Part 5

What am I doing here? I am really becoming ashamed of my useless life . . . I had to bake some bread to-day, and could not summon up courage to do it. All the little details in which I used to take pleasure, like those egotists in disguise—recluses and hermits—I now find despicable. I am completely cured, only an occasional pain on very cold days. My duty is on the ramparts with the others . . . But how can I manage to rejoin them? It appears that the investment is very close, and the sentinels are placed within rifle-shot of each other. If I had only a companion, some countryman who knows the roads well. My thoughts fly to Goudeloup. I ought not to have allowed him to leave me. Who knows where he may be now? Perhaps strung up to some roadside cross, or dead from cold at the bottom of a quarry. However, the other evening, towards the Meillottes, I heard a cry—nothing but a cry, but a terrible cry, long and despairing, like a wail; and it flashed across me, “Goudeloup is there!” . . . Ah, yes! that man is a murderer; but at any rate he acts; he satisfies brutally the thirst for vengeance and justice which is in him. As for me, I warm myself and sleep. Which of us two is the most contemptible?

[Picture: Body in the snow]

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[Picture: Deserted street in Champrosay]

_December_ 10_th_.

Returned to Champrosay in bitter cold weather. The houses along the roadside, with all their dark, empty windows, looked like sad and blind beggars. I visited again the park, the summer-house at the waterside, and the smiling portrait which inhabits it. The cold air had not dimmed the peaceful face, nor the soft shades of the summer dress. Only the glance seemed to me more stern and severe, as if it contained a reproach. On the very threshold I understood I was no longer welcome. Cautiously I closed the door again, and went down the frozen, moss-covered steps . . . And all through the night the clear gaze of that fair Parisian remorselessly haunted me.

[Picture: Robert investigating Champrosay house]

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[Picture: “I found a pigeon.”]

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[Picture: Across the rooftops]

_December_ 11_th_.

This morning, on going to take up the snares at the end of my garden, I found a pigeon. It astonished me. Tame pigeons do not remain on deserted roofs, and till now I had only caught wood-pigeons. This one was really a tame pigeon, plump, with pink claws and back, and brown and white wings. The wire had not maimed it; it was merely numbed with cold. I brought it in to the fire, and there, as I held it in both hands—for, like a tame creature, it made not the slightest struggle—I discovered some printed numbers on one of its wings, 523, and lower down, _Société de l’Espérance_. Then under the feathers I found a quill rather thicker than the others, and rolled up, fastened to it, a tiny sheet of very thin paper. I had caught a carrier-pigeon! Did it come from Paris or the provinces? Was it the messenger of victory or defeat, good or bad news? . . . For a long time I gazed at it with almost superstitious awe. Let loose in the room, he quietly went about pecking between the tiles. By degrees his feathers puffed out in the warmth and his strength returned. Then I opened the window wide, and placed him on the sill. He remained there a moment looking up at the sky, stretching out his neck, trying to find his bearings. At last he rose straight into the air, and having reached a certain height, white against the surrounding gloom, he sharply turned towards Paris. Ah! if I could only take the same road . . .

[Picture: Bird]

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[Picture: Preparations for travelling]

_December_ 15_th_.

It is all settled. We leave to-morrow. I say “we,” because Goudeloup has returned. He came back yesterday in the dusk, more emaciated, more terrible than before. The wretched man is now at his twenty-first! . . . Nevertheless the thirst for blood is beginning to be satiated; moreover, he is closely pursued, and the nightly ambush has become most difficult. I therefore had little trouble in deciding him to attempt an expedition to Paris with me. We shall start to-morrow in my boat, which is lying out on the Seine, moored under the willows on the banks. It is Goudeloup’s idea. He thinks that on a very dark night we shall be able to get by to the _Port-à-l’Anglais_, and then, by creeping along the towing-path, reach the first French barricade. We shall see . . . I have prepared my revolver, some rugs, two or three loaves, and a large flask of brandy.

The enterprise is certainly full of danger; but since I have made up my mind to attempt it, I feel calmer. Instead of making me anxious, the sound of the cannon round Paris electrifies me. I feel as if it were calling me; and each time it thunders, I am inclined to answer, “We are coming.” I fancy the portrait in the summer-house smiles at me from its gilt frame, and wears again its calm and placid aspect . . . I have but one regret in quitting the Hermitage: what will become of my poor Colaquet? I leave the stable-door open for him to seek his subsistence in the forest. I pile up near him my last bundles of straw, and while I make these preparations I avoid meeting his astonished, kind eyes, which seem to say reproachfully, “Where are you going?”

. . . And now, on my table, opened at this unfinished page, I abandon my diary with these last words, which will probably end it: We are off to Paris!

[Picture: The moonlit river]

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[Picture: Creeping through the forest.]

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[Picture: The return journey.]

_Written groping in the dark_.

I have returned . . . Goudeloup is dead . . . Our journey has failed.

_December_ 26_th_.

Ten days! I have only been absent ten days. It seems to me that the multitude of scenes and shadows, the confused and terrible sensations I have brought back from my short journey, are enough to fill several existences. Now that I have returned to the confined space of my Hermitage, all these memories haunt and torment me,—I must try and write them down merely to rid myself of them.

[Picture: Commencing the outward journey]

We started on the night of the sixteenth. A very cold night, without stars, lighted up only by a white sprinkling of hoar-frost. The frosted trees looked like hawthorn bushes flowering before their leaves break forth. We passed through Champrosay, as dismal and silent as the hoar-frost which was falling and lying on its cold roofs, instead of gently melting round the water-spouts by the warmth of the lighted fires. Not a Prussian was to be seen on the horizon, and this was fortunate, as our two outlines stood out distinctly in the great bare plain. I found my boat in a little creek hidden between the banks. It was a very lightly-built Norwegian boat. Having wrapped some rags round the oars, we pushed off noiselessly on the lonely river, knocking now and then against the icicles which float on the surface of the water like blocks of crystal. Many a time, in preceding years, I had embarked on nights as dark and cold to set or visit my night-lines. But what life there was on the river around me! A somewhat mysterious, dreamy sort of life, full of the silence of universal slumber. Long wood rafts, with their fires lighted fore and aft, and shadows standing near the helm, slowly go down towards Paris, gliding by through all the forest shade, and entering Bercy at break of day, in the full glare of a noisy and crowded thoroughfare. On the banks, waggons passed along, the night express train gliding along through the windings of the railway track, like a serpent with eyes of fire. And I pondered over all the sad or joyful motives that set all these people in motion . . . At intervals, by the side of the river, which nearly bathed their walls, the lock-keeper’s house, the ferrymen’s hut, the boatmen’s public-houses, threw the glimmer from their dimmed windows over the still water.

[Picture: Wood rafts of former times]

To-day there is nothing of all this. We have a new river before us, black and solitary, disturbed by all those broken bridges, which change the currents. However, by a few strokes of the oar I was able to direct our little bark, and keep it near enough to the middle of the stream to avoid the submerged islands marked out by the dipping willows . . .

[Picture: “We crossed a heavy punt.”]

—All goes well . . . said Goudeloup in a low voice.

At that moment the noise of an oar thrown into a boat, came from the bank, and a powerful southern voice called through the night:

—Come, ferryman, make haste! . . .

—It is the Draveil doctor, whispered my companion.

I too had recognised the kindly voice, that is heard day and night on highroads and byeways, always encouraging and always hurried. How did he come there? Had he therefore stayed at Draveil? . . . I should have liked to have called out to him: “Good-night, Doctor!” But a moment’s reflection stopped me. A lucky thought, in truth; for directly after we crossed a heavy punt, with a lantern in the bow, passing over from one side of the river to the other; and I saw by the side of dear Doctor R— in his old felt hat, weather-beaten by all the storms of Seine and Oise, some shining helmets.

[Picture: Approaching the railway bridge]

By rare good fortune we were beyond the rays of their lantern, which deepened the shadow through which our boat was gliding, and we passed by unseen. No less danger awaited us a little farther on—the railway bridge, of which three arches were blown up, blocking the river with its gigantic remains. I really hardly know how we were able to get through this fearful barrier in the dark, without being swamped or dashed to pieces. At Port-Courcelles we had the same fear. The enormous gnarled willows of the two islets became in the night so many shoals, that we narrowly escaped. At last we reach Ablon and its lock. Here the cannon round Paris resounds clear and terrible, sending forth at each instant the red flash of its thunder . . . We ought to have expected it: the lock is closed. Fortunately our boat is light, and together we shall be able, as I have so often done, to hoist it on to the bank, and carry it over to the other side of the barrier. We land at the little steps where the innkeeper of Ablon skins his eels on summer days, and where the fishermen sit patiently with their rods, bathed in sunshine from the top of their boating-hats down to their shoes of untanned leather. It is astonishing how a feeling of danger changes the whole aspect of things! . . . When nearly at the top of the steps, I perceived against the darkness, ten paces from me, a sentry on his beat, pacing up and down the quay. Lower down, the lock-keeper’s house, turned into a Prussian outpost, has all its windows lighted up. I wish to go down quickly, re-embark, and gain the other bank; but Goudeloup will not listen to me. His eyes remain obstinately fixed on that shadow which looms through the fog, and whistles while trampling above us. I try to drag him away. He escapes, makes one bound . . . I hear a dull sound, a smothered cry, the rattle of arms, and the heavy fall of a man.

[Picture: The wrecked railway bridge] —Twenty-two! . . . says Goudeloup, slipping, quite out of breath, down the slope.

But the unfortunate soldier, that he has left stretched out by the river-side, has found strength before dying to fire his gun. The sharp report rouses both banks of the river. Impossible to land. We quickly push out into the middle of the stream, and row hard up the river. It is all like a bad dream. The wind and current, everything is against us. A boat pushes off from the lock, coming straight at us, lighted by a torch which dips up and down as it watches for us, while another boat approaches us in a contrary direction.

—To the dredger . . . whispers Goudeloup in my ear.

[Picture: On the steps by the lock]

Near us, moored some fifty or sixty feet from the shore, a dredging-boat reared its black mass above the water, with its barrels and bucket-chain to clear away the sand. The Seine was very high, and the water half covered it, dashing against its bows with vehemence.

We board her, but in our haste to take refuge on this wreck we forget to fasten our boat, which floats off with the rugs and provision it contains. This saves us. Five minutes later a formidable “hurrah” tells us the Prussians have just found our boat. Seeing it empty, they must have thought we were drowned, engulfed; for a few moments after, the torches returned to the shore, and the whole river resumed its silence and darkness . . .

[Picture: Swimming to the dredger]

The dredger on which we found ourselves was a complete wreck—a curious shelter, crackling and creaking all over, and furiously lashed by the waters. On the deck, covered with splinters of wood and pieces of cast iron, the cold was intolerable. We were obliged to take refuge in the engine-room, to which the water happily had not yet penetrated. It would soon, however, reach it, for in several places the sides of the room were cracked almost down to the level of the waves, and we found ourselves lighted by the leaden reflection of the darkness on the water. What gloomy hours we spent there! Hunger, fear, and the terrible cold numbing our limbs with a feeling of drowsiness against which we were obliged to struggle . . . All around, the water seethed, the wood groaned, the bucket-chain creaked in its rustiness, and aloft, above our heads, something like the rag of a drenched flag flapped in the wind. We impatiently waited for daybreak, not knowing exactly what distance separated us from the land, nor how we should be able to reach it. In our fitful slumbers, broken as they were by anxious thoughts of escape, the shaking of the dredging-boat and the sound of the water surrounding us, gave me at times the impression of a long voyage and a stormy night at sea . . .

When through the holes in the room, which were blackened and torn as if by a bombardment, we saw the river catch the first light of a sullen winter’s morning, we tried to make out our position. The slopes of Juvisy commanded the farther bank, rising above the fog, which its tall trees pierced with their bare tops. On the opposite shore, eighty or a hundred feet beyond the dredger, lay the flat, bare plains of Draveil, stretching away into the far distance, without trace of a soldier on them. Evidently that was the side we could escape by. The anticipation of a cold bath, in the month of December, in that deep, foaming, and swift-running water, was rather terrifying. However, the iron chain that moored the dredger to the bank was happily still fastened to its ring, and we had the resource left of clinging to it and being guided by it. While we were discussing this, a cannon was fired off rather close at hand, from the heights of Juvisy, followed up immediately by the whistle of a shell and its splash in the water near us. A few seconds later, before we had recovered from our astonishment, a second shell fell near the dredger. Then I understood the flag, the splinters of wood, the pieces of cast iron, and the smell of burnt powder we had noticed in the cabin. The Prussians were using the old dredger as a target for their cannons. It was absolutely necessary to quit at once. The cold and the dangers of the river sank into insignificance. Forward we must go. I seized hold of the chain with both hands and lowered myself rapidly into the river, Goudeloup following me. Our fingers were skinned by the chafing iron: we advanced but slowly, numbed by the current and the icy water. A fresh cannon-shot redoubles our energy. Look out! Here comes the shell. This time it falls full on the iron-plated front of the dredger, bursts, and covers us with the wreckage. I hear behind me a deep sigh . . . No, never shall I forget the last agonising motion of that chain, which I felt move, struggle for a second, and then rise up quickly in the water, loose, free, and light in my hands . . .

[Picture: They get into the river again] I turned round; no one to be seen. Nothing but a mass of blood floating away on the stream. The unfortunate fellow must have been struck on the head and killed on the spot . . . A feeling of intense despair overcame me. My companion slaughtered beside me, and I helpless to succour him . . . A little more and I too must have let go the chain; but the instinct of life won the day, and a few minutes later I landed on the bank, but to get no farther. After a dozen steps, overcome by the anxiety, fatigue, and terrible cold which penetrated through all my wet clothes, I dropped down by the roadside on the dry grass of a ditch. The well-known trot of a horse, the roll of an old cabriolet, and the kind voice of Doctor R— drew me from my lethargy.

—What! it is you? . . . What are you doing there?

Quick as lightning, he wrapped me up in his cloak, hid me in the straw under the apron of the carriage, and set off in the direction of Draveil, where the excellent man has turned his house into a hospital. From the cabriolet I passed into the coach-house. There, dry clothes and a few glasses of hot grog soon revived me. I remained there till nightfall, without daring to move, understanding very well, although the Doctor had never told me, the risk he was incurring by receiving me. The house was full of soldiers and hospital attendants. Military boots resounded on the pavement of the small courtyard. And all around, the loud laughter, the swords clashing, and the harsh German speech, still more accentuated by its insolent tone. I heard all this with my eyes shut, stupefied by the sensation of comfort, with a vague recollection of past danger and of the cold river, and poor Goudeloup’s heart-rending groan ringing in my ears.

At night the Doctor came to set me free, and took me to the room generally occupied by his grandchildren, whom he had sent away on the approach of the Prussians. It was there that I awoke the next morning. After the horrible scenes of the previous day, those three little cribs, with white muslin curtains round them, the children’s toys lying scattered on the floor with their lesson-books, even the faint medicinal smell that came from a cupboard in which the Doctor kept some drugs, everything calmed and soothed my over-excited nerves. In a neighbouring yard a cock crowed and a donkey began braying. The village seemed to awaken. Suddenly a bugle-call, rudely jarring on these peaceful sounds, recalled the sad reality. Then there was coming and going to and fro; doors banged . . . I drew near the window. The Doctor’s house looked into the street, over the flower-beds of a narrow strip of garden in front of it. Every one knew his house, with its round brass bell-knob standing out brightly on the freshly white-washed wall; and the furniture in the little parlour, which could be seen on the ground-floor, gave it an appearance of homely comfort. Hidden behind the closed blinds, I saw the street full of men in forage-caps falling into line, calling, numbering each other, ready to start. Among the caps, several Bavarian helmets appeared. These were quartermasters running from house to house, chalking down the numbers on the doors, preparing quarters for the advancing forces. Soon the departing regiment moved off to the sound of their drums, while opposite, at the entrance to the village, the Bavarian buglers noisily entered. During the last three months the unhappy village had been in this condition. The straw of the encampments had not time to grow cold between the departure of one regiment and the arrival of another . . .

[Picture: Being picked up by the Doctor]

The Doctor, who just then came into the room, made me leave the window.

—Take care, Mr. Robert; do not show yourself. There is at the _Commandatur_ a list of the inhabitants who have remained in the country, and we are all closely watched. After eight o’clock in the evening, nobody except myself is allowed to go outside their house . . . So many Prussians have been murdered in the neighbourhood! Draveil pays the penalty. Their requisitions are three times heavier here than elsewhere. The least word, and they imprison; the slightest show of rebellion, and they shoot. Our unhappy peasants are terrified. They spy and inform about each other; and if one of them perceived that I was hiding some one in my house, he would be capable—to spare himself a requisition—of warning the _Commandatur_. What would be the fate of both of us, I can easily imagine . . .

He was so afraid of any imprudence on my part, poor dear Doctor, that all the time I stayed in his house he kept the key of my room in his pocket. The latticed shutters and closed windows threw a prison gloom over my room, that only gave me light enough to read by. I had medical works, a few odd volumes translated from the Panckoucke series, and from time to time a copy of a French paper published by the Prussians at Versailles. That also was written in a foreign kind of French, and our real or imaginary defeats were sneeringly described with coarse and stupid jokes.

When I could no longer read, I looked out through the blinds into the street—the real old-fashioned street of a country town. Straight rows of houses with little gardens and a pavement in front, the spaces between them filled with a trellis-work of branches, or the trunk of a great elm, and a background of plain and vineyard scarcely hidden by the low roofs. Then sheds and stables, a fountain spouting out of an old wall, the large gateway of a farm, side by side with the notary’s white and clean little house, ornamented with escutcheons. And over all the cruel blight of the invasion. Knitted jerseys drying on the iron gates and on the shutters. Large pipes protruding from every window, and military boots. Never had I heard the sound of so many boots . . . Opposite my window was the _Commandatur_. Every day peasants were brought in, urged along by butt-ends of rifles or the scabbards of swords. The women and children followed weeping, and while the man was dragged inside, they remained at the door explaining their case to the soldiers, who, with closed lips, listened disdainfully or else laughed with a stupid brutal laughter. No hope of pity or justice. All depended on the caprice of the conqueror. They were so well aware of it, these unfortunate peasants, that they hardly dared stir out or show themselves, and when they did venture into the street, it was heart-rending to see them creeping under the walls, glancing out of the corner of their eyes, bowed down, obsequious and servile, like Eastern Jews.