Part Third - Chapter 5

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_ PART THIRD. CHAPTER V

The cold was intense on that December evening. Silvine and Prosper, together with little Charlot, were alone in the great kitchen of the farmhouse, she busy with her sewing, he whittling away at a whip that he proposed should be more than usually ornate. It was seven o'clock; they had dined at six, not waiting for Father Fouchard, who they supposed had been detained at Raucourt, where there was a scarcity of meat, and Henriette, whose turn it was to watch that night at the hospital, had just left the house, after cautioning Silvine to be sure to replenish Jean's stove with coal before she went to bed.

Outside a sky of inky blackness overhung the white expanse of snow. No sound came from the village, buried among the drifts; all that was to be heard in the kitchen was the scraping of Prosper's knife as he fashioned elaborate rosettes and lozenges on the dogwood stock. Now and then he stopped and cast a glance at Charlot, whose flaxen head was nodding drowsily. When the child fell asleep at last the silence seemed more profound than ever. The mother noiselessly changed the position of the candle that the light might not strike the eyes of her little one; then sitting down to her sewing again, she sank into a deep reverie. And Prosper, after a further period of hesitation, finally mustered up courage to disburden himself of what he wished to say.

"Listen, Silvine; I have something to tell you. I have been watching for an opportunity to speak to you in private--"

Alarmed by his preface, she raised her eyes and looked him in the face.

"This is what it is. You'll forgive me for frightening you, but it is best you should be forewarned. In Remilly this morning, at the corner by the church, I saw Goliah; I saw him as plain as I see you sitting there. Oh, no! there can be no mistake; I was not dreaming!"

Her face suddenly became white as death; all she was capable of uttering was a stifled moan:

"My God! my God!"

Prosper went on, in words calculated to give her least alarm, and related what he had learned during the day by questioning one person and another. No one doubted now that Goliah was a spy, that he had formerly come and settled in the country with the purpose of acquainting himself with its roads, its resources, the most insignificant details pertaining to the life of its inhabitants. Men reminded one another of the time when he had worked for Father Fouchard on his farm and of his sudden disappearance; they spoke of the places he had had subsequently to that over toward Beaumont and Raucourt. And now he was back again, holding a position of some sort at the military post of Sedan, its duties apparently not very well defined, going about from one village to another, denouncing this man, fining that, keeping an eye to the filling of the requisitions that made the peasants' lives a burden to them. That very morning he had frightened the people of Remilly almost out of their wits in relation to a delivery of flour, alleging it was short in weight and had not been furnished within the specified time.

"You are forewarned," said Prosper in conclusion, "and now you'll know what to do when he shows his face here--"

She interrupted him with a terrified cry.

"Do you think he will come here?"

"_Dame_! it appears to me extremely probable he will. It would show great lack of curiosity if he didn't, since he knows he has a young one here that he has never seen. And then there's you, besides, and you're not so very homely but he might like to have another look at you."

She gave him an entreating glance that silenced his rude attempt at gallantry. Charlot, awakened by the sound of their voices, had raised his head. With the blinking eyes of one suddenly aroused from slumber he looked about the room, and recalled the words that some idle fellow of the village had taught him; and with the solemn gravity of a little man of three he announced:

"Dey're loafers, de Prussians!"

His mother went and caught him frantically in her arms and seated him on her lap. Ah! the poor little waif, at once her delight and her despair, whom she loved with all her soul and who brought the tears to her eyes every time she looked on him, flesh of her flesh, whom it wrung her heart to hear the urchins with whom he consorted in the street tauntingly call "the little Prussian!" She kissed him, as if she would have forced the words back into his mouth.

"Who taught my darling such naughty words? It's not nice; you must not say them again, my loved one."

Whereon Charlot, with the persistency of childhood, laughing and squirming, made haste to reiterate:

"Dey're dirty loafers, de Prussians!"

And when his mother burst into tears he clung about her neck and also began to howl dismally. _Mon Dieu_, what new evil was in store for her! Was it not enough that she had lost in Honore the one single hope of her life, the assured promise of oblivion and future happiness? and was that man to appear upon the scene again to make her misery complete?

"Come," she murmured, "come along, darling, and go to bed. Mamma will kiss her little boy all the same, for he does not know the sorrow he causes her."

And she went from the room, leaving Prosper alone. The good fellow, not to add to her embarrassment, had averted his eyes from her face and was apparently devoting his entire attention to his carving.

Before putting Charlot to bed it was Silvine's nightly custom to take him in to say good-night to Jean, with whom the youngster was on terms of great friendship. As she entered the room that evening, holding her candle before her, she beheld the convalescent seated upright in bed, his open eyes peering into the obscurity. What, was he not asleep? Faith, no; he had been ruminating on all sorts of subjects in the silence of the winter night; and while she was cramming the stove with coal he frolicked for a moment with Charlot, who rolled and tumbled on the bed like a young kitten. He knew Silvine's story, and had a very kindly feeling for the meek, courageous girl whom misfortune had tried so sorely, mourning the only man she had ever loved, her sole comfort that child of shame whose existence was a daily reproach to her. When she had replaced the lid on the stove, therefore, and came to the bedside to take the boy from his arms, he perceived by her red eyes that she had been weeping. What, had she been having more trouble? But she would not answer his question: some other day she would tell him what it was if it seemed worth the while. _Mon Dieu!_ was not her life one of continual suffering now?

Silvine was at last lugging Charlot away in her arms when there arose from the courtyard of the farm a confused sound of steps and voices. Jean listened in astonishment.

"What is it? It can't be Father Fouchard returning, for I did not hear his wagon wheels." Lying on his back in his silent chamber, with nothing to occupy his mind, he had become acquainted with every detail of the routine of home life on the farm, of which the sounds were all familiar to his ears. Presently he added: "Ah, I see; it is those men again, the francs-tireurs from Dieulet, after something to eat."

"Quick, I must be gone!" said Silvine, hurrying from the room and leaving him again in darkness. "I must make haste and see they get their loaves."

A loud knocking was heard at the kitchen door and Prosper, who was beginning to tire of his solitude, was holding a hesitating parley with the visitors. He did not like to admit strangers when the master was away, fearing he might be held responsible for any damage that might ensue. His good luck befriended him in this instance, however, for just then Father Fouchard's carriole came lumbering up the acclivity, the tramp of the horse's feet resounding faintly on the snow that covered the road. It was the old man who welcomed the newcomers.

"Ah, good! it's you fellows. What have you on that wheelbarrow?"

Sambuc, lean and hungry as a robber and wrapped in the folds of a blue woolen blouse many times too large for him, did not even hear the farmer; he was storming angrily at Prosper, his honest brother, as he called him, who had only then made up his mind to unbar the door.

"Say, you! do you take us for beggars that you leave us standing in the cold in weather such as this?"

But Prosper did not trouble himself to make any other reply than was expressed in a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, and while he was leading the horse off to the stable old Fouchard, bending over the wheelbarrow, again spoke up.

"So, it's two dead sheep you've brought me. It's lucky it's freezing weather, otherwise we should know what they are by the smell."

Cabasse and Ducat, Sambuc's two trusty henchmen, who accompanied him in all his expeditions, raised their voices in protest.

"Oh!" cried the first, with his loud-mouthed Provencal volubility, "they've only been dead three days. They're some of the animals that died on the Raffins farm, where the disease has been putting in its fine work of late."

"_Procumbit humi bos_," spouted the other, the ex-court officer whose excessive predilection for the ladies had got him into difficulties, and who was fond of airing his Latin on occasion.

Father Fouchard shook his head and continued to disparage their merchandise, declaring it was too "high." Finally he took the three men into the kitchen, where he concluded the business by saying:

"After all, they'll have to take it and make the best of it. It comes just in season, for there's not a cutlet left in Raucourt. When a man's hungry he'll eat anything, won't he?" And very well pleased at heart, he called to Silvine, who just then came in from putting Charlot to bed: "Let's have some glasses; we are going to drink to the downfall of old Bismarck."

Fouchard maintained amicable relations with these francs-tireurs from Dieulet wood, who for some three months past had been emerging at nightfall from the fastnesses where they made their lurking place, killing and robbing a Prussian whenever they could steal upon him unawares, descending on the farms and plundering the peasants when there was a scarcity of the other kind of game. They were the terror of all the villages in the vicinity, and the more so that every time a provision train was attacked or a sentry murdered the German authorities avenged themselves on the adjacent hamlets, the inhabitants of which they accused of abetting the outrages, inflicting heavy penalties on them, carrying off their mayors as prisoners, burning their poor hovels. Nothing would have pleased the peasants more than to deliver Sambuc and his band to the enemy, and they were only deterred from doing so by their fear of being shot in the back at a turn in the road some night should their attempt fail of success.

It had occurred to Fouchard to inaugurate a traffic with them. Roaming about the country in every direction, peering with their sharp eyes into ditches and cattle sheds, they had become his purveyors of dead animals. Never an ox or a sheep within a radius of three leagues was stricken down by disease but they came by night with their barrow and wheeled it away to him, and he paid them in provisions, most generally in bread, that Silvine baked in great batches expressly for the purpose. Besides, if he had no great love for them, he experienced a secret feeling of admiration for the francs-tireurs, a set of handy rascals who went their way and snapped their fingers at the world, and although he was making a fortune from his dealings with the Prussians, he could never refrain from chuckling to himself with grim, savage laughter as often as he heard that one of them had been found lying at the roadside with his throat cut.

"Your good health!" said he, touching glasses with the three men. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand: "Say, have you heard of the fuss they're making over the two headless uhlans that they picked up over there near Villecourt? Villecourt was burned yesterday, you know; they say it was the penalty the village had to pay for harboring you. You'll have to be prudent, don't you see, and not show yourselves about here for a time. I'll see the bread is sent you somewhere."

Sambuc shrugged his shoulders and laughed contemptuously. What did he care for the Prussians, the dirty cowards! And all at once he exploded in a fit of anger, pounding the table with his fist.

"_Tonnerre de Dieu!_ I don't mind the uhlans so much; they're not so bad, but it's the other one I'd like to get a chance at once--you know whom I mean, the other fellow, the spy, the man who used to work for you."

"Goliah?" said Father Fouchard.

Silvine, who had resumed her sewing, dropped it in her lap and listened with intense interest.

"That's his name, Goliah! Ah, the brigand! he is as familiar with every inch of the wood of Dieulet as I am with my pocket, and he's like enough to get us pinched some fine morning. I heard of him to-day at the Maltese Cross making his boast that he would settle our business for us before we're a week older. A dirty hound, he is, and he served as guide to the Prussians the day before the battle of Beaumont; I leave it to these fellows if he didn't."

"It's as true as there's a candle standing on that table!" attested Cabasse.

"_Per silentia amica lunoe_," added Ducat, whose quotations were not always conspicuous for their appositeness.

But Sambuc again brought his heavy fist down upon the table. "He has been tried and adjudged guilty, the scoundrel! If ever you hear of his being in the neighborhood just send me word, and his head shall go and keep company with the heads of the two uhlans in the Meuse; yes, by G-d! I pledge you my word it shall."

There was silence. Silvine was very white, and gazed at the men with unwinking, staring eyes.

"Those are things best not be talked too much about," old Fouchard prudently declared. "Your health, and good-night to you."

They emptied the second bottle, and Prosper, who had returned from the stable, lent a hand to load upon the wheelbarrow, whence the dead sheep had been removed, the loaves that Silvine had placed in an old grain-sack. But he turned his back and made no reply when his brother and the other two men, wheeling the barrow before them through the snow, stalked away and were lost to sight in the darkness, repeating:

"Good-night, good-night! _an plaisir_!"

They had breakfasted the following morning, and Father Fouchard was alone in the kitchen when the door was thrown open and Goliah in the flesh entered the room, big and burly, with the ruddy hue of health on his face and his tranquil smile. If the old man experienced anything in the nature of a shock at the suddenness of the apparition he let no evidence of it escape him. He peered at the other through his half-closed lids while he came forward and shook his former employer warmly by the hand.

"How are you, Father Fouchard?"

Then only the old peasant seemed to recognize him.

"Hallo, my boy, is it you? You've been filling out; how fat you are!"

And he eyed him from head to foot as he stood there, clad in a sort of soldier's greatcoat of coarse blue cloth, with a cap of the same material, wearing a comfortable, prosperous air of self-content. His speech betrayed no foreign accent, moreover; he spoke with the slow, thick utterance of the peasants of the district.

"Yes, Father Fouchard, it's I in person. I didn't like to be in the neighborhood without dropping in just to say how-do-you-do to you."

The old man could not rid himself of a feeling of distrust. What was the fellow after, anyway? Could he have heard of the francs-tireurs' visit to the farmhouse the night before? That was something he must try to ascertain. First of all, however, it would be best to treat him politely, as he seemed to have come there in a friendly spirit.

"Well, my lad, since you are so pleasant we'll have a glass together for old times' sake."

He went himself and got a bottle and two glasses. Such expenditure of wine went to his heart, but one must know how to be liberal when he has business on hand. The scene of the preceding night was repeated, they touched glasses with the same words, the same gestures.

"Here's to your good health, Father Fouchard."

"And here's to yours, my lad."

Then Goliah unbent and his face assumed an expression of satisfaction; he looked about him like a man pleased with the sight of objects that recalled bygone times. He did not speak of the past, however, nor, for the matter of that, did he speak of the present. The conversation ran on the extremely cold weather, which would interfere with farming operations; there was one good thing to be said for the snow, however: it would kill off the insects. He barely alluded, with a slightly pained expression, to the partially concealed hatred, the affright and scorn, with which he had been received in the other houses of Remilly. Every man owes allegiance to his country, doesn't he? It is quite clear he should serve his country as well as he knows how. In France, however, no one looked at the matter in that light; there were things about which people had very queer notions. And as the old man listened and looked at that broad, innocent, good-natured face, beaming with frankness and good-will, he said to himself that surely that excellent fellow had had no evil designs in coming there.

"So you are all alone to-day, Father Fouchard?"

"Oh, no; Silvine is out at the barn, feeding the cows. Would you like to see her?"

Goliah laughed. "Well, yes. To be quite frank with you, it was on Silvine's account that I came."

Old Fouchard felt as if a great load had been taken off his mind; he went to the door and shouted at the top of his voice:

"Silvine! Silvine! There's someone here to see you."

And he went away about his business without further apprehension, since the lass was there to look out for the property. A man must be in a bad way, he reflected, to let a fancy for a girl keep such a hold on him after such a length of time, years and years.

When Silvine entered the room she was not surprised to find herself in presence of Goliah, who remained seated and contemplated her with his broad smile, in which, however, there was a trace of embarrassment. She had been expecting him, and stood stock-still immediately she stepped across the doorsill, nerving herself and bracing all her faculties. Little Charlot came running up and hid among her petticoats, astonished and frightened to see a strange man there. Then succeeded a few seconds of awkward silence.

"And this is the little one, then?" Goliah asked at last in his most dulcet tone.

"Yes," was Silvine's curt, stern answer.

Silence again settled down upon the room. He had known there was a child, although he had gone away before the birth of his offspring, but this was the first time he had laid eyes on it. He therefore wished to explain matters, like a young man of sense who is confident he can give good reasons for his conduct.

"Come, Silvine, I know you cherish bitter feelings against me--and yet there is no reason why you should. If I went away, if I have been cause to you of so much suffering, you might have told yourself that perhaps it was because I was not my own master. When a man has masters over him he must obey them, mustn't he? If they had sent me off on foot to make a journey of a hundred leagues I should have been obliged to go. And, of course, I couldn't say a word to you about it; you have no idea how bad it made me feel to go away as I did without bidding you good-by. I won't say to you now that I felt certain I should return to you some day; still, I always fully expected that I should, and, as you see, here I am again--"

She had turned away her head and was looking through the window at the snow that carpeted the courtyard, as if resolved to hear no word he said. Her persistent silence troubled him; he interrupted his explanations to say:

"Do you know you are prettier than ever!"

True enough, she was very beautiful in her pallor, with her magnificent great eyes that illuminated all her face. The heavy coils of raven hair that crowned her head seemed the outward symbol of the inward sorrow that was gnawing at her heart.

"Come, don't be angry! you know that I mean you no harm. If I did not love you still I should not have come back, that's very certain. Now that I am here and everything is all right once more we shall see each other now and then, shan't we?"

She suddenly stepped a pace backward, and looking him squarely in the face:

"Never!"

"Never!--and why? Are you not my wife, is not that child ours?"

She never once took her eyes from off his face, speaking with impressive slowness:

"Listen to me; it will be better to end that matter once for all. You knew Honore; I loved him, he was the only man who ever had my love. And now he is dead; you robbed me of him, you murdered him over there on the battlefield, and never again will I be yours. Never!"

She raised her hand aloft as if invoking heaven to record her vow, while in her voice was such depth of hatred that for a moment he stood as if cowed, then murmured:

"Yes, I heard that Honore was dead; he was a very nice young fellow. But what could you expect? Many another has died as well; it is the fortune of war. And then it seemed to me that once he was dead there would no longer be a barrier between us, and let me remind you, Silvine, that after all I was never brutal toward you--"

But he stopped short at sight of her agitation; she seemed as if about to tear her own flesh in her horror and distress.

"Oh! that is just it; yes, it is that which seems as if it would drive me wild. Why, oh! why did I yield when I never loved you? Honore's departure left me so broken down, I was so sick in mind and body that never have I been able to recall any portion of the circumstances; perhaps it was because you talked to me of him and appeared to love him. My God! the long nights I have spent thinking of that time and weeping until the fountain of my tears was dry! It is dreadful to have done a thing that one had no wish to do and afterward be unable to explain the reason of it. And he had forgiven me, he had told me that he would marry me in spite of all when his time was out, if those hateful Prussians only let him live. And you think I will return to you. No, never, never! not if I were to die for it!"

Goliah's face grew dark. She had always been so submissive, and now he saw she was not to be shaken in her fixed resolve. Notwithstanding his easy-going nature he was determined he would have her, even if he should be compelled to use force, now that he was in a position to enforce his authority, and it was only his inherent prudence, the instinct that counseled him to patience and diplomacy, that kept him from resorting to violent measures now. The hard-fisted colossus was averse to bringing his physical powers into play; he therefore had recourse to another method for making her listen to reason.

"Very well; since you will have nothing more to do with me I will take away the child."

"What do you mean?"

Charlot, whose presence had thus far been forgotten by them both, had remained hanging to his mother's skirts, struggling bravely to keep down his rising sobs as the altercation waxed more warm. Goliah, leaving his chair, approached the group.

"You're my boy, aren't you? You're a good little Prussian. Come along with me."

But before he could lay hands on the child Silvine, all a-quiver with excitement, had thrown her arms about it and clasped it to her bosom.

"He, a Prussian, never! He's French, was born in France!"

"You say he's French! Look at him, and look at me; he's my very image. Can you say he resembles you in any one of his features?"

She turned her eyes on the big, strapping lothario, with his curling hair and beard and his broad, pink face, in which the great blue eyes gleamed like globes of polished porcelain; and it was only too true, the little one had the same yellow thatch, the same rounded cheeks, the same light eyes; every feature of the hated race was reproduced faithfully in him. A tress of her jet black hair that had escaped from its confinement and wandered down upon her shoulder in the agitation of the moment showed her how little there was in common between the child and her.

"I bore him; he is mine!" she screamed in fury. "He's French, and will grow up to be a Frenchman, knowing no word of your dirty German language; and some day he shall go and help to kill the whole pack of you, to avenge those whom you have murdered!"

Charlot, tightening his clasp about her neck, began to cry, shrieking:

"Mammy, mammy, I'm 'fraid! take me away!"

Then Goliah, doubtless because he did not wish to create a scandal, stepped back, and in a harsh, stern voice, unlike anything she had ever heard from his lips before, made this declaration:

"Bear in mind what I am about to tell you, Silvine. I know all that happens at this farm. You harbor the francs-tireurs from the wood of Dieulet, among them that Sambuc who is brother to your hired man; you supply the bandits with provisions. And I know that that hired man, Prosper, is a chasseur d'Afrique and a deserter, and belongs to us by rights. Further, I know that you are concealing on your premises a wounded man, another soldier, whom a word from me would suffice to consign to a German fortress. What do you think: am I not well informed?"

She was listening to him now, tongue-tied and terror-stricken, while little Charlot kept piping in her ear with lisping voice:

"Oh! mammy, mammy, take me away, I'm 'fraid!"

"Come," resumed Goliah, "I'm not a bad fellow, and I don't like quarrels and bickering, as you are well aware, but I swear by all that's holy I will have them all arrested, Father Fouchard and the rest, unless you consent to admit me to your chamber on Monday next. I will take the child, too, and send him away to Germany to my mother, who will be very glad to have him; for you have no further right to him, you know, if you are going to leave me. You understand me, don't you? The folks will all be gone, and all I shall have to do will be to come and carry him away. I am the master; I can do what pleases me--come, what have you to say?"

But she made no answer, straining the little one more closely to her breast as if fearing he might be torn from her then and there, and in her great eyes was a look of mingled terror and execration.

"It is well; I give you three days to think the matter over. See to it that your bedroom window that opens on the orchard is left open. If I do not find the window open next Monday evening at seven o'clock I will come with a detail the following day and arrest the inmates of the house and then will return and bear away the little one. Think of it well; _au revoir_, Silvine."

He sauntered quietly away, and she remained standing, rooted to her place, her head filled with such a swarming, buzzing crowd of terrible thoughts that it seemed to her she must go mad. And during the whole of that long day the tempest raged in her. At first the thought occurred to her instinctively to take her child in her arms and fly with him, wherever chance might direct, no matter where; but what would become of them when night should fall and envelop them in darkness? how earn a livelihood for him and for herself? Then she determined she would speak to Jean, would notify Prosper, and Father Fouchard himself, and again she hesitated and changed her mind: was she sufficiently certain of the friendship of those people that she could be sure they would not sacrifice her to the general safety, she who was cause that they were menaced all with such misfortune? No, she would say nothing to anyone; she would rely on her own efforts to extricate herself from the peril she had incurred by braving that bad man. But what scheme could she devise; _mon Dieu!_ how could she avert the threatened evil, for her upright nature revolted; she could never have forgiven herself had she been the instrument of bringing disaster to so many people, to Jean in particular, who had always been so good to Charlot.

The hours passed, one by one; the next day's sun went down, and still she had decided upon nothing. She went about her household duties as usual, sweeping the kitchen, attending to the cows, making the soup. No word fell from her lips, and rising ever amid the ominous silence she preserved, her hatred of Goliah grew with every hour and impregnated her nature with its poison. He had been her curse; had it not been for him she would have waited for Honore, and Honore would be living now, and she would be happy. Think of his tone and manner when he made her understand he was the master! He had told her the truth, moreover; there were no longer gendarmes or judges to whom she could apply for protection; might made right. Oh, to be the stronger! to seize and overpower him when he came, he who talked of seizing others! All she considered was the child, flesh of her flesh; the chance-met father was naught, never had been aught, to her. She had no particle of wifely feeling toward him, only a sentiment of concentrated rage, the deep-seated hatred of the vanquished for the victor, when she thought of him. Rather than surrender the child to him she would have killed it, and killed herself afterward. And as she had told him, the child he had left her as a gift of hate she would have wished were already grown and capable of defending her; she looked into the future and beheld him with a musket, slaughtering hecatombs of Prussians. Ah, yes! one Frenchman more to assist in wreaking vengeance on the hereditary foe!

There was but one day remaining, however; she could not afford to waste more time in arriving at a decision. At the very outset, indeed, a hideous project had presented itself among the whirling thoughts that filled her poor, disordered mind: to notify the francs-tireurs, to give Sambuc the information he desired so eagerly; but the idea had not then assumed definite form and shape, and she had put it from her as too atrocious, not suffering herself even to consider it: was not that man the father of her child? she could not be accessory to his murder. Then the thought returned, and kept returning at more frequently recurring intervals, little by little forcing itself upon her and enfolding her in its unholy influence; and now it had entire possession of her, holding her captive by the strength of its simple and unanswerable logic. The peril and calamity that overhung them all would vanish with that man; he in his grave, Jean, Prosper, Father Fouchard would have nothing more to fear, while she herself would retain possession of Charlot and there would be never a one in all the world to challenge her right to him. All that day she turned and re-turned the project in her mind, devoid of further strength to bid it down, considering despite herself the murder in its different aspects, planning and arranging its most minute details. And now it was become the one fixed, dominant idea, making a portion of her being, that she no longer stopped to reason on, and when finally she came to act, in obedience to that dictate of the inevitable, she went forward as in a dream, subject to the volition of another, a someone within her whose presence she had never known till then.

Father Fouchard had taken alarm, and on Sunday he dispatched a messenger to the francs-tireurs to inform them that their supply of bread would be forwarded to the quarries of Boisville, a lonely spot a mile and a quarter from the house, and as Prosper had other work to do the old man sent Silvine with the wheelbarrow. It was manifest to the young woman that Destiny had taken the matter in its hands; she spoke, she made an appointment with Sambuc for the following evening, and there was no tremor in her voice, as if she were pursuing a course marked out for her from which she could not depart. The next day there were still other signs which proved that not only sentient beings, but inanimate objects as well, favored the crime. In the first place Father Fouchard was called suddenly away to Raucourt, and knowing he could not get back until after eight o'clock, instructed them not to wait dinner for him. Then Henriette, whose night off it was, received word from the hospital late in the afternoon that the nurse whose turn it was to watch was ill and she would have to take her place; and as Jean never left his chamber under any circumstances, the only remaining person from whom interference was to be feared was Prosper. It revolted the chasseur d'Afrique, the idea of killing a man that way, three against one, but when his brother arrived, accompanied by his faithful myrmidons, the disgust he felt for the villainous crew was lost in his detestation of the Prussians; sure he wasn't going to put himself out to save one of the dirty hounds, even if they did do him up in a way that was not according to rule; and he settled matters with his conscience by going to bed and burying his head under the blankets, that he might hear nothing that would tempt him to act in accordance with his soldierly instincts.

It lacked a quarter of seven, and Charlot seemed determined not to go to sleep. As a general thing his head declined upon the table the moment he had swallowed his last mouthful of soup.

"Come, my darling, go to sleep," said Silvine, who had taken him to Henriette's room; "mamma has put you in the nice lady's big bed."

But the child was excited by the novelty of the situation; he kicked and sprawled upon the bed, bubbling with laughter and animal spirits.

"No, no--stay, little mother--play, little mother."

She was very gentle and patient, caressing him tenderly and repeating:

"Go to sleep, my darling; shut your eyes and go to sleep, to please mamma."

And finally slumber overtook him, with a happy laugh upon his lips. She had not taken the trouble to undress him; she covered him warmly and left the room, and so soundly was he in the habit of sleeping that she did not even think it necessary to turn the key in the door.

Silvine had never known herself to be so calm, so clear and alert of mind. Her decision was prompt, her movements were light, as if she had parted company with her material frame and were acting under the domination of that other self, that inner being which she had never known till then. She had already let in Sambuc, with Cabasse and Ducat, enjoining upon them the exercise of the strictest caution, and now she conducted them to her bedroom and posted them on either side the window, which she threw open wide, notwithstanding the intense cold. The darkness was profound; barely a faint glimmer of light penetrated the room, reflected from the bosom of the snow without. A deathlike stillness lay on the deserted fields, the minutes lagged interminably. Then, when at last the deadened sound was heard of footsteps drawing near, Silvine withdrew and returned to the kitchen, where she seated herself and waited, motionless as a corpse, her great eyes fixed on the flickering flame of the solitary candle.

And the suspense was long protracted, Goliah prowling warily about the house before he would risk entering. He thought he could depend on the young woman, and had therefore come unarmed save for a single revolver in his belt, but he was haunted by a dim presentiment of evil; he pushed open the window to its entire extent and thrust his head into the apartment, calling below his breath:

"Silvine! Silvine!"

Since he found the window open to him it must be that she had thought better of the matter and changed her mind. It gave him great pleasure to have it so, although he would rather she had been there to welcome him and reassure his fears. Doubtless Father Fouchard had summoned her away; some odds and ends of work to finish up. He raised his voice a little:

"Silvine! Silvine!"

No answer, not a sound. And he threw his leg over the window-sill and entered the room, intending to get into bed and snuggle away among the blankets while waiting, it was so bitter cold.

All at once there was a furious rush, with the noise of trampling, shuffling feet, and smothered oaths and the sound of labored breathing. Sambuc and his two companions had thrown themselves on Goliah, and notwithstanding their superiority in numbers they found it no easy task to overpower the giant, to whom his peril lent tenfold strength. The panting of the combatants, the straining of sinews and cracking of joints, resounded for a moment in the obscurity. The revolver, fortunately, had fallen to the floor in the struggle. Cabasse's choking, inarticulate voice was heard exclaiming: "The cords, the cords!" and Ducat handed to Sambuc the coil of thin rope with which they had had the foresight to provide themselves. Scant ceremony was displayed in binding their hapless victim; the operation was conducted to the accompaniment of kicks and cuffs. The legs were secured first, then the arms were firmly pinioned to the sides, and finally they wound the cord at random many times around the Prussian's body, wherever his contortions would allow them to place it, with such an affluence of loops and knots that he had the appearance of being enmeshed in a gigantic net. To his unintermitting outcries Ducat's voice responded: "Shut your jaw!" and Cabasse silenced him more effectually by gagging him with an old blue handkerchief. Then, first waiting a moment to get their breath, they carried him, an inert mass, to the kitchen and deposited him upon the big table, beside the candle.

"Ah, the Prussian scum!" exclaimed Sambuc, wiping the sweat from his forehead, "he gave us trouble enough! Say, Silvine, light another candle, will you, so we can get a good view of the d----d pig and see what he looks like."

Silvine arose, her wide-dilated eyes shining bright from out her colorless face. She spoke no word, but lit another candle and came and placed it by Goliah's head on the side opposite the other; he produced the effect, thus brilliantly illuminated, of a corpse between two mortuary tapers. And in that brief moment their glances met; his was the wild, agonized look of the supplicant whom his fears have overmastered, but she affected not to understand, and withdrew to the sideboard, where she remained standing with her icy, unyielding air.

"The beast has nearly chewed my finger off," growled Cabasse, from whose hand blood was trickling. "I'm going to spoil his ugly mug for him."

He had taken the revolver from the floor and was holding it poised by the barrel in readiness to strike, when Sambuc disarmed him.

"No, no! none of that. We are not murderers, we francs-tireurs; we are judges. Do you hear, you dirty Prussian? we're going to try you; and you need have no fear, your rights shall be respected. We can't let you speak in your own defense, for if we should unmuzzle you you would split our ears with your bellowing, but I'll see that you have a lawyer presently, and a famous good one, too!"

He went and got three chairs and placed them in a row, forming what it pleased him to call the court, he sitting in the middle with one of his followers on either hand. When all three were seated he arose and commenced to speak, at first ironically aping the gravity of the magistrate, but soon launching into a tirade of blood-thirsty invective.

"I have the honor to be at the same time President of the Court and Public Prosecutor. That, I am aware, is not strictly in order, but there are not enough of us to fill all the roles. I accuse you, therefore, of entering France to play the spy on us, recompensing us for our hospitality with the most abominable treason. It is to you to whom we are principally indebted for our recent disasters, for after the battle of Nouart you guided the Bavarians across the wood of Dieulet by night to Beaumont. No one but a man who had lived a long time in the country and was acquainted with every path and cross-road could have done it, and on this point the conviction of the court is unalterable; you were seen conducting the enemy's artillery over roads that had become lakes of liquid mud, where eight horses had to be hitched to a single gun to drag it out of the slough. A person looking at those roads would hesitate to believe that an army corps could ever have passed over them. Had it not been for you and your criminal action in settling among us and betraying us the surprise of Beaumont would have never been, we should not have been compelled to retreat on Sedan, and perhaps in the end we might have come off victorious. I will say nothing of the disgusting career you have been pursuing since then, coming here in disguise, terrorizing and denouncing the poor country people, so that they tremble at the mention of your name. You have descended to a depth of depravity beyond which it is impossible to go, and I demand from the court sentence of death."

Silence prevailed in the room. He had resumed his seat, and finally, rising again, said:

"I assign Ducat to you as counsel for the defense. He has been sheriff's officer, and might have made his mark had it not been for his little weakness. You see that I deny you nothing; we are disposed to treat you well."

Goliah, who could not stir a finger, bent his eyes on his improvised defender. It was in his eyes alone that evidence of life remained, eyes that burned intensely with ardent supplication under the ashy brow, where the sweat of anguish stood in big drops, notwithstanding the cold.

Ducat arose and commenced his plea. "Gentlemen, my client, to tell the truth, is the most noisome blackguard that I ever came across in my life, and I should not have been willing to appear in his defense had I not a mitigating circumstance to plead, to wit: they are all that way in the country he came from. Look at him closely; you will read his astonishment in his eyes; he does not understand the gravity of his offense. Here in France we may employ spies, but no one would touch one of them unless with a pair of pincers, while in that country espionage is considered a highly honorable career and an extremely meritorious manner of serving the state. I will even go so far as to say, gentlemen, that possibly they are not wrong; our noble sentiments do us honor, but they have also the disadvantage of bringing us defeat. If I may venture to speak in the language of Cicero and Virgil, _quos vult perdere Jupiter dementat_. You will understand the allusion, gentlemen."

And he took his seat again, while Sambuc resumed:

"And you, Cabasse, have you nothing to say either for or against the defendant?"

"All I have to say," shouted the Provencal, "is that we are wasting a deal of breath in settling that scoundrel's hash. I've had my little troubles in my lifetime, and plenty of 'em, but I don't like to see people trifle with the affairs of the law; it's unlucky. Let him die, I say!"

Sambuc rose to his feet with an air of profound gravity.

"This you both declare to be your verdict, then--death?"

"Yes, yes! death!"

The chairs were pushed back, he advanced to the table where Goliah lay, saying:

"You have been tried and sentenced; you are to die."

The flame of the two candles rose about their unsnuffed wicks and flickered in the draught, casting a fitful, ghastly light on Goliah's distorted features. The fierce efforts he made to scream for mercy, to vociferate the words that were strangling him, were such that the handkerchief knotted across his mouth was drenched with spume, and it was a sight most horrible to see, that strong man reduced to silence, voiceless already as a corpse, about to die with that torrent of excuse and entreaty pent in his bosom.

Cabasse cocked the revolver. "Shall I let him have it?" he asked.

"No, no!" Sambuc shouted in reply; "he would be only too glad." And turning to Goliah: "You are not a soldier; you are not worthy of the honor of quitting the world with a bullet in your head. No, you shall die the death of a spy and the dirty pig that you are."

He looked over his shoulder and politely said:

"Silvine, if it's not troubling you too much, I would like to have a tub."

During the whole of the trial scene Silvine had not moved a muscle. She had stood in an attitude of waiting, with drawn, rigid features, as if mind and body had parted company, conscious of nothing but the one fixed idea that had possessed her for the last two days. And when she was asked for a tub she received the request as a matter of course and proceeded at once to comply with it, disappearing into the adjoining shed, whence she returned with the big tub in which she washed Charlot's linen.

"Hold on a minute! place it under the table, close to the edge."

She placed the vessel as directed, and as she rose to her feet her eyes again encountered Goliah's. In the look of the poor wretch was a supreme prayer for mercy, the revolt of the man who cannot bear the thought of being stricken down in the pride of his strength. But in that moment there was nothing of the woman left in her; nothing but the fierce desire for that death for which she had been waiting as a deliverance. She retreated again to the buffet, where she remained standing in silent expectation.

Sambuc opened the drawer of the table and took from it a large kitchen knife, the one that the household employed to slice their bacon.

"So, then, as you are a pig, I am going to stick you like a pig."

He proceeded in a very leisurely manner, discussing with Cabasse, and Ducat the proper method of conducting the operation. They even came near quarreling, because Cabasse alleged that in Provence, the country he came from, they hung pigs up by the heels to stick them, at which Ducat expressed great indignation, declaring that the method was a barbarous and inconvenient one.

"Bring him well forward to the edge of the table, his head over the tub, so as to avoid soiling the floor."

They drew him forward, and Sambuc went about his task in a tranquil, decent manner. With a single stroke of the keen knife he slit the throat crosswise from ear to ear, and immediately the blood from the severed carotid artery commenced to drip, drip into the tub with the gentle plashing of a fountain. He had taken care not to make the incision too deep; only a few drops spurted from the wound, impelled by the action of the heart. Death was the slower in coming for that, but no convulsion was to be seen, for the cords were strong and the body was utterly incapable of motion. There was no death-rattle, not a quiver of the frame. On the face alone was evidence of the supreme agony, on that terror-distorted mask whence the blood retreated drop by drop, leaving the skin colorless, with a whiteness like that of linen. The expression faded from the eyes; they became dim, the light died from out them.

"Say, Silvine, we shall want a sponge, too."

She made no reply, standing riveted to the floor in an attitude of unconsciousness, her arms folded tightly across her bosom, her throat constricted as by the clutch of a mailed hand, gazing on the horrible spectacle. Then all at once she perceived that Charlot was there, grasping her skirts with his little hands; he must have awaked and managed to open the intervening doors, and no one had seen him come stealing in, childlike, curious to know what was going on. How long had he been there, half-concealed behind his mother? From beneath his shock of yellow hair his big blue eyes were fixed on the trickling blood, the thin red stream that little by little was filling the tub. Perhaps he had not understood at first and had found something diverting in the sight, but suddenly he seemed to become instinctively aware of all the abomination of the thing; he gave utterance to a sharp, startled cry:

"Oh, mammy! oh, mammy! I'm 'fraid, take me away!"

It gave Silvine a shock, so violent that it convulsed her in every fiber of her being. It was the last straw; something seemed to give way in her, the excitement that had sustained her for the last two days while under the domination of her one fixed idea gave way to horror. It was the resurrection of the dormant woman in her; she burst into tears, and with a frenzied movement caught Charlot up and pressed him wildly to her heart. And she fled with him, running with distracted terror, unable to see or hear more, conscious of but one overmastering need, to find some secret spot, it mattered not where, in which she might cast herself upon the ground and seek oblivion.

It was at this crisis that Jean rose from his bed and, softly opening his door, looked out into the passage. Although he generally gave but small attention to the various noises that reached him from the farmhouse, the unusual activity that prevailed this evening, the trampling of feet, the shouts and cries, in the end excited his curiosity. And it was to the retirement of his sequestered chamber that Silvine, sobbing and disheveled, came for shelter, her form convulsed by such a storm of anguish that at first he could not grasp the meaning of the rambling, inarticulate words that fell from her blanched lips. She kept constantly repeating the same terrified gesture, as if to thrust from before her eyes some hideous, haunting vision. At last he understood, the entire abominable scene was pictured clearly to his mind: the traitorous ambush, the slaughter, the mother, her little one clinging to her skirts, watching unmoved the murdered father, whose life-blood was slowly ebbing; and it froze his marrow--the peasant and the soldier was sick at heart with anguished horror. Ah, hateful, cruel war! that changed all those poor folks to ravening wolves, bespattering the child with the father's blood! An accursed sowing, to end in a harvest of blood and tears!

Resting on the chair where she had fallen, covering with frantic kisses little Charlot, who clung, sobbing, to her bosom, Silvine repeated again and again the one unvarying phrase, the cry of her bleeding heart.

"Ah, my poor child, they will no more say you are a Prussian! Ah, my poor child, they will no more say you are a Prussian!"

Meantime Father Fouchard had returned and was in the kitchen. He had come hammering at the door with the authority of the master, and there was nothing left to do but open to him. The surprise he experienced was not exactly an agreeable one on beholding the dead man outstretched on his table and the blood-filled tub beneath. It followed naturally, his disposition not being of the mildest, that he was very angry.

"You pack of rascally slovens! say, couldn't you have gone outdoors to do your dirty work? Do you take my place for a shambles, eh? coming here and ruining the furniture with such goings-on?" Then, as Sambuc endeavored to mollify him and explain matters, the old fellow went on with a violence that was enhanced by his fears: "And what do you suppose I am to do with the carcass, pray? Do you consider it a gentlemanly thing to do, to come to a man's house like this and foist a stiff off on him without so much as saying by your leave? Suppose a patrol should come along, what a nice fix I should be in! but precious little you fellows care whether I get my neck stretched or not. Now listen: do you take that body at once and carry it away from here; if you don't, by G-d, you and I will have a settlement! You hear me; take it by the head, take it by the heels, take it any way you please, but get it out of here and don't let there be a hair of it remaining in this room at the end of three minutes from now!"

In the end Sambuc prevailed on Father Fouchard to let him have a sack, although it wrung the old miser's heartstrings to part with it. He selected one that was full of holes, remarking that anything was good enough for a Prussian. Cabasse and Ducat had all the trouble in the world to get Goliah into it; it was too short and too narrow for the long, broad body, and the feet protruded at its mouth. Then they carried their burden outside and placed it on the wheelbarrow that had served to convey to them their bread.

"You'll not be troubled with him any more, I give you my word of honor!" declared Sambuc. "We'll go and toss him into the Meuse."

"Be sure and fasten a couple of big stones to his feet," recommended Fouchard, "so the lubber shan't come up again."

And the little procession, dimly outlined against the white waste of snow, started and soon was buried in the blackness of the night, giving no sound save the faint, plaintive creaking of the barrow.

In after days Sambuc swore by all that was good and holy he had obeyed the old man's directions, but none the less the corpse came to the surface and was discovered two days afterward by the Prussians among the weeds at Pont-Maugis, and when they saw the manner of their countryman's murder, his throat slit like a pig, their wrath and fury knew no bounds. Their threats were terrible, and were accompanied by domiciliary visits and annoyances of every kind. Some of the villagers must have blabbed, for there came a party one night and arrested Father Fouchard and the Mayor of Remilly on the charge of giving aid and comfort to the francs-tireurs, who were manifestly the perpetrators of the crime. And Father Fouchard really came out very strong under those untoward circumstances, exhibiting all the impassability of a shrewd old peasant, who knew the value of silence and a tranquil demeanor. He went with his captors without the least sign of perturbation, without even asking them for an explanation. The truth would come out. In the country roundabout it was whispered that he had already made an enormous fortune from the Prussians, sacks and sacks of gold pieces, that he buried away somewhere, one by one, as he received them.

All these stories were a terrible source of alarm to Henriette when she came to hear of them. Jean, fearing he might endanger the safety of his hosts, was again eager to get away, although the doctor declared he was still too weak, and she, saddened by the prospect of their approaching separation, insisted on his delaying his departure for two weeks. At the time of Father Fouchard's arrest Jean had escaped a like fate by hiding in the barn, but he was liable to be taken and led away captive at any moment should there be further searches made. She was also anxious as to her uncle's fate, and so she resolved one morning to go to Sedan and see the Delaherches, who had, it was said, a Prussian officer of great influence quartered in their house.

"Silvine," she said, as she was about to start, "take good care of our patient; see he has his bouillon at noon and his medicine at four o'clock."

The maid of all work, ever busy with her daily recurring tasks, was again the submissive and courageous woman she had been of old; she had the care of the farm now, moreover, in the absence of the master, while little Charlot was constantly at her heels, frisking and gamboling around her.

"Have no fear, madame, he shall want for nothing. I am here and will look out for him." _

Read next: Part Third: Chapter 6

Read previous: Part Third: Chapter 4

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