The Guy de Maupassant MEGAPACK ®. Guy de Maupassant
was beyond danger, when he fainted.
He was shot in the upper part of the thigh.
After the first surprise and fright were over they laughed at him again. But Monsieur Lavigne appeared on the threshold of the forester’s dwelling. He had formed his plan of attack. He called in a loud voice “I want Planchut, the plumber, and his workmen.”
Three men approached.
“Take the eavestroughs from the roof.”
In a quarter of an hour they brought the commandant thirty yards of pipes.
Next, with infinite precaution, he had a small round hole drilled in the trap-door; then, making a conduit with the troughs from the pump to this opening, he said, with an air of extreme satisfaction:
“Now we’ll give these German gentlemen something to drink.”
A shout of frenzied admiration, mingled with uproarious laughter, burst from his followers. And the commandant organized relays of men, who were to relieve one another every five minutes. Then he commanded:
“Pump!!!”
And, the pump handle having been set in motion, a stream of water trickled throughout the length of the piping, and flowed from step to step down the cellar stairs with a gentle, gurgling sound.
They waited.
An hour passed, then two, then three. The commandant, in a state of feverish agitation, walked up and down the kitchen, putting his ear to the ground every now and then to discover, if possible, what the enemy were doing and whether they would soon capitulate.
The enemy was astir now. They could be heard moving the casks about, talking, splashing through the water.
Then, about eight o’clock in the morning, a voice came from the vent-hole “I want to speak to the French officer.”
Lavigne replied from the window, taking care not to put his head out too far:
“Do you surrender?”
“I surrender.”
“Then put your rifles outside.”
A rifle immediately protruded from the hole, and fell into the snow, then another and another, until all were disposed of. And the voice which had spoken before said:
“I have no more. Be quick! I am drowned.”
“Stop pumping!” ordered the commandant.
And the pump handle hung motionless.
Then, having filled the kitchen with armed and waiting soldiers, he slowly raised the oaken trapdoor.
Four heads appeared, soaking wet, four fair heads with long, sandy hair, and one after another the six Germans emerged—scared, shivering and dripping from head to foot.
They were seized and bound. Then, as the French feared a surprise, they set off at once in two convoys, one in charge of the prisoners, and the other conducting Maloison on a mattress borne on poles.
They made a triumphal entry into Rethel.
Monsieur Lavigne was decorated as a reward for having captured a Prussian advance guard, and the fat baker received the military medal for wounds received at the hands of the enemy.
TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS
Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would go for a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks, crossed Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then, as the houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed the dusty road which leads to Bezons.
They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting capes, too large and too long, whose sleeves covered their hands; their ample red trousers fell in folds around their ankles. Under the high, stiff shako one could just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked Breton faces, with their calm, naive blue eyes. They never spoke during their journey, going straight before them, the same idea in each one’s mind taking the place of conversation. For at the entrance of the little forest of Champioux they had found a spot which reminded them of home, and they did not feel happy anywhere else.
At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads, when they arrived under the trees, they would take off their heavy, oppressive headgear and wipe their foreheads.
They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons, and looked at the Seine. They stood there several minutes, bending over the railing, watching the white sails, which perhaps reminded them of their home, and of the fishing smacks leaving for the open.
As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would purchase provisions at the delicatessen, the baker’s, and the wine merchant’s. A piece of bologna, four cents’ worth of bread, and a quart of wine, made up the luncheon which they carried away, wrapped up in their handkerchiefs. But as soon as they were out of the village their gait would slacken and they would begin to talk.
Before them was a plain with a few clumps of trees, which led to the woods, a little forest which seemed to remind them of that other forest at Kermarivan. The wheat and oat fields bordered on the narrow path, and Jean Kerderen said each time to Luc Le Ganidec:
“It’s just like home, just like Plounivon.”
“Yes, it’s just like home.”
And they went on, side by side, their minds full of dim memories of home. They saw the fields, the hedges, the forests, and beaches.
Each time they stopped near a large stone on the edge of the private estate, because it reminded them of the dolmen of Locneuven.
As soon as they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec would cut off a small stick, and, whittling it slowly, would walk on, thinking of the folks at home.
Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.
From time to time Luc would mention a name, or allude to some boyish prank which would give them food for plenty of thought. And the home country, so dear and so distant, would little by little gain possession of their minds, sending them back through space, to the well-known forms and noises, to the familiar scenery, with the fragrance of its green fields and sea air. They no longer noticed the smells of the city. And in their dreams they saw their friends leaving, perhaps forever, for the dangerous fishing grounds.
They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen, contented and sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and penetrating sorrow of a captive animal which remembers the days of its freedom.
And when Luc had finished whittling his stick, they came to a little nook, where every Sunday they took their meal. They found the two bricks, which they had hidden in a hedge, and they made a little fire of dry branches and roasted their sausages on the ends of their knives.
When their last crumb of bread had been eaten and the last drop of wine had been drunk, they stretched themselves out on the grass side by side, without speaking, their half-closed eyes looking away in the distance, their hands clasped as in prayer, their red-trousered legs mingling with the bright colors of the wild flowers.
Towards noon they glanced, from time to time, towards the village of Bezons, for the dairy maid would soon be coming. Every Sunday she would pass in front of them on the way to milk her cow, the only cow in the neighborhood which was sent out to pasture.
Soon they would see the girl, coming through the fields, and it pleased them to watch the sparkling sunbeams reflected from her shining pail. They never spoke of her. They were just glad to see her, without understanding why.
She was a tall, strapping girl, freckled and tanned by the open air—a girl typical of the Parisian suburbs.
Once, on noticing that they were always sitting in the same place, she said to them:
“Do you always come here?”
Luc Le Ganidec, more daring than his friend, stammered:
“Yes, we come here for our rest.”
That