The Essential Guy de Maupassant Collection. Guy de Maupassant

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СКАЧАТЬ sorely. She wore now an air of constraint in his presence, as if she understood what she had not felt the week before under the first blow of her misfortune, and she exhibited an excessive deference toward him, a mournful humility, and made touching efforts to please him, as if to pay him back by her attentions for the kindness he had manifested toward her. They were a long time at lunch talking over the business which had brought him there. She did not want so much money. It was too much. She earned enough to live on herself, but she only wished that Emile might find a few sous awaiting him when he grew big. C?sar held out, however, and even added a gift of a thousand francs for herself for the expense of mourning.

      When he had taken his coffee, she asked:

      "Do you smoke?"

      "Yes--I have my pipe."

      He felt in his pocket. Good God! He had forgotten it! He was becoming quite woe-begone about it when she offered him a pipe of his father's that had been shut up in a cupboard. He accepted it, took it up in his hand, recognized it, smelled it, spoke of its quality in a tone of emotion, filled it with tobacco, and lighted it. Then he set Emile astride on his knee, and made him play the cavalier, while she removed the tablecloth and put the soiled plates at one end of the sideboard in order to wash them as soon as he was gone.

      About three o'clock, he rose up with regret, quite annoyed at the thought of having to go.

      "Well! Mademoiselle Donet," he said, "I wish you good evening, and am delighted to have found you like this."

      She remained standing before him, blushing, much affected, and gazed at him while she thought of the other.

      "Shall we not see one another again?" she said.

      He replied simply:

      "Why, yes, Mam'zelle, if it gives you pleasure."

      "Certainly, Monsieur C?sar. Will next Thursday suit you then?"

      "Yes, Mademoiselle Donet."

      "You will come to lunch, of course?"

      "Well--if you are so kind as to invite me, I can't refuse."

      "It is understood, then, Monsieur C?sar--next Thursday, at twelve, the same as to-day."

      "Thursday at twelve, Mam'zelle Donet!"

      NO QUARTER

      The broad sunlight threw its burning rays on the fields, and under this shower of flame life burst forth in glowing vegetation from the earth. As far as the eye could see, the soil was green; and the sky was blue to the verge of the horizon. The Norman farms scattered through the plain seemed at a distance like little woods inclosed each in a circle of thin beech-trees. Coming closer, on opening the worm-eaten stile, one fancied that he saw a giant garden, for all the old apple-trees, as knotted as the peasants, were in blossom. The weather-beaten black trunks, crooked, twisted, ranged along the inclosure, displayed beneath the sky their glittering domes, rosy and white. The sweet perfume of their blossoms mingled with the heavy odors of the open stables and with the fumes of the steaming dunghill, covered with hens and their chickens. It was midday. The family sat at dinner in the shadow of the pear-tree planted before the door--the father, the mother, the four children, the two maidservants, and the three farm laborers. They scarcely uttered a word. Their fare consisted of soup and of a stew composed of potatoes mashed up in lard.

      From time to time one of the maidservants rose up, and went to the cellar to fetch a pitcher of cider.

      The husband, a big fellow of about forty, stared at a vine-tree, quite exposed to view, which stood close to the farmhouse, twining like a serpent under the shutters the entire length of the wall.

      He said, after a long silence:

      "The father's vine-tree is blossoming early this year. Perhaps it will bear good fruit."

      The peasant's wife also turned round, and gazed at the tree without speaking.

      This vine-tree was planted exactly in the place where the father of the peasant had been shot.

      It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were in occupation of the entire country. General Faidherbe, with the Army of the North, was at their head.

      Now the Prussian staff had taken up its quarters in this farmhouse. The old peasant who owned it, P?re Milon, received them, and gave them the best treatment he could.

      For a whole month the German vanguard remained on the lookout in the village. The French were posted ten leagues away without moving, and yet, each night, some of the uhlans disappeared.

      All the isolated scouts, those who were sent out on patrol, whenever they started in groups of two or three, never came back.

      They were picked up dead in the morning in a field, near a farmyard, in a ditch. Their horses even were found lying on the roads with their throats cut by a saber stroke. These murders seemed to have been accomplished by the same men, who could not be discovered.

      The country was terrorized. Peasants were shot on mere information, women were imprisoned, attempts were made to obtain revelations from children by fear.

      But, one morning, P?re Milon was found stretched in his stable with a gash across his face.

      Two uhlans ripped open were seen lying three kilometers away from the farmhouse. One of them still grasped in his hand his blood-stained weapon. He had fought and defended himself.

      A council of war having been immediately constituted, in the open air, in front of the farmhouse, the old man was brought before it.

      He was sixty-eight years old. He was small, thin, a little crooked, with long hands resembling the claws of a crab. His faded hair, scanty and slight, like the down on a young duck, allowed his scalp to be plainly seen. The brown, crimpled skin of his neck showed the big veins which sank under his jaws and reappeared at his temples. He was regarded in the district as a miser and a hard man in business transactions.

      He was placed standing between four soldiers in front of the kitchen table, which had been carried out of the house for the purpose. Five officers and the Colonel sat facing him. The Colonel was the first to speak.

      "P?re Milon," he said, in French, "since we came here we have had nothing to say of you but praise. You have always been obliging, and even considerate toward us. But to-day a terrible accusation rests on you, and the matter must be cleared up. How did you get the wound on your face?"

      The peasant gave no reply.

      The Colonel went on:

      "Your silence condemns you, P?re Milon. But I want you to answer me, do you understand? Do you know who has killed the two uhlans who were found this morning near the crossroads?"

      The old man said in a clear voice:

      "It was I!"

      The Colonel, surprised, remained silent for a second, looking steadfully at the prisoner. P?re Milon maintained his impassive demeanor, his air of rustic stupidity, with downcast eyes, as if he were talking to his cure. There was only one thing that could reveal his internal agitation, the way in which he slowly swallowed СКАЧАТЬ