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    169 Stories
    169 Stories
    169 Stories
    Ebook2,914 pages29 hours

    169 Stories

    By Guy de Maupassant

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    About this ebook

    This book-collection file includes all 13 volumes of the collection "Original Maupassant Short Stories" Translated by ALBERT M. C. McMASTER, A. E. HENDERSON, MME. QUESADA and Others. According to Wikipedia: "Guy de Maupassant (5 August 1850 – 6 July 1893) was a popular 19th-century French writer and considered one of the fathers of the modern short story. A protégé of Flaubert, Maupassant's stories are characterized by their economy of style and their efficient, effortless dénouement. Many of the stories are set during the Franco-Prussian War of the 1870s and several describe the futility of war and the innocent civilians who, caught in the conflict, emerge changed. He also wrote six short novels."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSeltzer Books
    Release dateMar 1, 2018
    ISBN9781455391455
    169 Stories
    Author

    Guy de Maupassant

    Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893) war ein französischer Schriftsteller und Journalist. Maupassant gilt neben Stendhal, Balzac, Flaubert und Zola als einer der großen französischen Erzähler des 19. Jahrhunderts. Er ist auch einer der am häufigsten verfilmten Autoren.

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      169 Stories - Guy de Maupassant

      wife.

      THE PRISONERS

      There was not a sound in the forest save the indistinct, fluttering sound

      of the snow falling on the trees. It had been snowing since noon; a

      little fine snow, that covered the branches as with frozen moss, and

      spread a silvery covering over the dead leaves in the ditches, and

      covered the roads with a white, yielding carpet, and made still more

      intense the boundless silence of this ocean of trees.

      Before the door of the forester's dwelling a young woman, her arms bare

      to the elbow, was chopping wood with a hatchet on a block of stone. She

      was tall, slender, strong-a true girl of the woods, daughter and wife of

      a forester.

      A voice called from within the house:

      "We are alone to-night, Berthine; you must come in. It is getting dark,

      and there may be Prussians or wolves about."

      I've just finished, mother, replied the young woman, splitting as she

      spoke an immense log of wood with strong, deft blows, which expanded her

      chest each time she raised her arms to strike. "Here I am; there's no

      need to be afraid; it's quite light still."

      Then she gathered up her sticks and logs, piled them in the chimney

      corner, went back to close the great oaken shutters, and finally came in,

      drawing behind her the heavy bolts of the door.

      Her mother, a wrinkled old woman whom age had rendered timid, was

      spinning by the fireside.

      I am uneasy, she said, "when your father's not here. Two women are not

      much good."

      Oh, said the younger woman, "I'd cheerfully kill a wolf or a Prussian

      if it came to that."

      And she glanced at a heavy revolver hanging above the hearth.

      Her husband had been called upon to serve in the army at the beginning of

      the Prussian invasion, and the two women had remained alone with the old

      father, a keeper named Nicolas Pichon, sometimes called Long-legs, who

      refused obstinately to leave his home and take refuge in the town.

      This town was Rethel, an ancient stronghold built on a rock. Its

      inhabitants were patriotic, and had made up their minds to resist the

      invaders, to fortify their native place, and, if need be, to stand a

      siege as in the good old days. Twice already, under Henri IV and under

      Louis XIV, the people of Rethel had distinguished themselves by their

      heroic defence of their town. They would do as much now, by gad! or else

      be slaughtered within their own walls.

      They had, therefore, bought cannon and rifles, organized a militia, and

      formed themselves into battalions and companies, and now spent their time

      drilling all day long in the square. All-bakers, grocers, butchers,

      lawyers, carpenters, booksellers, chemists-took their turn at military

      training at regular hours of the day, under the auspices of Monsieur

      Lavigne, a former noncommissioned officer in the dragoons, now a draper,

      having married the daughter and inherited the business of Monsieur

      Ravaudan, Senior.

      He had taken the rank of commanding officer in Rethel, and, seeing that

      all the young men had gone off to the war, he had enlisted all the others

      who were in favor of resisting an attack. Fat men now invariably walked

      the streets at a rapid pace, to reduce their weight and improve their

      breathing, and weak men carried weights to strengthen their muscles.

      And they awaited the Prussians. But the Prussians did not appear. They

      were not far off, however, for twice already their scouts had penetrated

      as far as the forest dwelling of Nicolas Pichon, called Long-legs.

      The old keeper, who could run like a fox, had come and warned the town.

      The guns had been got ready, but the enemy had not shown themselves.

      Long-legs' dwelling served as an outpost in the Aveline forest. Twice a

      week the old man went to the town for provisions and brought the citizens

      news of the outlying district.

      On this particular day he had gone to announce the fact that a small

      detachment of German infantry had halted at his house the day before,

      about two o'clock in the afternoon, and had left again almost

      immediately. The noncommissioned officer in charge spoke French.

      When the old man set out like this he took with him his dogs--two

      powerful animals with the jaws of lions-as a safeguard against the

      wolves, which were beginning to get fierce, and he left directions with

      the two women to barricade themselves securely within their dwelling as

      soon as night fell.

      The younger feared nothing, but her mother was always apprehensive, and

      repeated continually:

      We'll come to grief one of these days. You see if we don't!

      This evening she was, if possible, more nervous than ever.

      Do you know what time your father will be back? she asked.

      "Oh, not before eleven, for certain. When he dines with the commandant

      he's always late."

      And Berthine was hanging her pot over the fire to warm the soup when she

      suddenly stood still, listening attentively to a sound that had reached

      her through the chimney.

      There are people walking in the wood, she said; "seven or eight men at

      least."

      The terrified old woman stopped her spinning wheel, and gasped:

      Oh, my God! And your father not here!

      She had scarcely finished speaking when a succession of violent blows

      shook the door.

      As the woman made no reply, a loud, guttural voice shouted:

      Open the door!

      After a brief silence the same voice repeated:

      Open the door or I'll break it down!

      Berthine took the heavy revolver from its hook, slipped it into the

      pocket of her skirt, and, putting her ear to the door, asked:

      Who are you? demanded the young woman. What do you want?.

      The detachment that came here the other day, replied the voice.

      "My men and I have lost our way in the forest since morning. Open the

      door or I'll break it down!"

      The forester's daughter had no choice; she shot back the heavy bolts,

      threw open the ponderous shutter, and perceived in the wan light of the

      snow six men, six Prussian soldiers, the same who had visited the house

      the day before.

      What are you doing here at this time of night? she asked dauntlessly.

      I lost my bearings, replied the officer; "lost them completely. Then I

      recognized this house. I've eaten nothing since morning, nor my men

      either."

      But I'm quite alone with my mother this evening, said Berthine.

      Never mind, replied the soldier, who seemed a decent sort of fellow.

      "We won't do you any harm, but you must give us something to eat. We are

      nearly dead with hunger and fatigue."

      Then the girl moved aside.

      Come in; she said.

      Then entered, covered with snow, their helmets sprinkled with a

      creamy-looking froth, which gave them the appearance of meringues. They

      seemed utterly worn out.

      The young woman pointed to the wooden benches on either side of the large

      table.

      Sit down, she said, "and I'll make you some soup. You certainly look

      tired out, and no mistake."

      Then she bolted the door afresh.

      She put more water in the pot, added butter and potatoes; then, taking

      down a piece of bacon from a hook in the chimney earner, cut it in two

      and slipped half of it into the pot.

      The six men watched her movements with hungry eyes. They had placed their

      rifles and helmets in a corner and waited for supper, as well behaved as

      children on a school bench.

      The old mother had resumed her spinning, casting from time to time a

      furtive and uneasy glance at the soldiers. Nothing was to be heard save

      the humming of the wheel, the crackling of the fire, and the singing of

      the water in the pot.

      But suddenly a strange noise--a sound like the harsh breathing of

      some wild animal sniffing under the door-startled the occupants of the

      room.

      The German officer sprang toward the rifles. Berthine stopped him with a

      gesture, and said, smilingly:

      "It's only the wolves. They are like you--prowling hungry through

      the forest."

      The incredulous man wanted to see with his own eyes, and as soon as the

      door was opened he perceived two large grayish animals disappearing with

      long, swinging trot into the darkness.

      He returned to his seat, muttering:

      I wouldn't have believed it!

      And he waited quietly till supper was ready.

      The men devoured their meal voraciously, with mouths stretched to their

      ears that they might swallow the more. Their round eyes opened at the

      same time as their jaws, and as the soup coursed down their throats it

      made a noise like the gurgling of water in a rainpipe.

      The two women watched in silence the movements of the big red beards. The

      potatoes seemed to be engulfed in these moving fleeces.

      But, as they were thirsty, the forester's daughter went down to the

      cellar to draw them some cider. She was gone some time. The cellar was

      small, with an arched ceiling, and had served, so people said, both as

      prison and as hiding-place during the Revolution. It was approached by

      means of a narrow, winding staircase, closed by a trap-door at the

      farther end of the kitchen.

      When Berthine returned she was smiling mysteriously to herself. She gave

      the Germans her jug of cider.

      Then she and her mother supped apart, at the other end of the kitchen.

      The soldiers had finished eating, and were all six falling asleep as they

      sat round the table. Every now and then a forehead fell with a thud on

      the board, and the man, awakened suddenly, sat upright again.

      Berthine said to the officer:

      "Go and lie down, all of you, round the fire. There's lots of room for

      six. I'm going up to my room with my mother."

      And the two women went upstairs. They could be heard locking the door and

      walking about overhead for a time; then they were silent.

      The Prussians lay down on the floor, with their feet to the fire and

      their heads resting on their rolled-up cloaks. Soon all six snored loudly

      and uninterruptedly in six different keys.

      They had been sleeping for some time when a shot rang out so loudly that

      it seemed directed against the very wall's of the house. The soldiers

      rose hastily. Two-then three-more shots were fired.

      The door opened hastily, and Berthine appeared, barefooted and only half

      dressed, with her candle in her hand and a scared look on her face.

      There are the French, she stammered; "at least two hundred of them. If

      they find you here they'll burn the house down. For God's sake, hurry

      down into the cellar, and don't make a 'sound, whatever you do. If you

      make any noise we are lost."

      We'll go, we'll go, replied the terrified officer. Which is the way?

      The young woman hurriedly raised the small, square trap-door, and the six

      men disappeared one after another down the narrow, winding staircase,

      feeling their way as they went.

      But as soon as the spike of the out of the last helmet was out of sight

      Berthine lowered the heavy oaken lid--thick as a wall, hard as

      steel, furnished with the hinges and bolts of a prison cell--shot

      the two heavy bolts, and began to laugh long and silently, possessed with

      a mad longing to dance above the heads of her prisoners.

      They made no sound, inclosed in the cellar as in a strong-box, obtaining

      air only from a small, iron-barred vent-hole.

      Berthine lighted her fire again, hung the pot over it, and prepared more

      soup, saying to herself:

      Father will be tired to-night.

      Then she sat and waited. The heavy pendulum of the clock swung to and fro

      with a monotonous tick.

      Every now and then the young woman cast an impatient glance at the dial-a

      glance which seemed to say:

      I wish he'd be quick!

      But soon there was a sound of voices beneath her feet. Low, confused

      words reached her through the masonry which roofed the cellar. The

      Prussians were beginning to suspect the trick she had played them, and

      presently the officer came up the narrow staircase, and knocked at the

      trap-door.

      Open the door! he cried.

      What do you want? she said, rising from her seat and approaching the

      cellarway.

      Open the door!

      I won't do any such thing!

      Open it or I'll break it down! shouted the man angrily.

      She laughed.

      Hammer away, my good man! Hammer away!

      He struck with the butt-end of his gun at the closed oaken door. But it

      would have resisted a battering-ram.

      The forester's daughter heard him go down the stairs again. Then the

      soldiers came one after another and tried their strength against the

      trapdoor. But, finding their efforts useless, they all returned to the

      cellar and began to talk among themselves.

      The young woman heard them for a short time, then she rose, opened the

      door of the house; looked out into the night, and listened.

      A sound of distant barking reached her ear. She whistled just as a

      huntsman would, and almost immediately two great dogs emerged from the

      darkness, and bounded to her side. She held them tight, and shouted at

      the top of her voice:

      Hullo, father!

      A far-off voice replied:

      Hullo, Berthine!

      She waited a few seconds, then repeated:

      Hullo, father!

      The voice, nearer now, replied:

      Hullo, Berthine!

      Don't go in front of the vent-hole! shouted his daughter. "There are

      Prussians in the cellar!"

      Suddenly the man's tall figure could be seen to the left, standing

      between two tree trunks.

      Prussians in the cellar? he asked anxiously. What are they doing?

      The young woman laughed.

      "They are the same as were here yesterday. They lost their way, and I've

      given them free lodgings in the cellar."

      She told the story of how she had alarmed them by firing the revolver,

      and had shut them up in the cellar.

      The man, still serious, asked:

      But what am I to do with them at this time of night?

      Go and fetch Monsieur Lavigne with his men, she replied. "He'll take

      them prisoners. He'll be delighted."

      Her father smiled.

      So he will-delighted.

      Here's some soup for you, said his daughter. "Eat it quick, and then be

      off."

      The old keeper sat down at the table, and began to eat his soup, having

      first filled two plates and put them on the floor for the dogs.

      The Prussians, hearing voices, were silent.

      Long-legs set off a quarter of an hour later, and Berthine, with her head

      between her hands, waited.

      The prisoners began to make themselves heard again. They shouted, called,

      and beat furiously with the butts of their muskets against the rigid

      trap-door of the cellar.

      Then they fired shots through the vent-hole, hoping, no doubt, to be

      heard by any German detachment which chanced to be passing that way.

      The forester's daughter did not stir, but the noise irritated and

      unnerved her. Blind anger rose in her heart against the prisoners; she

      would have been only too glad to kill them all, and so silence them.

      Then, as her impatience grew, she watched the clock, counting the minutes

      as they passed.

      Her father had been gone an hour and a half. He must have reached the

      town by now. She conjured up a vision of him telling the story to

      Monsieur Lavigne, who grew pale with emotion, and rang for his servant to

      bring him his arms and uniform. She fancied she could bear the drum as it

      sounded the call to arms. Frightened faces appeared at the windows. The

      citizen-soldiers emerged from their houses half dressed, out of breath,

      buckling on their belts, and hurrying to the commandant's house.

      Then the troop of soldiers, with Long-legs at its head, set forth through

      the night and the snow toward the forest.

      She looked at the clock. They may be here in an hour.

      A nervous impatience possessed her. The minutes seemed interminable.

      Would the time never come?

      At last the clock marked the moment she had fixed on for their arrival.

      And she opened the door to listen for their approach. She perceived a

      shadowy form creeping toward the house. She was afraid, and cried out.

      But it was her father.

      They have sent me, he said, "to see if there is any change in the state

      of affairs."

      No-none.

      Then he gave a shrill whistle. Soon a dark mass loomed up under the

      trees; the advance guard, composed of ten men.

      Don't go in front of the vent-hole! repeated Long-legs at intervals.

      And the first arrivals pointed out the much-dreaded vent-hole to those

      who came after.

      At last the main body of the troop arrived, in all two hundred men, each

      carrying two hundred cartridges.

      Monsieur Lavigne, in a state of intense excitement, posted them in such a

      fashion as to surround the whole house, save for a large space left

      vacant in front of the little hole on a level with the ground, through

      which the cellar derived its supply of air.

      Monsieur Lavigne struck the trap-door a blow with his foot, and called:

      I wish to speak to the Prussian officer!

      The German did not reply.

      The Prussian officer! again shouted the commandant.

      Still no response. For the space of twenty minutes Monsieur Lavigne

      called on this silent officer to surrender with bag and baggage,

      promising him that all lives should be spared, and that he and his men

      should be accorded military honors. But he could extort no sign, either

      of consent or of defiance. The situation became a puzzling one.

      The citizen-soldiers kicked their heels in the snow, slapping their arms

      across their chest, as cabdrivers do, to warm themselves, and gazing at

      the vent-hole with a growing and childish desire to pass in front of it.

      At last one of them took the risk-a man named Potdevin, who was fleet of

      limb. He ran like a deer across the zone of danger. The experiment

      succeeded. The prisoners gave no sign of life.

      A voice cried:

      There's no one there!

      And another soldier crossed the open space before the dangerous

      vent-hole. Then this hazardous sport developed into a game. Every minute

      a man ran swiftly from one side to the other, like a boy playing

      baseball, kicking up the snow behind him as he ran. They had lighted big

      fires of dead wood at which to warm themselves, and the figures of the

      runners were illumined by the flames as they passed rapidly from the camp

      on the right to that on the left.

      Some one shouted:

      It's your turn now, Maloison.

      Maloison was a fat baker, whose corpulent person served to point many a

      joke among his comrades.

      He hesitated. They chaffed him. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he

      set off at a little, waddling gait, which shook his fat paunch and made

      the whole detachment laugh till they cried.

      Bravo, bravo, Maloison! they shouted for his encouragement.

      He had accomplished about two-thirds of his journey when a long, crimson

      flame shot forth from the vent-hole. A loud report followed, and the fat

      baker fell face forward to the ground, uttering a frightful scream. No

      one went to his assistance. Then he was seen to drag himself, groaning,

      on all-fours through the snow until he 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 was all. But the following Sunday, on seeing them, she smiled with

      the kindly smile of a woman who understood their shyness, and she asked:

      What are you doing here? Are you watching the grass grow?

      Luc, cheered up, smiled: P'raps.

      She continued: It's not growing fast, is it?

      He answered, still laughing: Not exactly.

      She went on. But when she came back with her pail full of milk, she

      stopped before them and said:

      Want some? It will remind you of home.

      She had, perhaps instinctively, guessed and touched the right spot.

      Both were moved. Then not without difficulty, she poured some milk into

      the bottle in which they had brought their wine. Luc started to drink,

      carefully watching lest he should take more than his share. Then he

      passed the bottle to Jean. She stood before them, her hands on her hips,

      her pail at her feet, enjoying the pleasure that she was giving them.

      Then she went on, saying: Well, bye-bye until next Sunday!

      For a long time they watched her tall form as it receded in the distance,

      blending with the background, and finally disappeared.

      The following week as they left the barracks, Jean said to Luc:

      Don't you think we ought to buy her something good?

      They were sorely perplexed by the problem of choosing something to bring

      to the dairy maid. Luc was in favor of bringing her some chitterlings;

      but Jean, who had a sweet tooth, thought that candy would be the best

      thing. He won, and so they went to a grocery to buy two sous' worth, of

      red and white candies.

      This time they ate more quickly than usual, excited by anticipation.

      Jean was the first one to notice her. There she is, he said; and Luc

      answered: Yes, there she is.

      She smiled when she saw them, and cried:

      Well, how are you to-day?

      They both answered together:

      All right! How's everything with you?

      Then she started to talk of simple things which might interest them; of

      the weather, of the crops, of her masters.

      They didn't dare to offer their candies, which were slowly melting in

      Jean's pocket. Finally Luc, growing bolder, murmured:

      We have brought you something.

      She asked: Let's see it.

      Then Jean, blushing to the tips of his ears, reached in his pocket, and

      drawing out the little paper bag, handed it to her.

      She began to eat the little sweet dainties. The two soldiers sat in front

      of her, moved and delighted.

      At last she went to do her milking, and when she came back she again gave

      them some milk.

      They thought of her all through the week and often spoke of her: The

      following Sunday she sat beside them for a longer time.

      The three of them sat there, side by side, their eyes looking far away in

      the distance, their hands clasped over their knees, and they told each

      other little incidents and little details of the villages where they were

      born, while the cow, waiting to be milked, stretched her heavy head

      toward the girl and mooed.

      Soon the girl consented to eat with them and to take a sip of wine. Often

      she brought them plums pocket for plums were now ripe. Her presence

      enlivened the little Breton soldiers, who chattered away like two birds.

      One Tuesday something unusual happened to Luc Le Ganidec; he asked for

      leave and did not return until ten o'clock at night.

      Jean, worried and racked his brain to account for his friend's having

      obtained leave.

      The following Friday, Luc borrowed ten sous from one of his friends, and

      once more asked and obtained leave for several hours.

      When he started out with Jean on Sunday he seemed queer, disturbed,

      changed. Kerderen did not understand; he vaguely suspected something, but

      he could not guess what it might be.

      They went straight to the usual place, and lunched slowly. Neither was

      hungry.

      Soon the girl appeared. They watched her approach as they always did.

      When she was near, Luc arose and went towards her. She placed her pail on

      the ground and kissed him. She kissed him passionately, throwing her arms

      around his neck, without paying attention to Jean, without even noticing

      that he was there.

      Poor Jean was dazed, so dazed that he could not understand. His mind was

      upset and his heart broken, without his even realizing why.

      Then the girl sat down beside Luc, and they started to chat.

      Jean was not looking at them. He understood now why his friend had gone

      out twice during the week. He felt the pain and the sting which treachery

      and deceit leave in their wake.

      Luc and the girl went together to attend to the cow.

      Jean followed them with his eyes. He saw them disappear side by side, the

      red trousers of his friend making a scarlet spot against the white road.

      It was Luc who sank the stake to which the cow was tethered. The girl

      stooped down to milk the cow, while he absent-mindedly stroked the

      animal's glossy neck. Then they left the pail in the grass and

      disappeared in the woods.

      Jean could no longer see anything but the wall of leaves through which

      they had passed. He was unmanned so that he did not have strength to

      stand. He stayed there, motionless, bewildered and grieving-simple,

      passionate grief. He wanted to weep, to run away, to hide somewhere,

      never to see anyone again.

      Then he saw them coming back again. They were walking slowly, hand in

      hand, as village lovers do. Luc was carrying the pail.

      After kissing him again, the girl went on, nodding carelessly to Jean.

      She did not offer him any milk that day.

      The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless as always, silent

      and quiet, their calm faces in no way betraying the trouble in their

      hearts. The sun shone down on them. From time to time they could hear the

      plaintive lowing of the cow. At the usual time they arose to return.

      Luc was whittling a stick. Jean carried the empty bottle. He left it at

      the wine merchant's in Bezons. Then they stopped on the bridge, as they

      did every Sunday, and watched the water flowing by.

      Jean leaned over the railing, farther and farther, as though he had seen

      something in the stream which hypnotized him. Luc said to him:

      What's the matter? Do you want a drink?

      He had hardly said the last word when Jean's head carried away the rest

      of his body, and the little blue and red soldier fell like a shot and

      disappeared in the water.

      Luc, paralyzed with horror, tried vainly to shout for help. In the

      distance he saw something move; then his friend's head bobbed up out of

      the water only to disappear again.

      Farther down he again noticed a hand, just one hand, which appeared and

      again went out of sight. That was all.

      The boatmen who had rushed to the scene found the body that day.

      Luc ran back to the barracks, crazed, and with eyes and voice full

      of tears, he related the accident: "He leaned--he--he was leaning

      --so far over--that his head carried him away--and--he--fell

      --he fell----"

      Emotion choked him so that he could say no more. If he had only known.

      FATHER MILON

      For a month the hot sun has been parching the fields. Nature is expanding

      beneath its rays; the fields are green as far as the eye can see. The big

      azure dome of the sky is unclouded. The farms of Normandy, scattered over

      the plains and surrounded by a belt of tall beeches, look, from a

      distance, like little woods. On closer view, after lowering the

      worm-eaten wooden bars, you imagine yourself in an immense garden, for

      all the ancient apple-trees, as gnarled as the peasants themselves, are

      in bloom. The sweet scent of their blossoms mingles with the heavy smell

      of the earth and the penetrating odor of the stables. It is noon. The

      family is eating under the shade of a pear tree planted in front of the

      door; father, mother, the four children, and the help--two women and

      three men are all there. All are silent. The soup is eaten and then a

      dish of potatoes fried with bacon is brought on.

      From time to time one of the women gets up and takes a pitcher down to

      the cellar to fetch more cider.

      The man, a big fellow about forty years old, is watching a grape vine,

      still bare, which is winding and twisting like a snake along the side of

      the house.

      At last he says: "Father's vine is budding early this year. Perhaps we

      may get something from it."

      The woman then turns round and looks, without saying a word.

      This vine is planted on the spot where their father had been shot.

      It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were occupying the whole

      country. General Faidherbe, with the Northern Division of the army, was

      opposing them.

      The Prussians had established their headquarters at this farm. The old

      farmer to whom it belonged, Father Pierre Milon, had received and

      quartered them to the best of his ability.

      For a month the German vanguard had been in this village. The French

      remained motionless, ten leagues away; and yet, every night, some of the

      Uhlans disappeared.

      Of all the isolated scouts, of all those who were sent to the outposts,

      in groups of not more than three, not one ever returned.

      They were picked up the next morning in a field or in a ditch. Even their

      horses were found along the roads with their throats cut.

      These murders seemed to be done by the same men, who could never be

      found.

      The country was terrorized. Farmers were shot on suspicion, women were

      imprisoned; children were frightened in order to try and obtain

      information. Nothing could be ascertained.

      But, one morning, Father Milon was found stretched out in the barn, with

      a sword gash across his face.

      Two Uhlans were found dead about a mile and a half from the farm. One of

      them was still holding his bloody sword in his hand. He had fought, tried

      to defend himself. A court-martial was immediately held in the open air,

      in front of the farm. The old man was brought before it.

      He was sixty-eight years old, small, thin, bent, with two big hands

      resembling the claws of a crab. His colorless hair was sparse and thin,

      like the down of a young duck, allowing patches of his scalp to be seen.

      The brown and wrinkled skin of his neck showed big veins which

      disappeared behind his jaws and came out again at the temples. He had the

      reputation of being miserly and hard to deal with.

      They stood him up between four soldiers, in front of the kitchen table,

      which had been dragged outside. Five officers and the colonel seated

      themselves opposite him.

      The colonel spoke in French:

      "Father Milon, since we have been here we have only had praise for you.

      You have always been obliging and even attentive to us. But to-day a

      terrible accusation is hanging over you, and you must clear the matter

      up. How did you receive that wound on your face?"

      The peasant answered nothing.

      The colonel continued:

      "Your silence accuses you, Father Milon. But I want you to answer me! Do

      you understand? Do you know who killed the two Uhlans who were found this

      morning near Calvaire?"

      The old man answered clearly

      I did.

      The colonel, surprised, was silent for a minute, looking straight at the

      prisoner. Father Milon stood impassive, with the stupid look of the

      peasant, his eyes lowered as though he were talking to the priest. Just

      one thing betrayed an uneasy mind; he was continually swallowing his

      saliva, with a visible effort, as though his throat were terribly

      contracted.

      The man's family, his son Jean, his daughter-in-law and his two

      grandchildren were standing a few feet behind him, bewildered and

      affrighted.

      The colonel went on:

      "Do you also know who killed all the scouts who have been found dead, for

      a month, throughout the country, every morning?"

      The old man answered with the same stupid look:

      I did.

      You killed them all?

      Uh huh! I did.

      You alone? All alone?

      Uh huh!

      Tell me how you did it.

      This time the man seemed moved; the necessity for talking any length of

      time annoyed him visibly. He stammered:

      I dunno! I simply did it.

      The colonel continued:

      "I warn you that you will have to tell me everything. You might as well

      make up your mind right away. How did you begin?"

      The man cast a troubled look toward his family, standing close behind

      him. He hesitated a minute longer, and then suddenly made up his mind to

      obey the order.

      "I was coming home one night at about ten o'clock, the night after you

      got here. You and your soldiers had taken more than fifty ecus worth of

      forage from me, as well as a cow and two sheep. I said to myself: 'As

      much as they take from you; just so much will you make them pay back.'

      And then I had other things on my mind which I will tell you. Just then I

      noticed one of your soldiers who was smoking his pipe by the ditch behind

      the barn. I went and got my scythe and crept up slowly behind him, so

      that he couldn't hear me. And I cut his head off with one single blow,

      just as I would a blade of grass, before he could say 'Booh!' If you

      should look at the bottom of the pond, you will find him tied up in a

      potato-sack, with a stone fastened to it.

      "I got an idea. I took all his clothes, from his boots to his cap, and

      hid them away in the little wood behind the yard."

      The old man stopped. The officers remained speechless, looking at each

      other. The questioning began again, and this is what they learned.

      Once this murder committed, the man had lived with this one thought:

      Kill the Prussians! He hated them with the blind, fierce hate of the

      greedy yet patriotic peasant. He had his idea, as he said. He waited

      several days.

      He was allowed to go and come as he pleased, because he had shown himself

      so humble, submissive and obliging to the invaders. Each night he saw the

      outposts leave. One night he followed them, having heard the name of the

      village to which the men were going, and having learned the few words of

      German which he needed for his plan through associating with the

      soldiers.

      He left through the back yard, slipped into the woods, found the dead

      man's clothes and put them on. Then he began to crawl through the fields,

      following along the hedges in order to keep out of sight, listening to

      the slightest noises, as wary as a poacher.

      As soon as he thought the time ripe, he approached the road and hid

      behind a bush. He waited for a while. Finally, toward midnight, he heard

      the sound of a galloping horse. The man put his ear to the ground in

      order to make sure that only one horseman was approaching, then he got

      ready.

      An Uhlan came galloping along, carrying des patches. As he went, he was

      all eyes and ears. When he was only a few feet away, Father Milon dragged

      himself across the road, moaning: Hilfe! Hilfe! ( Help! Help!) The

      horseman stopped, and recognizing a German, he thought he was wounded and

      dismounted, coming nearer without any suspicion, and just as he was

      leaning over the unknown man, he received, in the pit of his stomach, a

      heavy thrust from the long curved blade of the sabre. He dropped without

      suffering pain, quivering only in the final throes. Then the farmer,

      radiant with the silent joy of an old peasant, got up again, and, for his

      own pleasure, cut the dead man's throat. He then dragged the body to the

      ditch and threw it in.

      The horse quietly awaited its master. Father Milon mounted him and

      started galloping across the plains.

      About an hour later he noticed two more Uhlans who were returning home,

      side by side. He rode straight for them, once more crying Hilfe! Hilfe!

      The Prussians, recognizing the uniform, let him approach without

      distrust. The old man passed between them like a cannon-ball, felling

      them both, one with his sabre and the other with a revolver.

      Then he killed the horses, German horses! After that he quickly returned

      to the woods and hid one of the horses. He left his uniform there and

      again put on his old clothes; then going back into bed, he slept until

      morning.

      For four days he did not go out, waiting for the inquest to be

      terminated; but on the fifth day he went out again and killed two more

      soldiers by the same stratagem. From that time on he did not stop. Each

      night he wandered about in search of adventure, killing Prussians,

      sometimes here and sometimes there, galloping through deserted fields, in

      the moonlight, a lost Uhlan, a hunter of men. Then, his task

      accomplished, leaving behind him the bodies lying along the roads, the

      old farmer would return and hide his horse and uniform.

      He went, toward noon, to carry oats and water quietly to his mount, and

      he fed it well as he required from it a great amount of work.

      But one of those whom he had attacked the night before, in defending

      himself slashed the old peasant across the face with his sabre.

      However, he had killed them both. He had come back and hidden the horse

      and put on his ordinary clothes again; but as he reached home he began to

      feel faint, and had dragged himself as far as the stable, being unable to

      reach the house.

      They had found him there, bleeding, on the straw.

      When he had finished his tale, he suddenly lifted up his head and looked

      proudly at the Prussian officers.

      The colonel, who was gnawing at his mustache, asked:

      You have nothing else to say?

      "Nothing more; I have finished my task; I killed sixteen, not one more or

      less."

      Do you know that you are going to die?

      I haven't asked for mercy.

      Have you been a soldier?

      "Yes, I served my time. And then, you had killed my father, who was a

      soldier of the first Emperor. And last month you killed my youngest son,

      Francois, near Evreux. I owed you one for that; I paid. We are quits."

      The officers were looking at each other.

      The old man continued:

      "Eight for my father, eight for the boy--we are quits. I did not

      seek any quarrel with you. I don't know you. I don't even know where you

      come from. And here you are, ordering me about in my home as though it

      were your own. I took my revenge upon the others. I'm not sorry."

      And, straightening up his bent back, the old man folded his arms in the

      attitude of a modest hero.

      The Prussians talked in a low tone for a long time. One of them, a

      captain, who had also lost his son the previous month, was defending the

      poor wretch. Then the colonel arose and, approaching Father Milon, said

      in a low voice:

      "Listen, old man, there is perhaps a way of saving your life, it is

      to--"

      But the man was not listening, and, his eyes fixed on the hated officer,

      while the wind played with the downy hair on his head, he distorted his

      slashed face, giving it a truly terrible expression, and, swelling out

      his chest, he spat, as hard as he could, right in the Prussian's face.

      The colonel, furious, raised his hand, and for the second time the man

      spat in his face.

      All the officers had jumped up and were shrieking orders at the same

      time.

      In less than a minute the old man, still impassive, was pushed up against

      the wall and shot, looking smilingly the while toward Jean, his eldest

      son, his daughter-in-law and his two grandchildren, who witnessed this

      scene in dumb terror.

      A COUP D'ETAT

      Paris had just heard of the disaster at Sedan. A republic had been

      declared. All France was wavering on the brink of this madness which

      lasted until after the Commune. From one end of the country to the other

      everybody was playing soldier.

      Cap-makers became colonels, fulfilling the duties of generals; revolvers

      and swords were displayed around big, peaceful stomachs wrapped in

      flaming red belts; little tradesmen became warriors commanding battalions

      of brawling volunteers, and swearing like pirates in order to give

      themselves some prestige.

      The sole fact of handling firearms crazed these people, who up to that

      time had only handled scales, and made them, without any reason,

      dangerous to all. Innocent people were shot to prove that they knew how

      to kill; in forests which had never seen a Prussian, stray dogs, grazing

      cows and browsing horses were killed.

      Each one thought himself called upon to play a great part in military

      affairs. The cafes of the smallest villages, full of uniformed tradesmen,

      looked like barracks or hospitals.

      The town of Canneville was still in ignorance of the maddening news from

      the army and the capital; nevertheless, great excitement had prevailed

      for the last month, the opposing parties finding themselves face to face.

      The mayor, Viscount de Varnetot, a thin, little old man, a conservative,

      who had recently, from ambition, gone over to the Empire, had seen a

      determined opponent arise in Dr. Massarel, a big, full-blooded man,

      leader of the Republican party of the neighborhood, a high official in

      the local masonic lodge, president of the Agricultural Society and of the

      firemen's banquet and the organizer of the rural militia which was to

      save the country.

      In two weeks, he had managed to gather together sixty-three volunteers,

      fathers of families, prudent farmers and town merchants, and every

      morning he would drill them in the square in front of the town-hall.

      When, perchance, the mayor would come to the municipal building,

      Commander Massarel, girt with pistols, would pass proudly in front of his

      troop, his sword in his hand, and make all of them cry: "Long live the

      Fatherland!" And it had been noticed that this cry excited the little

      viscount, who probably saw in it a menace, a threat, as well as the

      odious memory of the great Revolution.

      On the morning of the fifth of September, the doctor, in full uniform,

      his revolver on the table, was giving a consultation to an old couple, a

      farmer who had been suffering from varicose veins for the last seven

      years and had waited until his wife had them also, before he would

      consult the doctor, when the postman brought in the paper.

      M. Massarel opened it, grew pale, suddenly rose, and lifting his hands to

      heaven in a gesture of exaltation, began to shout at the top of his voice

      before the two frightened country folks:

      Long live the Republic! long live the Republic! long live the Republic!

      Then he fell back in his chair, weak from emotion.

      And as the peasant resumed: "It started with the ants, which began to run

      up and down my legs---" Dr. Massarel exclaimed:

      "Shut up! I haven't got time to bother with your nonsense. The Republic

      has been proclaimed, the emperor has been taken prisoner, France is

      saved! Long live the Republic!"

      Running to the door, he howled:

      Celeste, quick, Celeste!

      The servant, affrighted, hastened in; he was trying to talk so rapidly,

      that he could only stammer:

      "My boots, my sword, my cartridge-box and the Spanish dagger which is on

      my night-table! Hasten!"

      As the persistent peasant, taking advantage of a moment's silence,

      continued, I seemed to get big lumps which hurt me when I walk, the

      physician, exasperated, roared:

      "Shut up and get out! If you had washed your feet it would not have

      happened!"

      Then, grabbing him by the collar, he yelled at him:

      Can't you understand that we are a republic, you brass-plated idiot!

      But professional sentiment soon calmed him, and he pushed the bewildered

      couple out, saying:

      "Come back to-morrow, come back to-morrow, my friends. I haven't any time

      to-day."

      As he equipped himself from head to foot, he gave a series of important

      orders to his servant:

      "Run over to Lieutenant Picart and to Second Lieutenant Pommel, and tell

      them that I am expecting them here immediately. Also send me Torchebeuf

      with his drum. Quick! quick!"

      When Celeste had gone out, he sat down and thought over the situation and

      the difficulties which he would have to surmount.

      The three men arrived together in their working clothes. The commandant,

      who expected to see them in uniform, felt a little shocked.

      "Don't you people know anything? The emperor has been taken prisoner, the

      Republic has been proclaimed. We must act. My position is delicate, I

      might even say dangerous."

      He reflected for a few moments before his bewildered subordinates, then

      he continued:

      "We must act and not hesitate; minutes count as hours in times like

      these. All depends on the promptness of our decision. You, Picart, go to

      the cure and order him to ring the alarm-bell, in order to get together

      the people, to whom I am going to announce the news. You, Torchebeuf beat

      the tattoo throughout the whole neighborhood as far as the hamlets of

      Gerisaie and Salmare, in order to assemble the militia in the public

      square. You, Pommel, get your uniform on quickly, just the coat and cap.

      We are going to the town-hall to demand Monsieur de Varnetot to surrender

      his powers to me. Do you understand?"

      Yes.

      "Now carry out those orders quickly. I will go over to your house with

      you, Pommel, since we shall act together."

      Five minutes later, the commandant and his subordinates, armed to the

      teeth, appeared on the square, just as the little Viscount de Varnetot,

      his legs encased in gaiters as for a hunting party, his gun on his

      shoulder, was coming down the other street at double-quick time, followed

      by his three green-coated guards, their swords at their sides and their

      guns swung over their shoulders.

      While the doctor stopped, bewildered, the four men entered the town-hall

      and closed the door behind them.

      They have outstripped us, muttered the physician, "we must now wait for

      reenforcements. There is nothing to do for the present."

      Lieutenant Picart now appeared on the scene.

      The priest refuses to obey, he said. "He has even locked himself in the

      church with the sexton and beadle."

      On the other side of the square, opposite the white, tightly closed

      town-hall, stood the church, silent and dark, with its massive oak door

      studded with iron.

      But just as the perplexed inhabitants were sticking their heads out of

      the windows or coming out on their doorsteps, the drum suddenly began to

      be heard, and Torchebeuf appeared, furiously beating the tattoo. He

      crossed the square running, and disappeared along the road leading to the

      fields.

      The commandant drew his sword, and advanced alone to half way between the

      two buildings behind which the enemy had intrenched itself, and, waving

      his sword over his head, he roared with all his might:

      Long live the Republic! Death to traitors!

      Then he returned to his officers.

      The butcher, the baker and the druggist, much disturbed, were anxiously

      pulling down their shades and closing their shops. The grocer alone kept

      open.

      However, the militia were arriving by degrees, each man in a different

      uniform, but all wearing a black cap with gold braid, the cap being the

      principal part of the outfit. They were armed with old rusty guns, the

      old guns which had hung for thirty years on the kitchen wall; and they

      looked a good deal like an army of tramps.

      When he had about thirty men about him, the commandant, in a few words,

      outlined the situation to them. Then, turning to his staff: Let us act,

      he said.

      The villagers were gathering together and talking the matter over.

      The doctor quickly decided on a plan of campaign.

      "Lieutenant Picart, you will advance under the windows of this town-hall

      and summon Monsieur de Varnetot, in the name of the Republic, to hand the

      keys over to me."

      But the lieutenant, a master mason, refused:

      "You're smart, you are. I don't care to get killed, thank you. Those

      people in there shoot straight, don't you forget it. Do your errands

      yourself."

      The commandant grew very red.

      I command you to go in the name of discipline!

      The lieutenant rebelled:

      I'm not going to have my beauty spoiled without knowing why.

      All the notables, gathered in a group near by, began to laugh. One of

      them cried:

      You are right, Picart, this isn't the right time.

      The doctor then muttered:

      Cowards!

      And, leaving his sword and his revolver in the hands of a soldier, he

      advanced slowly, his eye fastened on the windows, expecting any minute to

      see a gun trained on him.

      When he was within a few feet of the building, the doors at both ends,

      leading into the two schools, opened and a flood of children ran out,

      boys from one side, girls from the ether, and began to play around the

      doctor, in the big empty square, screeching and screaming, and making so

      much noise that he could not make himself heard.

      As soon as the last child was out of the building, the two doors closed

      again.

      Most of the youngsters finally dispersed, and the commandant called in a

      loud voice:

      Monsieur de Varnetot!

      A window on the first floor opened and M. de Varnetot appeared.

      The commandant continued:

      "Monsieur, you know that great events have just taken place which have

      changed the entire aspect of the government. The one which you

      represented no longer exists. The one which I represent is taking

      control. Under these painful, but decisive circumstances, I come, in the

      name of the new Republic, to ask you to turn over to me the office which

      you held under the former government."

      M. de Varnetot answered:

      "Doctor, I am the mayor of Canneville, duly appointed, and I shall remain

      mayor of Canneville until I have been dismissed by a decree from my

      superiors. As mayor, I am in my place in the townhall, and here I stay.

      Anyhow, just try to get me out."

      He closed the window.

      The commandant returned to his troop. But before giving any information,

      eyeing Lieutenant Picart from head to foot, he exclaimed:

      "You're a great one, you are! You're a fine specimen of manhood! You're a

      disgrace to the army! I degrade you."

      I don't give a----!

      He turned away and mingled with a group of townspeople.

      Then the doctor hesitated. What could he do? Attack? But would his men

      obey orders? And then, did he have the right to do so?

      An idea struck him. He ran to the telegraph office, opposite the

      town-hall, and sent off three telegrams:

      To the new republican government in Paris.

      To the new prefect of the Seine-Inferieure, at Rouen.

      To the new republican sub-prefect at Dieppe.

      He explained the situation, pointed out the danger which the town would

      run if it should remain in the hands of the royalist mayor; offered his

      faithful services, asked for orders and signed, putting all his titles

      after his name.

      Then he returned to his battalion, and, drawing ten francs from his

      pocket, he cried: "Here, my friends, go eat and drink; only leave me a

      detachment of ten men to guard against anybody's leaving the town-hall."

      But ex-Lieutenant Picart, who had been talking with the watchmaker, heard

      him; he began to laugh, and exclaimed: "By Jove, if they come out, it'll

      give you a chance to get in. Otherwise I can see you standing out there

      for the rest of your life!"

      The doctor did not reply, and he went to luncheon.

      In the afternoon, he disposed his men about the town as though they were

      in immediate danger of an ambush.

      Several times he passed in front of the town-hall and of the church

      without noticing anything suspicious; the two buildings looked as though

      empty.

      The butcher, the baker and the druggist once more opened up their stores.

      Everybody was talking about the affair. If the emperor were a prisoner,

      there must have been some kind of treason. They did not know exactly

      which of the republics had returned to power.

      Night fell.

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