slumbering heat, a bumble-bee comes by regularly, dashes against my half-open window-pane, whose brightness attracts him, then like a rebounding ball goes off, shaking the golden dust from his big wings, and disappears amongst the honey-scented bushes of privet. This bee is my clock. When he passes by I say: “Ah, it is two o’clock.” And I am right . . .

It is, in fact, a wonderful nook for work, and where my best pictures have been painted. And how I love it, this old Hermitage! For the last ten years I have been adorning it to the best of my ability. I have brought there what I call my treasures—my books, my sketches, my etchings, and some old armour . . . And now I should have to leave all this, abandon my home, to these robbers. And what for? To go and shut myself up in Paris . . . But as I cannot walk, of what use should I be to them there? They have too many useless mouths to feed already . . .

Well, no! Decidedly the fellow is right. We must not go away from here, . . . _Pro aris et focis_! . . .

Not being able to defend my country, the least I can do is to defend my hearth.

[Picture: Fowl pecking in the yard]

* * * * *

[Picture: . . the keeper came in to my room.]

_September_ 6_th_.

This morning the keeper came into my room. He wore his full-dress uniform, as on the 15th of August: green tunic, peaked cap, cross-belt, hunting-knife, and he had an air of importance befitting the solemnity of his appearance.

—There is bad news, he said, taking up a position by the side of my bed . . . All the wood-rangers are recalled to Paris in order to be enrolled with the customs officers. We are starting almost immediately.

Honest old Guillard! He appeared somewhat agitated while talking to me, and I was myself rather disturbed by the sudden announcement of this departure. I hurriedly dressed, and we went downstairs. On the road below was the head-keeper, with about twenty foresters and keepers—the whole of the staff on duty in the forest. Then came the women, children, and pointers, and two large carts laden with furniture, rabbit-hutches, and chickens tied up by the legs. The door of the house was wide open, and Mother Guillard moved to and fro inside, seeking what she must leave or take, as the conveyances were full, and the first-comers had taken up all the available space. The perplexity of the poor housewife was a sight to see, as she ran from one piece of furniture to another, dragging a heavy cupboard to the door, then leaving it there, forgetting the most useful things, but lading herself with those of no value, except that they were souvenirs: the old clock with its glass shade, some marvellous portraits, a hunting-horn, a distaff, all of them covered with dust—that excellent dust that clings to family relics, and of which each particle speaks of youth and the happy days gone by.

—I trust you are not going to remain here, Mr. Robert, the good woman called out as she crossed the orchard . . . You shall be put on a cart.

And in order to convince me more thoroughly:

—In the first place, if you remain here, who will cook for you?

In reality the good creatures were rather ashamed of leaving me behind. Their departure, although involuntary, seemed to them somewhat of a betrayal on their part. I tried to reassure them on my account, and to reassure myself at the same time. After all, who knows? The Prussians may not come so far. Moreover, the Hermitage is in the heart of the forest, and out of the line of march. There was therefore not the slightest danger to be apprehended. At most a few days of solitude, and that did not alarm me.

Seeing me so thoroughly determined, the keeper pressed my hand.

—Good luck, Mr. Robert . . . My wife will leave you our keys. You will find wine and potatoes in the cellar. Take what you choose. We will settle on our return home . . . And now, good mother, let us start; and above all, you know what I said to you; try not to cry.

She, however, nearly broke down. On turning the key for the last time in the lock, her hand shook. She compressed her lips . . . At that moment a formidable _hee-haw_! echoed through the Hermitage. The keeper and his wife looked at each other in consternation.

—It is Colaquet! . . . What is to become of him?

[Picture: Colaquet, the donkey] The unfortunate Colaquet, whom they had forgotten in the hurry of departure, was their donkey, a pretty little grey donkey, with a bright and artless look. A few days before, it had been bitten on the muzzle by a viper, and it had been turned out to graze in a little field of after-grass; and there he was, looking at his masters going away, leaning his swollen head, which gave him the appearance of one of the beasts of the Apocalypse, over the hedge.

How could they take him? He would die on the road, and yet the veterinary surgeon had promised to cure him. The fate of the poor animal, rather resembling my own, touched my heart.

[Picture: . . the keeper pressed my hand.]

I promised to take care of Colaquet, and to put him into the stable every night. The good people thanked me, and we parted.

[Picture: Mother Guillard leaving her home] A sad parting! The carts, heavy and overloaded, slowly followed the wide forest road, grinding on the pebbles as they went along. The children were running on each side, excited by the unexpected journey. The men, in single file, skirted the edge of the wood, their guns on their shoulders, all of them old soldiers, well trained and disciplined. Behind them the dogs followed, hanging their heads uneasily, hardly straying even to listen to the flight of a hen-pheasant, or to sniff the trace of a rabbit. Domestic animals do not like changing their quarters, and these were following in the track of the carts, now become their wandering homes. Mother Guillard came last, holding in her hand her magpie’s large cage, and from time to time looking back.

Seated on the curbstone near the principal entrance, I watched them till the whole party disappeared from my sight in the narrowing perspective of the road. I saw the last glance on the gun-barrels, I heard the grinding of the last wheel, and the dust of the highway swallowed them up in a cloud . . .

It was all over. I was alone. This thought has given me an unaccountable sensation of uneasiness.

[Picture: Looking along the empty road]

* * * * *

[Picture: Robert alone in the Hermitage garden]

_September_ 7_th_, 8_th_ _and_ 9_th_.

This new kind of life would not be without its charm, were it not disturbed by a sensation of anxiety, of uneasiness, of constant expectation, suspending all thought, and rendering all artistic work an impossibility. I can only undertake those trivial occupations, those necessary details of everyday life, of which I have always had such a horror, and to which I must resign myself now that I am my own servant. Shall I confess it? These trifles do not really weary me very much, and I understand recluses amusing themselves by carving roots or weaving baskets. Manual labour is a good means of regulating life for those who have too much leisure and liberty. Therefore every morning I begin by paying a visit to the poultry-yard, and when I feel the warmth of an egg in the straw, I am happy. Then, walking slowly, and leaning on a stick, I go round the garden, picking the ripe fruit; and from the long, dry, sunburnt stalks I gather the beans, whose pods burst open and shed their contents through my fingers. It is laughable to see me seated in front of my door, cutting up the bread for my soup, or washing my salad in a bucket. All these things give me rather a childish comfort; but is not convalescence itself like childhood?—a fresh beginning of life.

In order to avoid going up and down the broken and irregular steps of the staircase, I have placed my bed in the large room on the ground floor, which therefore answers the purpose of drawing-room, bed-room, and kitchen. In this very mild weather, the door leading into the garden remains wide open all day. I hear the noise of the hens, always busy and cackling, their little claws pattering on the sand and scratching up the straw. Next door, in the keeper’s small field, I see poor Colaquet stretched out, shaking off the flies, and, with the idleness of an invalid, lolling out his tongue in front of him on the meadow, all purple with the thousand clusters of lucern. When evening comes on, with some difficulty he approaches the fence that divides us. I also drag myself there. I bathe his wound, renew the water, throw a rug over his back for the night, and he thanks me by shaking his long ears.

What really distresses me in my present state of suffering is having to fetch water from the old convent well, just at the end of the enclosure.

When I reach it, I am obliged to sit down for a moment on the edge of the cracked stonework, overgrown by rank weeds. The ornamental wrought ironwork, of an elegant and ancient style, appears, under the rust that tarnishes it, like climbing tendrils laid bare by the autumn. This melancholy is in complete harmony with the deep silence of the Hermitage, and the atmosphere of loneliness that surrounds me . . . The bucket is heavy. On returning I stop two or three times. Over there, at the far end, there is an old door that the wind keeps slamming. The noise of my footsteps echoes, and troubles me . . .

Oh, solitude! . . .

[Picture: Robert plodding back with the bucket]

* * * * *

[Picture: Robert breakfasting on the lawn]

_September_ 10_th_.

. . . I had just finished breakfasting on the lawn—on my word, an excellent breakfast too!—fresh eggs, and grapes gathered from my beautiful purple vine. I was sitting there, idly dreaming, basking in the light, warmth, and silence, very busy looking at the smoke of my pipe and at my painted plates, on which a stray wasp was furiously attacking the emptied stalks. Around me on that clear autumn day, under a deep and pure blue sky, even more beautiful than the summer skies so often veiled and dimmed by hot mists, I felt the same hush of Nature, the same all-pervading sense of peace . . . When suddenly a formidable explosion in my immediate vicinity shook the house, rattled the windows, and stirred the leaves, sending forth on all sides the sound of wild flutterings, screams, alarms, and galloping . . . This time it was not the bridge at Corbeil that was blown up, but our own, our little bridge at Champrosay. It meant: “The Prussians are here!” Immediately my heart stood still, and a veil seemed to pass over the sunlight. Then the thought crossed my mind that to-morrow, this evening maybe, the forest roads would be invaded, darkened by these wretches; that I should be compelled to bury myself alive, and never stir out again. And I longed to see once more my beloved forest, of which I had been deprived for the last two months.

The lanes in the woods were lovely, widened by freedom from the long summer weeds, and showing at the top, through the young branches, a long ray of light. At the cross-roads, bathed in sunlight, the faded pink heather was flowering in tufts; and in the thickets, among the black stems, like a small forest beneath a large one, the ferns displayed their microscopic trees with their peculiar foliage. What a silence! Generally a thousand vague sounds greeted me from afar: the trains passing by and marking the distant horizon, the digging of the quarrymen, the cart-wheels slowly turning in the ruts, the strident call-whistle of the gang. And to-day, not a sound—not even that perpetual murmur which seems like the breathing of a slumbering forest—that stir of the leaves, that humming of the insects, that pretty “_frrrt_!” like the unfolding of a fan, made by birds among the foliage. It seemed as if the loud report just now had stupefied all Nature.

Slightly weary, I had seated myself under a thick oak-tree, when I heard a rustling in the branches. At last! . . . I expected to see a hare or a roedeer scamper across the path; but through the parted bushes, about ten paces from me on the road, jumped a big fellow, dressed all in black, with his gun on his shoulder, a revolver in his belt, and his head covered by a large Tyrolese hat. I was startled. I thought it was some Bavarian or Saxon rifleman. It was, however, a Parisian _franc-tireur_. At that time there were some twenty of them in the forest, retreating day by day before the Prussians, lying in ambush to watch their line of march, and to knock over from time to time an Uhlan of the advance-guard. While the man was talking to me, his comrades, coming out of the coppice, joined us. They were nearly all old soldiers, working-men from the faubourgs of Paris. I took them back to the Hermitage, and made them drink a few bottles of wine.

[Picture: The blown bridge of Champrosay]

They told me the Prince of Saxony’s division had reached Montereau, one stage distant from here. I learnt also from them about the defensive operations begun round Paris—the organisation of the troops; and to hear them speak with such calm, such confidence, and especially hearing their Parisian accent, warmed my heart. Ah, brave fellows! if I could only have gone off with them, stuck on my head their ridiculous headgear, and fought in their ranks, under the walls of the good city! . . . But, alas! to have walked merely twenty steps in the woods had swollen my leg, and I was in pain. Ah, well! I was grieved when they left me. They are probably the last Frenchmen that I shall see for some time . . .

They left at dusk, cheered by my sour wine. I gave them a hen, . . . they carried off four . . .

[Picture: Robert meets the first franc-tireur]

[Picture: . . they carried off four]

* * * * *

[Picture: Colaquet grazing]

_September_ 11_th_.

No news.

_September_ 12_th_.

Still no news. What can be going on? Are they forced to retire? Really, this suspense is unbearable.

_September_ 13_th_.

I have only bread enough for two days. I found this out in the morning, on opening the chest where Mother Guillard placed my week’s provisions—six large floury and golden loaves, that she baked for me every Sunday. What shall I do? I have, it is true, an oven and a kneading-trough, but not an atom of flour. Perhaps I should find some at the farm at Champrosay, if Goudeloup has remained there as he intended. But how can I get so far in my present weak condition? Seated on my garden bench in front of my door, I was absorbed in these melancholy thoughts, when I heard the sound of an animal galloping in the keeper’s field. It was Colaquet. Colaquet, generally so lazy, was gambolling round the orchard, kicking up little tufts of grass with his hoofs and rolling over on his back, with a feeling of satisfaction and pleasure in living. In two bounds he came at my call, and leant his head, no longer swollen, but now of normal size, on the wooden trellis; the rapid motion of his long ears, whose language I am beginning to understand, telling me of his happiness at being free and delivered from his pain and infirmity. Lucky Colaquet! he is cured before I am; and while I looked at him with an envious eye, I remembered that there—over there, under the shed—was an old conveyance that Guillard formerly used on fête-days to drive parties of Parisians through the forest. If I harnessed Colaquet, we might go and fetch some flour . . . So I set to work rummaging under the shed. Amongst the rusty pickaxes, hay-rakes, and dilapidated harrows I finally discovered a worm-eaten spring-cart, forgotten and unused, its two shafts lying on the ground. By means of some pieces of rope and a few nails I put it into a tolerable state of repair. It occupied me till the evening; but what an interesting piece of work! I was amused in turning over those old nails, those worn-out pegs. Once or twice I surprised myself by whistling over my work. Pretty cool, considering I was expecting the Prussians . . . Now everything is ready, the cart and the team. To-morrow morning, if in the meanwhile nothing happens, we shall start for Champrosay!

[Picture: The old spring-cart]

* * * * *

[Picture: The farm work-shop]

* * * * *

[Picture: On the road to Champrosay]

_September_ 14_th_.

I have made a compact with myself to keep a very exact diary of the strange and terrible life I have been drawn into; if I have many days as exciting and tragic as this, I shall never be able to live through them. My hand shakes, my brain is on fire. However, I must make the attempt . . .

At first starting all went well. The weather was beautiful. I had placed a bundle of hay in the cart, and although Colaquet’s eyelids were still swollen from the bite, he managed to take us tolerably straight—he had so often made this journey, carrying bundles of linen to the riverside. In spite of the slight jolting, I found the drive delightful. Not the point of a helmet nor the glitter of a gun-barrel to be seen. Only, on arriving at Champrosay, the deep silence that had so impressed me in the woods appeared still more striking. The peasants’ cottages hardly seemed to me the same: no pigeons on the roofs, the doors closed, and the courtyards deserted. The silent belfry of the little church, with its defaced dial, stood above like a faithful guardian. Farther on, all the villas along the road, their grounds extending to the forest, were also carefully shut up. Their summer wealth of flowers continued to bloom, and, under the shade of the clipped trees, the yellow sandy paths were but lightly strewn with a few dead leaves. Nothing could give a more vivid idea of sudden departure and flight than the sight of these deserted houses, decked out as usual behind their high iron gates. There seemed still a kind of quiver and warmth of life; and at times, at the turn of the path, visions rose up in my mind of straw hats, upraised parasols, and of goats tethered on the grass-plots in their accustomed place.

[Picture: Colaquet managed to take us tolerably straight]

What, however, really seemed deathlike was the road, the highroad to Corbeil, that I had left so full of life, with a continual flow of vans, mail-coaches, market-gardeners’ carts, perambulating poultry-yards full of cackle and prattle; carriages borne along through the whirlwind of their own speed, on which float, even in the calmest weather, the veils and ribbons of the occupants; and the tall waggons laden with fresh hay and scythes and pitchforks, casting long shadows across the road. And now nothing and no one. In the filled-up ruts the dust has the still look of fallen snow, and the two wheels of my spring-cart glide on noiselessly. At the end of the village the farm appears in the distance, closed, and silent from the foot of its walls to the highest tile of its tall dark roof. Has Goudeloup also taken flight? . . . Here I am before the gateway. I knock—I call. A window above the dairy opens cautiously, and I see the cunning, somewhat unkempt head of the farmer appear, with his untrimmed beard, and his small round, suspicious eyes hidden under bushy eyebrows.

—Ah! it is you, Mr. Robert . . . Wait a moment. I am coming down.

[Picture: Goudeloup appears at a window]

Together we enter the little, low room where the carters, harvesters, and threshers usually come in the evening to receive their day’s pay. In a corner I perceive two loaded guns.

—You see, says Goudeloup, I am ready for them . . . If they leave me alone, I shall not stir . . . But if they are imprudent enough to meddle with the farm . . . Let them beware!

[Picture: The shattered Champrosay bridge]

We were talking in low tones, as if in an enemy’s country. He let me have a few loaves and a sack of flour; then having loaded my cart, we parted, promising each other soon to meet again, . . . Poor man!

Before returning home, no traces of Prussians being visible, I was tempted to go down the lane which passes under the walls of the farm and leads to the Seine. It was the whim of an artist. A river is the soul of a landscape. Animating the scene with its ceaseless movement, it gives life to all the changes of the day, and imparts grandeur to Nature by the reflection of its mirrored banks, and of glowing sunsets sinking into tranquil depths of liquid fire. Now its water faithfully reflects the surrounding melancholy. The shattered bridge, the crumbling piers piled up on either side in white heaps of stone, the iron chains dangling in the river, all this seems like a great rent in the landscape, the cruel work of the invader. No boats, no rafts—the river has returned to its wild, natural state, its surface furrowed by unfettered currents and swirling pools eddying round the ruins of the broken bridge, and bearing on its way nothing but drifting tufts of grass and roots, on which the water-wagtail, wearied out with its long flight, abandons itself to the course of the stream. On the slopes of each bank the corn and vines still stand, and the newly-mown fields are yet overshadowed by the high haycocks; a whole harvest lost and left to its fate . . .

I had stood there for a moment looking at this scene of disaster, when I heard two shots, followed by shrieks and groans, which seemed to come from the direction of the farm. I hastened to see what was the matter, and as I approached the cries of “Help—Help” were redoubled. I recognised the voice of the farmer amongst others raised in anger, a hideous jargon of sound. I whip up Colaquet, but the hill is steep and Colaquet moves not. One would almost say he was afraid. He lays back his ears and runs up against the wall; besides this, the road takes a turn, and I cannot see what is taking place on the highroad above. Suddenly, through a breach in the wall that the fall of the neighbouring bridge has made, as if expressly for me, the whole interior of the farm comes into view: the yard, the sheds, men, horses, helmets, long lances, flour sacks burst open, an unhorsed cavalry soldier lying before the well at full length in a pool of blood, and the unfortunate Goudeloup, pale, scared, a hideous object, howling and struggling between two gigantic Uhlans, who have tied a rope round his neck, and are about to swing him up by the pulley outside his hayloft. It is impossible to describe my sensations. I am filled with feelings of indignation, pity, horror, and anger . . . I forget that I am wounded and unarmed. I prepare to spring over the breach and throw myself on these wretches . . . But my foot slips . . . I hear something like the snap of a stick in my leg, followed by horrible pain. Everything goes round with me, the yard, the sheds, the pulley . . .

[Picture: Uhlans hanging Goudeloup]