By Guy de Maupassant
For several days in succession fragments of a
defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands,
not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms;
they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed
exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by
force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted.
One saw, in particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived
quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little
active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack
as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of
red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle;
somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and
there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in
keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of
irregulars with high-sounding names “Avengers of Defeat,” “Citizens of the
Tomb,” “Brethren in Death”— passed in their turn, looking like banditti. Their
leaders, former drapers or grain merchants, or tallow or soap chandlers —
warriors by force of circumstances, officers by reason of their mustachios or
their money — covered with weapons, flannel and gold lace, spoke in an
impressive manner, discussed plans of campaign, and behaved as though they
alone bore the fortunes of dying France on their braggart shoulders; though, in
truth, they frequently were afraid of their own men — scoundrels often brave
beyond measure, but pillagers and debauchees.
Rumor had it that the
Prussians were about to enter Rouen.
The members of the National
Guard, who for the past two months had been reconnoitering with the utmost
caution in the neighboring woods, occasionally shooting their own sentinels,
and making ready for fight whenever a rabbit rustled in the undergrowth, had
now returned to their homes. Their arms, their uniforms, all the death-dealing
paraphernalia with which they had terrified all the milestones along the
highroad for eight miles round, had suddenly and marvellously disappeared.
The last of the French
soldiers had just crossed the Seine on their way to Pont-Audemer, through
Saint-Sever and Bourg-Achard, and in their rear the vanquished general,
powerless to do aught with the forlorn remnants of his army, himself dismayed
at the final overthrow of a nation accustomed to victory and disastrously
beaten despite its legendary bravery, walked between two orderlies.
Then a profound calm, a
shuddering, silent dread, settled on the city. Many a round-paunched citizen,
emasculated by years devoted to business, anxiously awaited the conquerors,
trembling lest his roasting-jacks or kitchen knives should be looked upon as weapons.
Life seemed to have stopped
short; the shops were shut, the streets deserted. Now and then an inhabitant,
awed by the silence, glided swiftly by in the shadow of the walls. The anguish
of suspense made men even desire the arrival of the enemy.
In the afternoon of the day
following the departure of the French troops, a number of uhlans, coming no one
knew whence, passed rapidly through the town. A little later on, a black mass
descended St. Catherine’s Hill, while two other invading bodies appeared respectively
on the Darnetal and the Boisguillaume roads. The advance guards of the three
corps arrived at precisely the same moment at the Square of the Hotel de Ville,
and the German army poured through all the adjacent streets, its battalions
making the pavement ring with their firm, measured tread.
Orders shouted in an
unknown, guttural tongue rose to the windows of the seemingly dead, deserted
houses; while behind the fast-closed shutters eager eyes peered forth at the
victors-masters now of the city, its fortunes, and its lives, by “right of
war.” The inhabitants, in their darkened rooms, were possessed by that terror
which follows in the wake of cataclysms, of deadly upheavals of the earth,
against which all human skill and strength are vain. For the same thing happens
whenever the established order of things is upset, when security no longer
exists, when all those rights usually protected by the law of man or of Nature
are at the mercy of unreasoning, savage force. The earthquake crushing a whole
nation under falling roofs; the flood let loose, and engulfing in its swirling
depths the corpses of drowned peasants, along with dead oxen and beams torn
from shattered houses; or the army, covered with glory, murdering those who
defend themselves, making prisoners of the rest, pillaging in the name of the
Sword, and giving thanks to God to the thunder of cannon — all these are
appalling scourges, which destroy all belief in eternal justice, all that
confidence we have been taught to feel in the protection of Heaven and the
reason of man.
Small detachments of
soldiers knocked at each door, and then disappeared within the houses; for the
vanquished saw they would have to be civil to their conquerors.
At the end of a short time,
once the first terror had subsided, calm was again restored. In many houses the
Prussian officer ate at the same table with the family. He was often well-bred,
and, out of politeness, expressed sympathy with France and repugnance at being
compelled to take part in the war. This sentiment was received with gratitude;
besides, his protection might be needful some day or other. By the exercise of
tact the number of men quartered in one’s house might be reduced; and why
should one provoke the hostility of a person on whom one’s whole welfare depended?
Such conduct would savor less of bravery than of fool-hardiness. And
foolhardiness is no longer a failing of the citizens of Rouen as it was in the
days when their city earned renown by its heroic defenses. Last of all — final
argument based on the national politeness — the folk of Rouen said to one
another that it was only right to be civil in one’s own house, provided there
was no public exhibition of familiarity with the foreigner. Out of doors,
therefore, citizen and soldier did not know each other; but in the house both
chatted freely, and each evening the German remained a little longer warming
himself at the hospitable hearth.
Even the town itself
resumed by degrees its ordinary aspect. The French seldom walked abroad, but
the streets swarmed with Prussian soldiers. Moreover, the officers of the Blue
Hussars, who arrogantly dragged their instruments of death along the pavements,
seemed to hold the simple townsmen in but little more contempt than did the
French cavalry officers who had drunk at the same cafes the year before.
But there was something in
the air, a something strange and subtle, an intolerable foreign atmosphere like
a penetrating odor — the odor of invasion. It permeated dwellings and places of
public resort, changed the taste of food, made one imagine one’s self in
far-distant lands, amid dangerous, barbaric tribes.
The conquerors exacted
money, much money. The inhabitants paid what was asked; they were rich. But,
the wealthier a Norman tradesman becomes, the more he suffers at having to part
with anything that belongs to him, at having to see any portion of his
substance pass into the hands of another.
Nevertheless, within six or
seven miles of the town, along the course of the river as it flows onward to
Croisset, Dieppedalle and Biessart, boat-men and fishermen often hauled to the
surface of the water the body of a German, bloated in his uniform, killed by a
blow from knife or club, his head crushed by a stone, or perchance pushed from
some bridge into the stream below. The mud of the river-bed swallowed up these
obscure acts of vengeance — savage, yet legitimate; these unrecorded deeds of
bravery; these silent attacks fraught with greater danger than battles fought
in broad day, and surrounded, moreover, with no halo of romance. For hatred of
the foreigner ever arms a few intrepid souls, ready to die for an idea.
At last, as the invaders,
though subjecting the town to the strictest discipline, had not committed any
of the deeds of horror with which they had been credited while on their
triumphal march, the people grew bolder, and the necessities of business again
animated the breasts of the local merchants. Some of these had important
commercial interests at Havre — occupied at present by the French army — and
wished to attempt to reach that port by overland route to Dieppe, taking the
boat from there.
Through the influence of
the German officers whose acquaintance they had made, they obtained a permit to
leave town from the general in command.
A large four-horse coach
having, therefore, been engaged for the journey, and ten passengers having
given in their names to the proprietor, they decided to start on a certain
Tuesday morning before daybreak, to avoid attracting a crowd.
The ground had been frozen
hard for some time-past, and about three o’clock on Monday afternoon — large
black clouds from the north shed their burden of snow uninterruptedly all
through that evening and night.
At half-past four in the
morning the travellers met in the courtyard of the Hotel de Normandie, where
they were to take their seats in the coach.
They were still half
asleep, and shivering with cold under their wraps. They could see one another
but indistinctly in the darkness, and the mountain of heavy winter wraps in
which each was swathed made them look like a gathering of obese priests in
their long cassocks. But two men recognized each other, a third accosted them,
and the three began to talk. “I am bringing my wife,” said one. “So am I.” “And
I, too.” The first speaker added: “We shall not return to Rouen, and if the
Prussians approach Havre we will cross to England.” All three, it turned out,
had made the same plans, being of similar disposition and temperament.
Still the horses were not
harnessed. A small lantern carried by a stable-boy emerged now and then from
one dark doorway to disappear immediately in another. The stamping of horses’
hoofs, deadened by the dung and straw of the stable, was heard from time to
time, and from inside the building issued a man’s voice, talking to the animals
and swearing at them. A faint tinkle of bells showed that the harness was being
got ready; this tinkle soon developed into a continuous jingling, louder or
softer according to the movements of the horse, sometimes stopping altogether,
then breaking out in a sudden peal accompanied by a pawing of the ground by an
iron-shod hoof.
The door suddenly closed.
All noise ceased.
The frozen townsmen were
silent; they remained motionless, stiff with cold.
A thick curtain of
glistening white flakes fell ceaselessly to the ground; it obliterated all
outlines, enveloped all objects in an icy mantle of foam; nothing was to be
heard throughout the length and breadth of the silent, winter-bound city save
the vague, nameless rustle of falling snow — a sensation rather than a sound —
the gentle mingling of light atoms which seemed to fill all space, to cover the
whole world.
The man reappeared with his
lantern, leading by a rope a melancholy-looking horse, evidently being led out
against his inclination. The hostler placed him beside the pole, fastened the
traces, and spent some time in walking round him to make sure that the harness
was all right; for he could use only one hand, the other being engaged in
holding the lantern. As he was about to fetch the second horse he noticed the
motionless group of travellers, already white with snow, and said to them: “Why
don’t you get inside the coach? You’d be under shelter, at least.”
This did not seem to have
occurred to them, and they at once took his advice. The three men seated their
wives at the far end of the coach, then got in themselves; lastly the other
vague, snow-shrouded forms clambered to the remaining places without a word.
The floor was covered with
straw, into which the feet sank. The ladies at the far end, having brought with
them little copper foot-warmers heated by means of a kind of chemical fuel,
proceeded to light these, and spent some time in expatiating in low tones on
their advantages, saying over and over again things which they had all known
for a long time.
At last, six horses instead
of four having been harnessed to the diligence, on account of the heavy roads,
a voice outside asked: “Is every one there?” To which a voice from the interior
replied: “Yes,” and they set out.
The vehicle moved slowly,
slowly, at a snail’s pace; the wheels sank into the snow; the entire body of
the coach creaked and groaned; the horses slipped, puffed, steamed, and the
coachman’s long whip cracked incessantly, flying hither and thither, coiling
up, then flinging out its length like a slender serpent, as it lashed some
rounded flank, which instantly grew tense as it strained in further effort.
But the day grew apace.
Those light flakes which one traveller, a native of Rouen, had compared to a
rain of cotton fell no longer. A murky light filtered through dark, heavy
clouds, which made the country more dazzlingly white by contrast, a whiteness
broken sometimes by a row of tall trees spangled with hoarfrost, or by a
cottage roof hooded in snow.
Within the coach the
passengers eyed one another curiously in the dim light of dawn.
Right at the back, in the
best seats of all, Monsieur and Madame Loiseau, wholesale wine merchants of the
Rue Grand-Pont, slumbered opposite each other. Formerly clerk to a merchant who
had failed in business, Loiseau had bought his master’s interest, and made a
fortune for himself. He sold very bad wine at a very low price to the
retail-dealers in the country, and had the reputation, among his friends and
acquaintances, of being a shrewd rascal a true Norman, full of quips and wiles.
So well established was his character as a cheat that, in the mouths of the
citizens of Rouen, the very name of Loiseau became a byword for sharp practice.
Above and beyond this,
Loiseau was noted for his practical jokes of every description — his tricks,
good or ill-natured; and no one could mention his name without adding at once:
“He’s an extraordinary man — Loiseau.” He was undersized and potbellied, had a
florid face with grayish whiskers.
His wife — tall, strong,
determined, with a loud voice and decided manner — represented the spirit of
order and arithmetic in the business house which Loiseau enlivened by his
jovial activity.
Beside them, dignified in
bearing, belonging to a superior caste, sat Monsieur Carre-Lamadon, a man of
considerable importance, a king in the cotton trade, proprietor of three
spinning-mills, officer of the Legion of Honor, and member of the General
Council. During the whole time the Empire was in the ascendancy he remained the
chief of the well-disposed Opposition, merely in order to command a higher
value for his devotion when he should rally to the cause which he meanwhile
opposed with “courteous weapons,” to use his own expression.
Madame Carre-Lamadon, much
younger than her husband, was the consolation of all the officers of good
family quartered at Rouen. Pretty, slender, graceful, she sat opposite her
husband, curled up in her furs, and gazing mournfully at the sorry interior of
the coach.
Her neighbors, the Comte
and Comtesse Hubert de Breville, bore one of the noblest and most ancient names
in Normandy. The count, a nobleman advanced in years and of aristocratic
bearing, strove to enhance by every artifice of the toilet, his natural
resemblance to King Henry IV, who, according to a legend of which the family
were inordinately proud, had been the favored lover of a De Breville lady, and
father of her child — the frail one’s husband having, in recognition of this
fact, been made a count and governor of a province.
A colleague of Monsieur
Carre-Lamadon in the General Council, Count Hubert represented the Orleanist
party in his department. The story of his marriage with the daughter of a small
shipowner at Nantes had always remained more or less of a mystery. But as the
countess had an air of unmistakable breeding, entertained faultlessly, and was
even supposed to have been loved by a son of Louis-Philippe, the nobility vied
with one another in doing her honor, and her drawing-room remained the most
select in the whole countryside — the only one which retained the old spirit of
gallantry, and to which access was not easy.
The fortune of the
Brevilles, all in real estate, amounted, it was said, to five hundred thousand
francs a year.
These six people occupied
the farther end of the coach, and represented Society — with an income — the
strong, established society of good people with religion and principle.
It happened by chance that
all the women were seated on the same side; and the countess had, moreover, as
neighbors two nuns, who spent the time in fingering their long rosaries and
murmuring paternosters and aves. One of them was old, and so deeply pitted with
smallpox that she looked for all the world as if she had received a charge of
shot full in the face. The other, of sickly appearance, had a pretty but wasted
countenance, and a narrow, consumptive chest, sapped by that devouring faith
which is the making of martyrs and visionaries.
A man and woman, sitting
opposite the two nuns, attracted all eyes.
The man — a well-known
character — was Cornudet, the democrat, the terror of all respectable people.
For the past twenty years his big red beard had been on terms of intimate
acquaintance with the tankards of all the republican cafes. With the help of
his comrades and brethren he had dissipated a respectable fortune left him by
his father, an old-established confectioner, and he now impatiently awaited the
Republic, that he might at last be rewarded with the post he had earned by his
revolutionary orgies. On the fourth of September — possibly as the result of a
practical joke — he was led to believe that he had been appointed prefect; but
when he attempted to take up the duties of the position the clerks in charge of
the office refused to recognize his authority, and he was compelled in
consequence to retire. A good sort of fellow in other respects, inoffensive and
obliging, he had thrown himself zealously into the work of making an organized
defence of the town. He had had pits dug in the level country, young forest
trees felled, and traps set on all the roads; then at the approach of the
enemy, thoroughly satisfied with his preparations, he had hastily returned to
the town. He thought he might now do more good at Havre, where new
intrenchments would soon be necessary.
The woman, who belonged to
the courtesan class, was celebrated for an embonpoint unusual for her age,
which had earned for her the sobriquet of “Boule de Suif” (Tallow Ball). Short
and round, fat as a pig, with puffy fingers constricted at the joints, looking like
rows of short sausages; with a shiny, tightly-stretched skin and an enormous
bust filling out the bodice of her dress, she was yet attractive and much
sought after, owing to her fresh and pleasing appearance. Her face was like a
crimson apple, a peony-bud just bursting into bloom; she had two magnificent
dark eyes, fringed with thick, heavy lashes, which cast a shadow into their
depths; her mouth was small, ripe, kissable, and was furnished with the tiniest
of white teeth.
As soon as she was
recognized the respectable matrons of the party began to whisper among
themselves, and the words “hussy” and “public scandal” were uttered so loudly
that Boule de Suif raised her head. She forthwith cast such a challenging, bold
look at her neighbors that a sudden silence fell on the company, and all
lowered their eyes, with the exception of Loiseau, who watched her with evident
interest.
But conversation was soon
resumed among the three ladies, whom the presence of this girl had suddenly
drawn together in the bonds of friendship — one might almost say in those of
intimacy. They decided that they ought to combine, as it were, in their dignity
as wives in face of this shameless hussy; for legitimized love always despises
its easygoing brother.
The three men, also, brought
together by a certain conservative instinct awakened by the presence of
Cornudet, spoke of money matters in a tone expressive of contempt for the poor.
Count Hubert related the losses he had sustained at the hands of the Prussians,
spoke of the cattle which had been stolen from him, the crops which had been
ruined, with the easy manner of a nobleman who was also a tenfold millionaire,
and whom such reverses would scarcely inconvenience for a single year. Monsieur
Carre-Lamadon, a man of wide experience in the cotton industry, had taken care
to send six hundred thousand francs to England as provision against the rainy
day he was always anticipating. As for Loiseau, he had managed to sell to the
French commissariat department all the wines he had in stock, so that the state
now owed him a considerable sum, which he hoped to receive at Havre.
And all three eyed one
another in friendly, well-disposed fashion. Although of varying social status,
they were united in the brotherhood of money — in that vast freemasonry made up
of those who possess, who can jingle gold wherever they choose to put their
hands into their breeches’ pockets.
The coach went along so
slowly that at ten o’clock in the morning it had not covered twelve miles.
Three times the men of the party got out and climbed the hills on foot. The
passengers were becoming uneasy, for they had counted on lunching at Totes, and
it seemed now as if they would hardly arrive there before nightfall. Every one
was eagerly looking out for an inn by the roadside, when, suddenly, the coach
foundered in a snowdrift, and it took two hours to extricate it.
As appetites increased,
their spirits fell; no inn, no wine shop could be discovered, the approach of
the Prussians and the transit of the starving French troops having frightened
away all business.
The men sought food in the
farmhouses beside the road, but could not find so much as a crust of bread; for
the suspicious peasant invariably hid his stores for fear of being pillaged by
the soldiers, who, being entirely without food, would take violent possession
of everything they found.
About one o’clock Loiseau
announced that he positively had a big hollow in his stomach. They had all been
suffering in the same way for some time, and the increasing gnawings of hunger
had put an end to all conversation.
Now and then some one
yawned, another followed his example, and each in turn, according to his
character, breeding and social position, yawned either quietly or noisily,
placing his hand before the gaping void whence issued breath condensed into
vapor.
Several times Boule de Suif
stooped, as if searching for something under her petticoats. She would hesitate
a moment, look at her neighbors, and then quietly sit upright again. All faces
were pale and drawn. Loiseau declared he would give a thousand francs for a
knuckle of ham. His wife made an involuntary and quickly checked gesture of
protest. It always hurt her to hear of money being squandered, and she could
not even understand jokes on such a subject.
“As a matter of fact, I
don’t feel well,” said the count. “Why did I not think of bringing provisions?”
Each one reproached himself in similar fashion.
Cornudet, however, had a
bottle of rum, which he offered to his neighbors. They all coldly refused
except Loiseau, who took a sip, and returned the bottle with thanks, saying:
“That’s good stuff; it warms one up, and cheats the appetite.” The alcohol put
him in good humor, and he proposed they should do as the sailors did in the
song: eat the fattest of the passengers. This indirect allusion to Boule de
Suif shocked the respectable members of the party. No one replied; only
Cornudet smiled. The two good sisters had ceased to mumble their rosary, and,
with hands enfolded in their wide sleeves, sat motionless, their eyes
steadfastly cast down, doubtless offering up as a sacrifice to Heaven the
suffering it had sent them.
At last, at three o’clock,
as they were in the midst of an apparently limitless plain, with not a single
village in sight, Boule de Suif stooped quickly, and drew from underneath the
seat a large basket covered with a white napkin.
From this she extracted first
of all a small earthenware plate and a silver drinking cup, then an enormous
dish containing two whole chickens cut into joints and imbedded in jelly. The
basket was seen to contain other good things: pies, fruit, dainties of all
sorts — provisions, in fine, for a three days’ journey, rendering their owner
independent of wayside inns. The necks of four bottles protruded from among the
food. She took a chicken wing, and began to eat it daintily, together with one
of those rolls called in Normandy “Regence.”
All looks were directed
toward her. An odor of food filled the air, causing nostrils to dilate, mouths
to water, and jaws to contract painfully. The scorn of the ladies for this
disreputable female grew positively ferocious; they would have liked to kill
her, or throw, her and her drinking cup, her basket, and her provisions, out of
the coach into the snow of the road below.
But Loiseau’s gaze was
fixed greedily on the dish of chicken. He said:
“Well, well, this lady had
more forethought than the rest of us. Some people think of everything.”
She looked up at him.
“Would you like some, sir?
It is hard to go on fasting all day.”
He bowed.
“Upon my soul, I can’t
refuse; I cannot hold out another minute. All is fair in war time, is it not,
madame?” And, casting a glance on those around, he added:
“At times like this it is
very pleasant to meet with obliging people.”
He spread a newspaper over
his knees to avoid soiling his trousers, and, with a pocketknife he always
carried, helped himself to a chicken leg coated with jelly, which he thereupon
proceeded to devour.
Then Boule le Suif, in low,
humble tones, invited the nuns to partake of her repast. They both accepted the
offer unhesitatingly, and after a few stammered words of thanks began to eat
quickly, without raising their eyes. Neither did Cornudet refuse his neighbor’s
offer, and, in combination with the nuns, a sort of table was formed by opening
out the newspaper over the four pairs of knees.
Mouths kept opening and
shutting, ferociously masticating and devouring the food. Loiseau, in his
corner, was hard at work, and in low tones urged his wife to follow his
example. She held out for a long time, but overstrained Nature gave way at
last. Her husband, assuming his politest manner, asked their “charming companion”
if he might be allowed to offer Madame Loiseau a small helping.
“Why, certainly, sir,” she
replied, with an amiable smile, holding out the dish.
When the first bottle of
claret was opened some embarrassment was caused by the fact that there was only
one drinking cup, but this was passed from one to another, after being wiped.
Cornudet alone, doubtless in a spirit of gallantry, raised to his own lips that
part of the rim which was still moist from those of his fair neighbor.
Then, surrounded by people
who were eating, and well-nigh suffocated by the odor of food, the Comte and
Comtesse de Breville and Monsieur and Madame Carre-Lamadon endured that hateful
form of torture which has perpetuated the name of Tantalus. All at once the
manufacturer’s young wife heaved a sigh which made every one turn and look at
her; she was white as the snow without; her eyes closed, her head fell forward;
she had fainted. Her husband, beside himself, implored the help of his
neighbors. No one seemed to know what to do until the elder of the two nuns,
raising the patient’s head, placed Boule de Suif’s drinking cup to her lips,
and made her swallow a few drops of wine. The pretty invalid moved, opened her
eyes, smiled, and declared in a feeble voice that she was all right again. But,
to prevent a recurrence of the catastrophe, the nun made her drink a cupful of
claret, adding: “It’s just hunger — that’s what is wrong with you.”
Then Boule de Suif,
blushing and embarrassed, stammered, looking at the four passengers who were still
fasting:
“‘Mon Dieu’, if I might
offer these ladies and gentlemen ——”
She stopped short, fearing
a snub. But Loiseau continued:
“Hang it all, in such a
case as this we are all brothers and sisters and ought to assist each other.
Come, come, ladies, don’t stand on ceremony, for goodness’ sake! Do we even
know whether we shall find a house in which to pass the night? At our present
rate of going we sha’n’t be at Totes till midday to-morrow.”
They hesitated, no one
daring to be the first to accept. But the count settled the question. He turned
toward the abashed girl, and in his most distinguished manner said:
“We accept gratefully,
madame.”
As usual, it was only the
first step that cost. This Rubicon once crossed, they set to work with a will.
The basket was emptied. It still contained a pate de foie gras, a lark pie, a
piece of smoked tongue, Crassane pears, Pont-Leveque gingerbread, fancy cakes,
and a cup full of pickled gherkins and onions — Boule de Suif, like all women,
being very fond of indigestible things.
They could not eat this
girl’s provisions without speaking to her. So they began to talk, stiffly at
first; then, as she seemed by no means forward, with greater freedom. Mesdames
de Breville and Carre-Lamadon, who were accomplished women of the world, were
gracious and tactful. The countess especially displayed that amiable
condescension characteristic of great ladies whom no contact with baser mortals
can sully, and was absolutely charming. But the sturdy Madame Loiseau, who had
the soul of a gendarme, continued morose, speaking little and eating much.
Conversation naturally
turned on the war. Terrible stories were told about the Prussians, deeds of
bravery were recounted of the French; and all these people who were fleeing
themselves were ready to pay homage to the courage of their compatriots.
Personal experiences soon followed, and Bottle le Suif related with genuine
emotion, and with that warmth of language not uncommon in women of her class
and temperament, how it came about that she had left Rouen.
“I thought at first that I
should be able to stay,” she said. “My house was well stocked with provisions,
and it seemed better to put up with feeding a few soldiers than to banish
myself goodness knows where. But when I saw these Prussians it was too much for
me! My blood boiled with rage; I wept the whole day for very shame. Oh, if only
I had been a man! I looked at them from my window — the fat swine, with their
pointed helmets! — and my maid held my hands to keep me from throwing my
furniture down on them. Then some of them were quartered on me; I flew at the
throat of the first one who entered. They are just as easy to strangle as other
men! And I’d have been the death of that one if I hadn’t been dragged away from
him by my hair. I had to hide after that. And as soon as I could get an
opportunity I left the place, and here I am.”
She was warmly
congratulated. She rose in the estimation of her companions, who had not been
so brave; and Cornudet listened to her with the approving and benevolent smile
of an apostle, the smile a priest might wear in listening to a devotee praising
God; for long-bearded democrats of his type have a monopoly of patriotism, just
as priests have a monopoly of religion. He held forth in turn, with dogmatic
self-assurance, in the style of the proclamations daily pasted on the walls of
the town, winding up with a specimen of stump oratory in which he reviled “that
besotted fool of a Louis-Napoleon.”
But Boule de Suif was
indignant, for she was an ardent Bonapartist. She turned as red as a cherry,
and stammered in her wrath: “I’d just like to have seen you in his place — you
and your sort! There would have been a nice mix-up. Oh, yes! It was you who
betrayed that man. It would be impossible to live in France if we were governed
by such rascals as you!”
Cornudet, unmoved by this
tirade, still smiled a superior, contemptuous smile; and one felt that high
words were impending, when the count interposed, and, not without difficulty,
succeeded in calming the exasperated woman, saying that all sincere opinions
ought to be respected. But the countess and the manufacturer’s wife, imbued
with the unreasoning hatred of the upper classes for the Republic, and
instinct, moreover, with the affection felt by all women for the pomp and
circumstance of despotic government, were drawn, in spite of themselves, toward
this dignified young woman, whose opinions coincided so closely with their own.
The basket was empty. The
ten people had finished its contents without difficulty amid general regret
that it did not hold more. Conversation went on a little longer, though it
flagged somewhat after the passengers had finished eating.
Night fell, the darkness
grew deeper and deeper, and the cold made Boule de Suif shiver, in spite of her
plumpness. So Madame de Breville offered her her foot-warmer, the fuel of which
had been several times renewed since the morning, and she accepted the offer at
once, for her feet were icy cold. Mesdames Carre-Lamadon and Loiseau gave
theirs to the nuns.
The driver lighted his
lanterns. They cast a bright gleam on a cloud of vapor which hovered over the
sweating flanks of the horses, and on the roadside snow, which seemed to unroll
as they went along in the changing light of the lamps.
All was now
indistinguishable in the coach; but suddenly a movement occurred in the corner
occupied by Boule de Suif and Cornudet; and Loiseau, peering into the gloom,
fancied he saw the big, bearded democrat move hastily to one side, as if he had
received a well-directed, though noiseless, blow in the dark.
Tiny lights glimmered
ahead. It was Totes. The coach had been on the road eleven hours, which, with
the three hours allotted the horses in four periods for feeding and breathing,
made fourteen. It entered the town, and stopped before the Hotel du Commerce.
The coach door opened; a
well-known noise made all the travellers start; it was the clanging of a
scabbard, on the pavement; then a voice called out something in German.
Although the coach had come
to a standstill, no one got out; it looked as if they were afraid of being
murdered the moment they left their seats. Thereupon the driver appeared,
holding in his hand one of his lanterns, which cast a sudden glow on the
interior of the coach, lighting up the double row of startled faces, mouths
agape, and eyes wide open in surprise and terror.
Beside the driver stood in
the full light a German officer, a tall young man, fair and slender, tightly
encased in his uniform like a woman in her corset, his flat shiny cap, tilted
to one side of his head, making him look like an English hotel runner. His
exaggerated mustache, long and straight and tapering to a point at either end
in a single blond hair that could hardly be seen, seemed to weigh down the
corners of his mouth and give a droop to his lips.
In Alsatian French he
requested the travellers to alight, saying stiffly:
“Kindly get down, ladies
and gentlemen.”
The two nuns were the first
to obey, manifesting the docility of holy women accustomed to submission on
every occasion. Next appeared the count and countess, followed by the
manufacturer and his wife, after whom came Loiseau, pushing his larger and
better half before him.
“Good-day, sir,” he said to
the officer as he put his foot to the ground, acting on an impulse born of
prudence rather than of politeness. The other, insolent like all in authority,
merely stared without replying.
Boule de Suif and Cornudet,
though near the door, were the last to alight, grave and dignified before the
enemy. The stout girl tried to control herself and appear calm; the democrat
stroked his long russet beard with a somewhat trembling hand. Both strove to
maintain their dignity, knowing well that at such a time each individual is
always looked upon as more or less typical of his nation; and, also, resenting
the complaisant attitude of their companions, Boule de Suif tried to wear a
bolder front than her neighbors, the virtuous women, while he, feeling that it
was incumbent on him to set a good example, kept up the attitude of resistance
which he had first assumed when he undertook to mine the high roads round
Rouen.
They entered the spacious
kitchen of the inn, and the German, having demanded the passports signed by the
general in command, in which were mentioned the name, description and
profession of each traveller, inspected them all minutely, comparing their
appearance with the written particulars.
Then he said brusquely:
“All right,” and turned on his heel.
They breathed freely, All
were still hungry; so supper was ordered. Half an hour was required for its
preparation, and while two servants were apparently engaged in getting it ready
the travellers went to look at their rooms. These all opened off a long
corridor, at the end of which was a glazed door with a number on it.
They were just about to
take their seats at table when the innkeeper appeared in person. He was a
former horse dealer — a large, asthmatic individual, always wheezing, coughing,
and clearing his throat. Follenvie was his patronymic.
He called:
“Mademoiselle Elisabeth
Rousset?”
Boule de Suif started, and
turned round.
“That is my name.”
“Mademoiselle, the Prussian
officer wishes to speak to you immediately.”
“To me?”
“Yes; if you are
Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset.”
She hesitated, reflected a
moment, and then declared roundly:
“That may be; but I’m not
going.”
They moved restlessly
around her; every one wondered and speculated as to the cause of this order.
The count approached:
“You are wrong, madame, for
your refusal may bring trouble not only on yourself but also on all your
companions. It never pays to resist those in authority. Your compliance with
this request cannot possibly be fraught with any danger; it has probably been
made because some formality or other was forgotten.”
All added their voices to
that of the count; Boule de Suif was begged, urged, lectured, and at last
convinced; every one was afraid of the complications which might result from
headstrong action on her part. She said finally:
“I am doing it for your
sakes, remember that!”
The countess took her hand.
“And we are grateful to
you.”
She left the room. All
waited for her return before commencing the meal. Each was distressed that he
or she had not been sent for rather than this impulsive, quick-tempered girl,
and each mentally rehearsed platitudes in case of being summoned also.
But at the end of ten
minutes she reappeared breathing hard, crimson with indignation.
“Oh! the scoundrel! the
scoundrel!” she stammered.
All were anxious to know
what had happened; but she declined to enlighten them, and when the count
pressed the point, she silenced him with much dignity, saying:
“No; the matter has nothing
to do with you, and I cannot speak of it.”
Then they took their places
round a high soup tureen, from which issued an odor of cabbage. In spite of
this coincidence, the supper was cheerful. The cider was good; the Loiseaus and
the nuns drank it from motives of economy. The others ordered wine; Cornudet
demanded beer. He had his own fashion of uncorking the bottle and making the
beer foam, gazing at it as he inclined his glass and then raised it to a
position between the lamp and his eye that he might judge of its color. When he
drank, his great beard, which matched the color of his favorite beverage,
seemed to tremble with affection; his eyes positively squinted in the endeavor
not to lose sight of the beloved glass, and he looked for all the world as if
he were fulfilling the only function for which he was born. He seemed to have
established in his mind an affinity between the two great passions of his life
— pale ale and revolution — and assuredly he could not taste the one without
dreaming of the other.
Monsieur and Madame
Follenvie dined at the end of the table. The man, wheezing like a broken-down
locomotive, was too short-winded to talk when he was eating. But the wife was
not silent a moment; she told how the Prussians had impressed her on their
arrival, what they did, what they said; execrating them in the first place
because they cost her money, and in the second because she had two sons in the
army. She addressed herself principally to the countess, flattered at the
opportunity of talking to a lady of quality.
Then she lowered her voice,
and began to broach delicate subjects. Her husband interrupted her from time to
time, saying:
“You would do well to hold
your tongue, Madame Follenvie.”
But she took no notice of
him, and went on:
“Yes, madame, these Germans
do nothing but eat potatoes and pork, and then pork and potatoes. And don’t
imagine for a moment that they are clean! No, indeed! And if only you saw them
drilling for hours, indeed for days, together; they all collect in a field,
then they do nothing but march backward and forward, and wheel this way and
that. If only they would cultivate the land, or remain at home and work on
their high roads! Really, madame, these soldiers are of no earthly use! Poor
people have to feed and keep them, only in order that they may learn how to
kill! True, I am only an old woman with no education, but when I see them
wearing themselves out marching about from morning till night, I say to myself:
When there are people who make discoveries that are of use to people, why
should others take so much trouble to do harm? Really, now, isn’t it a terrible
thing to kill people, whether they are Prussians, or English, or Poles, or
French? If we revenge ourselves on any one who injures us we do wrong, and are
punished for it; but when our sons are shot down like partridges, that is all
right, and decorations are given to the man who kills the most. No, indeed, I
shall never be able to understand it.”
Cornudet raised his voice:
“War is a barbarous
proceeding when we attack a peaceful neighbor, but it is a sacred duty when
undertaken in defence of one’s country.”
The old woman looked down:
“Yes; it’s another matter
when one acts in self-defence; but would it not be better to kill all the
kings, seeing that they make war just to amuse themselves?”
Cornudet’s eyes kindled.
“Bravo, citizens!” he said.
Monsieur Carre-Lamadon was
reflecting profoundly. Although an ardent admirer of great generals, the
peasant woman’s sturdy common sense made him reflect on the wealth which might
accrue to a country by the employment of so many idle hands now maintained at a
great expense, of so much unproductive force, if they were employed in those
great industrial enterprises which it will take centuries to complete.
But Loiseau, leaving his
seat, went over to the innkeeper and began chatting in a low voice. The big man
chuckled, coughed, sputtered; his enormous carcass shook with merriment at the
pleasantries of the other; and he ended by buying six casks of claret from
Loiseau to be delivered in spring, after the departure of the Prussians.
The moment supper was over
every one went to bed, worn out with fatigue.
But Loiseau, who had been
making his observations on the sly, sent his wife to bed, and amused himself by
placing first his ear, and then his eye, to the bedroom keyhole, in order to
discover what he called “the mysteries of the corridor.”
At the end of about an hour
he heard a rustling, peeped out quickly, and caught sight of Boule de Suif,
looking more rotund than ever in a dressing-gown of blue cashmere trimmed with
white lace. She held a candle in her hand, and directed her steps to the
numbered door at the end of the corridor. But one of the side doors was partly
opened, and when, at the end of a few minutes, she returned, Cornudet, in his
shirt-sleeves, followed her. They spoke in low tones, then stopped short. Boule
de Suif seemed to be stoutly denying him admission to her room. Unfortunately,
Loiseau could not at first hear what they said; but toward the end of the
conversation they raised their voices, and he caught a few words. Cornudet was
loudly insistent.
“How silly you are! What
does it matter to you?” he said.
She seemed indignant, and
replied:
“No, my good man, there are
times when one does not do that sort of thing; besides, in this place it would
be shameful.”
Apparently he did not
understand, and asked the reason. Then she lost her temper and her caution,
and, raising her voice still higher, said:
“Why? Can’t you understand
why? When there are Prussians in the house! Perhaps even in the very next
room!”
He was silent. The
patriotic shame of this wanton, who would not suffer herself to be caressed in
the neighborhood of the enemy, must have roused his dormant dignity, for after
bestowing on her a simple kiss he crept softly back to his room. Loiseau, much
edified, capered round the bedroom before taking his place beside his
slumbering spouse.
Then silence reigned
throughout the house. But soon there arose from some remote part — it might
easily have been either cellar or attic — a stertorous, monotonous, regular
snoring, a dull, prolonged rumbling, varied by tremors like those of a boiler
under pressure of steam. Monsieur Follenvie had gone to sleep.
As they had decided on
starting at eight o’clock the next morning, every one was in the kitchen at
that hour; but the coach, its roof covered with snow, stood by itself in the
middle of the yard, without either horses or driver. They sought the latter in
the stables, coach-houses and barns — but in vain. So the men of the party
resolved to scour the country for him, and sallied forth. They found them selves
in the square, with the church at the farther side, and to right and left
low-roofed houses where there were some Prussian soldiers. The first soldier
they saw was peeling potatoes. The second, farther on, was washing out a
barber’s shop. An other, bearded to the eyes, was fondling a crying infant, and
dandling it on his knees to quiet it; and the stout peasant women, whose
men-folk were for the most part at the war, were, by means of signs, telling
their obedient conquerors what work they were to do: chop wood, prepare soup,
grind coffee; one of them even was doing the washing for his hostess, an infirm
old grandmother.
The count, astonished at
what he saw, questioned the beadle who was coming out of the presbytery. The
old man answered:
“Oh, those men are not at
all a bad sort; they are not Prussians, I am told; they come from somewhere
farther off, I don’t exactly know where. And they have all left wives and
children behind them; they are not fond of war either, you may be sure! I am
sure they are mourning for the men where they come from, just as we do here;
and the war causes them just as much unhappiness as it does us. As a matter of
fact, things are not so very bad here just now, because the soldiers do no
harm, and work just as if they were in their own homes. You see, sir, poor folk
always help one another; it is the great ones of this world who make war.”
Cornudet indignant at the
friendly understanding established between conquerors and conquered, withdrew,
preferring to shut himself up in the inn.
“They are repeopling the
country,” jested Loiseau.
“They are undoing the harm
they have done,” said Monsieur Carre-Lamadon gravely.
But they could not find the
coach driver. At last he was discovered in the village cafe, fraternizing
cordially with the officer’s orderly.
“Were you not told to
harness the horses at eight o’clock?” demanded the count.
“Oh, yes; but I’ve had
different orders since.”
“What orders?”
“Not to harness at all.”
“Who gave you such orders?”
“Why, the Prussian
officer.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. Go and ask
him. I am forbidden to harness the horses, so I don’t harness them — that’s
all.”
“Did he tell you so
himself?”
“No, sir; the innkeeper
gave me the order from him.”
“When?”
“Last evening, just as I
was going to bed.”
The three men returned in a
very uneasy frame of mind.
They asked for Monsieur
Follenvie, but the servant replied that on account of his asthma he never got
up before ten o’clock. They were strictly forbidden to rouse him earlier,
except in case of fire.
They wished to see the
officer, but that also was impossible, although he lodged in the inn. Monsieur
Follenvie alone was authorized to interview him on civil matters. So they
waited. The women returned to their rooms, and occupied themselves with trivial
matters.
Cornudet settled down
beside the tall kitchen fireplace, before a blazing fire. He had a small table
and a jug of beer placed beside him, and he smoked his pipe — a pipe which
enjoyed among democrats a consideration almost equal to his own, as though it
had served its country in serving Cornudet. It was a fine meerschaum, admirably
colored to a black the shade of its owner’s teeth, but sweet-smelling,
gracefully curved, at home in its master’s hand, and completing his
physiognomy. And Cornudet sat motionless, his eyes fixed now on the dancing
flames, now on the froth which crowned his beer; and after each draught he
passed his long, thin fingers with an air of satisfaction through his long,
greasy hair, as he sucked the foam from his mustache.
Loiseau, under pretence of
stretching his legs, went out to see if he could sell wine to the country
dealers. The count and the manufacturer began to talk politics. They forecast
the future of France. One believed in the Orleans dynasty, the other in an
unknown savior — a hero who should rise up in the last extremity: a Du
Guesclin, perhaps a Joan of Arc? or another Napoleon the First? Ah! if only the
Prince Imperial were not so young! Cornudet, listening to them, smiled like a
man who holds the keys of destiny in his hands. His pipe perfumed the whole
kitchen.
As the clock struck ten,
Monsieur Follenvie appeared. He was immediately surrounded and questioned, but
could only repeat, three or four times in succession, and without variation,
the words:
“The officer said to me, just
like this: ‘Monsieur Follenvie, you will forbid them to harness up the coach
for those travellers to-morrow. They are not to start without an order from me.
You hear? That is sufficient.’”
Then they asked to see the
officer. The count sent him his card, on which Monsieur Carre-Lamadon also
inscribed his name and titles. The Prussian sent word that the two men would be
admitted to see him after his luncheon — that is to say, about one o’clock.
The ladies reappeared, and
they all ate a little, in spite of their anxiety. Boule de Suif appeared ill
and very much worried.
They were finishing their
coffee when the orderly came to fetch the gentlemen.
Loiseau joined the other
two; but when they tried to get Cornudet to accompany them, by way of adding
greater solemnity to the occasion, he declared proudly that he would never have
anything to do with the Germans, and, resuming his seat in the chimney corner,
he called for another jug of beer.
The three men went
upstairs, and were ushered into the best room in the inn, where the officer
received them lolling at his ease in an armchair, his feet on the mantelpiece,
smoking a long porcelain pipe, and enveloped in a gorgeous dressing-gown,
doubtless stolen from the deserted dwelling of some citizen destitute of taste
in dress. He neither rose, greeted them, nor even glanced in their direction.
He afforded a fine example of that insolence of bearing which seems natural to
the victorious soldier.
After the lapse of a few
moments he said in his halting French:
“What do you want?”
“We wish to start on our
journey,” said the count.
“No.”
“May I ask the reason of
your refusal?”
“Because I don’t choose.”
“I would respectfully call
your attention, monsieur, to the fact that your general in command gave us a
permit to proceed to Dieppe; and I do not think we have done anything to
deserve this harshness at your hands.”
“I don’t choose — that’s
all. You may go.”
They bowed, and retired.
The afternoon was wretched.
They could not understand the caprice of this German, and the strangest ideas
came into their heads. They all congregated in the kitchen, and talked the
subject to death, imagining all kinds of unlikely things. Perhaps they were to
be kept as hostages — but for what reason? or to be extradited as prisoners of
war? or possibly they were to be held for ransom? They were panic-stricken at
this last supposition. The richest among them were the most alarmed, seeing
themselves forced to empty bags of gold into the insolent soldier’s hands in
order to buy back their lives. They racked their brains for plausible lies
whereby they might conceal the fact that they were rich, and pass themselves
off as poor — very poor. Loiseau took off his watch chain, and put it in his
pocket. The approach of night increased their apprehension. The lamp was
lighted, and as it wanted yet two hours to dinner Madame Loiseau proposed a
game of trente et un. It would distract their thoughts. The rest agreed, and
Cornudet himself joined the party, first putting out his pipe for politeness’
sake.
The count shuffled the
cards — dealt — and Boule de Suif had thirty-one to start with; soon the
interest of the game assuaged the anxiety of the players. But Cornudet noticed
that Loiseau and his wife were in league to cheat.
They were about to sit down
to dinner when Monsieur Follenvie appeared, and in his grating voice announced:
“The Prussian officer sends
to ask Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset if she has changed her mind yet.”
Boule de Suif stood still,
pale as death. Then, suddenly turning crimson with anger, she gasped out:
“Kindly tell that
scoundrel, that cur, that carrion of a Prussian, that I will never consent —
you understand? — never, never, never!”
The fat innkeeper left the
room. Then Boule de Suif was surrounded, questioned, entreated on all sides to
reveal the mystery of her visit to the officer. She refused at first; but her
wrath soon got the better of her.
“What does he want? He
wants to make me his mistress!” she cried.
No one was shocked at the
word, so great was the general indignation. Cornudet broke his jug as he banged
it down on the table. A loud outcry arose against this base soldier. All were
furious. They drew together in common resistance against the foe, as if some
part of the sacrifice exacted of Boule de Suif had been demanded of each. The
count declared, with supreme disgust, that those people behaved like ancient
barbarians. The women, above all, manifested a lively and tender sympathy for Boule
de Suif. The nuns, who appeared only at meals, cast down their eyes, and said
nothing.
They dined, however, as
soon as the first indignant outburst had subsided; but they spoke little and
thought much.
The ladies went to bed
early; and the men, having lighted their pipes, proposed a game of ecarte, in
which Monsieur Follenvie was invited to join, the travellers hoping to question
him skillfully as to the best means of vanquishing the officer’s obduracy. But
he thought of nothing but his cards, would listen to nothing, reply to nothing,
and repeated, time after time: “Attend to the game, gentlemen! attend to the
game!” So absorbed was his attention that he even forgot to expectorate. The
consequence was that his chest gave forth rumbling sounds like those of an
organ. His wheezing lungs struck every note of the asthmatic scale, from deep,
hollow tones to a shrill, hoarse piping resembling that of a young cock trying
to crow.
He refused to go to bed
when his wife, overcome with sleep, came to fetch him. So she went off alone,
for she was an early bird, always up with the sun; while he was addicted to
late hours, ever ready to spend the night with friends. He merely said: “Put my
egg-nogg by the fire,” and went on with the game. When the other men saw that nothing
was to be got out of him they declared it was time to retire, and each sought
his bed.
They rose fairly early the
next morning, with a vague hope of being allowed to start, a greater desire
than ever to do so, and a terror at having to spend another day in this
wretched little inn.
Alas! the horses remained
in the stable, the driver was invisible. They spent their time, for want of
something better to do, in wandering round the coach.
Luncheon was a gloomy
affair; and there was a general coolness toward Boule de Suif, for night, which
brings counsel, had somewhat modified the judgment of her companions. In the
cold light of the morning they almost bore a grudge against the girl for not
having secretly sought out the Prussian, that the rest of the party might
receive a joyful surprise when they awoke. What more simple?
Besides, who would have
been the wiser? She might have saved appearances by telling the officer that
she had taken pity on their distress. Such a step would be of so little
consequence to her.
But no one as yet confessed
to such thoughts.
In the afternoon, seeing
that they were all bored to death, the count proposed a walk in the
neighborhood of the village. Each one wrapped himself up well, and the little
party set out, leaving behind only Cornudet, who preferred to sit over the
fire, and the two nuns, who were in the habit of spending their day in the
church or at the presbytery.
The cold, which grew more
intense each day, almost froze the noses and ears of the pedestrians, their
feet began to pain them so that each step was a penance, and when they reached
the open country it looked so mournful and depressing in its limitless mantle
of white that they all hastily retraced their steps, with bodies benumbed and
hearts heavy.
The four women walked in
front, and the three men followed a little in their rear.
Loiseau, who saw perfectly
well how matters stood, asked suddenly “if that trollop were going to keep them
waiting much longer in this Godforsaken spot.” The count, always courteous,
replied that they could not exact so painful a sacrifice from any woman, and
that the first move must come from herself. Monsieur Carre-Lamadon remarked
that if the French, as they talked of doing, made a counter attack by way of
Dieppe, their encounter with the enemy must inevitably take place at Totes.
This reflection made the other two anxious.
“Supposing we escape on
foot?” said Loiseau.
The count shrugged his
shoulders.
“How can you think of such
a thing, in this snow? And with our wives? Besides, we should be pursued at
once, overtaken in ten minutes, and brought back as prisoners at the mercy of
the soldiery.”
This was true enough; they
were silent.
The ladies talked of dress,
but a certain constraint seemed to prevail among them.
Suddenly, at the end of the
street, the officer appeared. His tall, wasp-like, uniformed figure was
outlined against the snow which bounded the horizon, and he walked, knees
apart, with that motion peculiar to soldiers, who are always anxious not to
soil their carefully polished boots.
He bowed as he passed the
ladies, then glanced scornfully at the men, who had sufficient dignity not to
raise their hats, though Loiseau made a movement to do so.
Boule de Suif flushed
crimson to the ears, and the three married women felt unutterably humiliated at
being met thus by the soldier in company with the girl whom he had treated with
such scant ceremony.
Then they began to talk
about him, his figure, and his face. Madame Carre-Lamadon, who had known many
officers and judged them as a connoisseur, thought him not at all bad-looking;
she even regretted that he was not a Frenchman, because in that case he would
have made a very handsome hussar, with whom all the women would assuredly have
fallen in love.
When they were once more
within doors they did not know what to do with themselves. Sharp words even
were exchanged apropos of the merest trifles. The silent dinner was quickly
over, and each one went to bed early in the hope of sleeping, and thus killing
time.
They came down next morning
with tired faces and irritable tempers; the women scarcely spoke to Boule de
Suif.
A church bell summoned the
faithful to a baptism. Boule de Suif had a child being brought up by peasants
at Yvetot. She did not see him once a year, and never thought of him; but the
idea of the child who was about to be baptized induced a sudden wave of
tenderness for her own, and she insisted on being present at the ceremony.
As soon as she had gone
out, the rest of the company looked at one another and then drew their chairs
together; for they realized that they must decide on some course of action.
Loiseau had an inspiration: he proposed that they should ask the officer to
detain Boule de Suif only, and to let the rest depart on their way.
Monsieur Follenvie was
intrusted with this commission, but he returned to them almost immediately. The
German, who knew human nature, had shown him the door. He intended to keep all
the travellers until his condition had been complied with.
Whereupon Madame Loiseau’s
vulgar temperament broke bounds.
“We’re not going to die of
old age here!” she cried. “Since it’s that vixen’s trade to behave so with men
I don’t see that she has any right to refuse one more than another. I may as
well tell you she took any lovers she could get at Rouen — even coachmen! Yes,
indeed, madame — the coachman at the prefecture! I know it for a fact, for he
buys his wine of us. And now that it is a question of getting us out of a
difficulty she puts on virtuous airs, the drab! For my part, I think this
officer has behaved very well. Why, there were three others of us, any one of
whom he would undoubtedly have preferred. But no, he contents himself with the
girl who is common property. He respects married women. Just think. He is
master here. He had only to say: ‘I wish it!’ and he might have taken us by
force, with the help of his soldiers.”
The two other women
shuddered; the eyes of pretty Madame Carre-Lamadon glistened, and she grew
pale, as if the officer were indeed in the act of laying violent hands on her.
The men, who had been
discussing the subject among themselves, drew near. Loiseau, in a state of
furious resentment, was for delivering up “that miserable woman,” bound hand
and foot, into the enemy’s power. But the count, descended from three
generations of ambassadors, and endowed, moreover, with the lineaments of a
diplomat, was in favor of more tactful measures.
“We must persuade her,” he
said.
Then they laid their plans.
The women drew together;
they lowered their voices, and the discussion became general, each giving his
or her opinion. But the conversation was not in the least coarse. The ladies,
in particular, were adepts at delicate phrases and charming subtleties of
expression to describe the most improper things. A stranger would have
understood none of their allusions, so guarded was the language they employed.
But, seeing that the thin veneer of modesty with which every woman of the world
is furnished goes but a very little way below the surface, they began rather to
enjoy this unedifying episode, and at bottom were hugely delighted — feeling
themselves in their element, furthering the schemes of lawless love with the
gusto of a gourmand cook who prepares supper for another.
Their gaiety returned of
itself, so amusing at last did the whole business seem to them. The count
uttered several rather risky witticisms, but so tactfully were they said that
his audience could not help smiling. Loiseau in turn made some considerably
broader jokes, but no one took offence; and the thought expressed with such
brutal directness by his wife was uppermost in the minds of all: “Since it’s
the girl’s trade, why should she refuse this man more than another?” Dainty
Madame Carre-Lamadon seemed to think even that in Boule de Suif’s place she
would be less inclined to refuse him than another.
The blockade was as
carefully arranged as if they were investing a fortress. Each agreed on the
role which he or she was to play, the arguments to be used, the maneuvers to be
executed. They decided on the plan of campaign, the stratagems they were to
employ, and the surprise attacks which were to reduce this human citadel and
force it to receive the enemy within its walls.
But Cornudet remained apart
from the rest, taking no share in the plot.
So absorbed was the attention
of all that Boule de Suif’s entrance was almost unnoticed. But the count
whispered a gentle “Hush!” which made the others look up. She was there. They
suddenly stopped talking, and a vague embarrassment prevented them for a few
moments from addressing her. But the countess, more practiced than the others
in the wiles of the drawing-room, asked her:
“Was the baptism
interesting?”
The girl, still under the
stress of emotion, told what she had seen and heard, described the faces, the
attitudes of those present, and even the appearance of the church. She
concluded with the words:
“It does one good to pray
sometimes.”
Until lunch time the ladies
contented themselves with being pleasant to her, so as to increase her
confidence and make her amenable to their advice.
As soon as they took their
seats at table the attack began. First they opened a vague conversation on the
subject of self-sacrifice. Ancient examples were quoted: Judith and Holofernes;
then, irrationally enough, Lucrece and Sextus; Cleopatra and the hostile
generals whom she reduced to abject slavery by a surrender of her charms. Next
was recounted an extraordinary story, born of the imagination of these ignorant
millionaires, which told how the matrons of Rome seduced Hannibal, his
lieutenants, and all his mercenaries at Capua. They held up to admiration all
those women who from time to time have arrested the victorious progress of
conquerors, made of their bodies a field of battle, a means of ruling, a
weapon; who have vanquished by their heroic caresses hideous or detested
beings, and sacrificed their chastity to vengeance and devotion.
All was said with due
restraint and regard for propriety, the effect heightened now and then by an
outburst of forced enthusiasm calculated to excite emulation.
A listener would have
thought at last that the one role of woman on earth was a perpetual sacrifice
of her person, a continual abandonment of herself to the caprices of a hostile
soldiery.
The two nuns seemed to hear
nothing, and to be lost in thought. Boule de Suif also was silent.
During the whole afternoon
she was left to her reflections. But instead of calling her “madame” as they
had done hitherto, her companions addressed her simply as “mademoiselle,”
without exactly knowing why, but as if desirous of making her descend a step in
the esteem she had won, and forcing her to realize her degraded position.
Just as soup was served,
Monsieur Follenvie reappeared, repeating his phrase of the evening before:
“The Prussian officer sends
to ask if Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset has changed her mind.”
Boule de Suif answered
briefly:
“No, monsieur.”
But at dinner the coalition
weakened. Loiseau made three unfortunate remarks. Each was cudgeling his brains
for further examples of self-sacrifice, and could find none, when the countess,
possibly without ulterior motive, and moved simply by a vague desire to do
homage to religion, began to question the elder of the two nuns on the most
striking facts in the lives of the saints. Now, it fell out that many of these
had committed acts which would be crimes in our eyes, but the Church readily
pardons such deeds when they are accomplished for the glory of God or the good
of mankind. This was a powerful argument, and the countess made the most of it.
Then, whether by reason of a tacit understanding, a thinly veiled act of
complaisance such as those who wear the ecclesiastical habit excel in, or
whether merely as the result of sheer stupidity — a stupidity admirably adapted
to further their designs — the old nun rendered formidable aid to the
conspirator. They had thought her timid; she proved herself bold, talkative,
bigoted. She was not troubled by the ins and outs of casuistry; her doctrines
were as iron bars; her faith knew no doubt; her conscience no scruples. She
looked on Abraham’s sacrifice as natural enough, for she herself would not have
hesitated to kill both father and mother if she had received a divine order to
that effect; and nothing, in her opinion, could displease our Lord, provided
the motive were praiseworthy. The countess, putting to good use the consecrated
authority of her unexpected ally, led her on to make a lengthy and edifying
paraphrase of that axiom enunciated by a certain school of moralists: “The end
justifies the means.”
“Then, sister,” she asked,
“you think God accepts all methods, and pardons the act when the motive is
pure?”
“Undoubtedly, madame. An
action reprehensible in itself often derives merit from the thought which
inspires it.”
And in this wise they
talked on, fathoming the wishes of God, predicting His judgments, describing
Him as interested in matters which assuredly concern Him but little.
All was said with the
utmost care and discretion, but every word uttered by the holy woman in her
nun’s garb weakened the indignant resistance of the courtesan. Then the
conversation drifted somewhat, and the nun began to talk of the convents of her
order, of her Superior, of herself, and of her fragile little neighbor, Sister
St. Nicephore. They had been sent for from Havre to nurse the hundreds of soldiers
who were in hospitals, stricken with smallpox. She described these wretched
invalids and their malady. And, while they themselves were detained on their
way by the caprices of the Prussian officer, scores of Frenchmen might be
dying, whom they would otherwise have saved! For the nursing of soldiers was
the old nun’s specialty; she had been in the Crimea, in Italy, in Austria; and
as she told the story of her campaigns she revealed herself as one of those
holy sisters of the fife and drum who seem designed by nature to follow camps,
to snatch the wounded from amid the strife of battle, and to quell with a word,
more effectually than any general, the rough and insubordinate troopers — a
masterful woman, her seamed and pitted face itself an image of the devastations
of war.
No one spoke when she had
finished for fear of spoiling the excellent effect of her words.
As soon as the meal was
over the travellers retired to their rooms, whence they emerged the following
day at a late hour of the morning.
Luncheon passed off
quietly. The seed sown the preceding evening was being given time to germinate
and bring forth fruit.
In the afternoon the
countess proposed a walk; then the count, as had been arranged beforehand, took
Boule de Suif’s arm, and walked with her at some distance behind the rest.
He began talking to her in
that familiar, paternal, slightly contemptuous tone which men of his class
adopt in speaking to women like her, calling her “my dear child,” and talking
down to her from the height of his exalted social position and stainless
reputation. He came straight to the point.
“So you prefer to leave us
here, exposed like yourself to all the violence which would follow on a repulse
of the Prussian troops, rather than consent to surrender yourself, as you have
done so many times in your life?”
The girl did not reply.
He tried kindness,
argument, sentiment. He still bore himself as count, even while adopting, when
desirable, an attitude of gallantry, and making pretty — nay, even tender —
speeches. He exalted the service she would render them, spoke of their
gratitude; then, suddenly, using the familiar “thou”:
“And you know, my dear, he
could boast then of having made a conquest of a pretty girl such as he won’t
often find in his own country.”
Boule de Suif did not
answer, and joined the rest of the party.
As soon as they returned
she went to her room, and was seen no more. The general anxiety was at its
height. What would she do? If she still resisted, how awkward for them all!
The dinner hour struck;
they waited for her in vain. At last Monsieur Follenvie entered, announcing
that Mademoiselle Rousset was not well, and that they might sit down to table.
They all pricked up their ears. The count drew near the innkeeper, and
whispered:
“Is it all right?”
“Yes.”
Out of regard for propriety
he said nothing to his companions, but merely nodded slightly toward them. A
great sigh of relief went up from all breasts; every face was lighted up with
joy.
“By Gad!” shouted Loiseau,
“I’ll stand champagne all round if there’s any to be found in this place.” And
great was Madame Loiseau’s dismay when the proprietor came back with four
bottles in his hands. They had all suddenly become talkative and merry; a
lively joy filled all hearts. The count seemed to perceive for the first time
that Madame Carre-Lamadon was charming; the manufacturer paid compliments to
the countess. The conversation was animated, sprightly, witty, and, although
many of the jokes were in the worst possible taste, all the company were amused
by them, and none offended — indignation being dependent, like other emotions,
on surroundings. And the mental atmosphere had gradually become filled with
gross imaginings and unclean thoughts.
At dessert even the women
indulged in discreetly worded allusions. Their glances were full of meaning;
they had drunk much. The count, who even in his moments of relaxation preserved
a dignified demeanor, hit on a much-appreciated comparison of the condition of
things with the termination of a winter spent in the icy solitude of the North
Pole and the joy of shipwrecked mariners who at last perceive a southward track
opening out before their eyes.
Loiseau, fairly in his
element, rose to his feet, holding aloft a glass of champagne.
“I drink to our
deliverance!” he shouted.
All stood up, and greeted
the toast with acclamation. Even the two good sisters yielded to the
solicitations of the ladies, and consented to moisten their lips with the
foaming wine, which they had never before tasted. They declared it was like
effervescent lemonade, but with a pleasanter flavor.
“It is a pity,” said
Loiseau, “that we have no piano; we might have had a quadrille.”
Cornudet had not spoken a
word or made a movement; he seemed plunged in serious thought, and now and then
tugged furiously at his great beard, as if trying to add still further to its
length. At last, toward midnight, when they were about to separate, Loiseau,
whose gait was far from steady, suddenly slapped him on the back, saying
thickly:
“You’re not jolly to-night;
why are you so silent, old man?”
Cornudet threw back his
head, cast one swift and scornful glance over the assemblage, and answered:
“I tell you all, you have
done an infamous thing!”
He rose, reached the door,
and repeating: “Infamous!” disappeared.
A chill fell on all. Loiseau
himself looked foolish and disconcerted for a moment, but soon recovered his
aplomb, and, writhing with laughter, exclaimed:
“Really, you are all too
green for anything!”
Pressed for an explanation,
he related the “mysteries of the corridor,” whereat his listeners were hugely
amused. The ladies could hardly contain their delight. The count and Monsieur
Carre-Lamadon laughed till they cried. They could scarcely believe their ears.
“What! you are sure? He
wanted ——”
“I tell you I saw it with
my own eyes.”
“And she refused?”
“Because the Prussian was
in the next room!”
“Surely you are mistaken?”
“I swear I’m telling you
the truth.”
The count was choking with
laughter. The manufacturer held his sides. Loiseau continued:
“So you may well imagine he
doesn’t think this evening’s business at all amusing.”
And all three began to
laugh again, choking, coughing, almost ill with merriment.
Then they separated. But
Madame Loiseau, who was nothing if not spiteful, remarked to her husband as
they were on the way to bed that “that stuck-up little minx of a Carre-Lamadon
had laughed on the wrong side of her mouth all the evening.”
“You know,” she said, “when
women run after uniforms it’s all the same to them whether the men who wear
them are French or Prussian. It’s perfectly sickening!”
The next morning the snow
showed dazzling white tinder a clear winter sun. The coach, ready at last,
waited before the door; while a flock of white pigeons, with pink eyes spotted
in the centres with black, puffed out their white feathers and walked sedately
between the legs of the six horses, picking at the steaming manure.
The driver, wrapped in his
sheepskin coat, was smoking a pipe on the box, and all the passengers, radiant
with delight at their approaching departure, were putting up provisions for the
remainder of the journey.
They were waiting only for
Boule de Suif. At last she appeared.
She seemed rather
shamefaced and embarrassed, and advanced with timid step toward her companions,
who with one accord turned aside as if they had not seen her. The count, with
much dignity, took his wife by the arm, and removed her from the unclean
contact.
The girl stood still,
stupefied with astonishment; then, plucking up courage, accosted the
manufacturer’s wife with a humble “Good-morning, madame,” to which the other
replied merely with a slight arid insolent nod, accompanied by a look of
outraged virtue. Every one suddenly appeared extremely busy, and kept as far
from Boule de Suif as if tier skirts had been infected with some deadly
disease. Then they hurried to the coach, followed by the despised courtesan,
who, arriving last of all, silently took the place she had occupied during the
first part of the journey.
The rest seemed neither to
see nor to know her — all save Madame Loiseau, who, glancing contemptuously in
her direction, remarked, half aloud, to her husband:
“What a mercy I am not
sitting beside that creature!”
The lumbering vehicle
started on its way, and the journey began afresh.
At first no one spoke.
Boule de Suif dared not even raise her eyes. She felt at once indignant with
her neighbors, and humiliated at having yielded to the Prussian into whose arms
they had so hypocritically cast her.
But the countess, turning
toward Madame Carre-Lamadon, soon broke the painful silence:
“I think you know Madame d’Etrelles?”
“Yes; she is a friend of
mine.”
“Such a charming woman!”
“Delightful! Exceptionally
talented, and an artist to the finger tips. She sings marvellously and draws to
perfection.”
The manufacturer was
chatting with the count, and amid the clatter of the window-panes a word of
their conversation was now and then distinguishable: “Shares — maturity —
premium — time-limit.”
Loiseau, who had abstracted
from the inn the timeworn pack of cards, thick with the grease of five years’
contact with half-wiped-off tables, started a game of bezique with his wife.
The good sisters, taking up
simultaneously the long rosaries hanging from their waists, made the sign of
the cross, and began to mutter in unison interminable prayers, their lips
moving ever more and more swiftly, as if they sought which should outdistance
the other in the race of orisons; from time to time they kissed a medal, and
crossed themselves anew, then resumed their rapid and unintelligible murmur.
Cornudet sat still, lost in
thought.
Ah the end of three hours
Loiseau gathered up the cards, and remarked that he was hungry.
His wife thereupon produced
a parcel tied with string, from which she extracted a piece of cold veal. This
she cut into neat, thin slices, and both began to eat.
“We may as well do the
same,” said the countess. The rest agreed, and she unpacked the provisions
which had been prepared for herself, the count, and the Carre-Lamadons. In one
of those oval dishes, the lids of which are decorated with an earthenware hare,
by way of showing that a game pie lies within, was a succulent delicacy
consisting of the brown flesh of the game larded with streaks of bacon and
flavored with other meats chopped fine. A solid wedge of Gruyere cheese, which
had been wrapped in a newspaper, bore the imprint: “Items of News,” on its
rich, oily surface.
The two good sisters
brought to light a hunk of sausage smelling strongly of garlic; and Cornudet,
plunging both hands at once into the capacious pockets of his loose overcoat,
produced from one four hard-boiled eggs and from the other a crust of bread. He
removed the shells, threw them into the straw beneath his feet, and began to
devour the eggs, letting morsels of the bright yellow yolk fall in his mighty
beard, where they looked like stars.
Boule de Suif, in the haste
and confusion of her departure, had not thought of anything, and, stifling with
rage, she watched all these people placidly eating. At first, ill-suppressed
wrath shook her whole person, and she opened her lips to shriek the truth at them,
to overwhelm them with a volley of insults; but she could not utter a word, so
choked was she with indignation.
No one looked at her, no
one thought of her. She felt herself swallowed up in the scorn of these
virtuous creatures, who had first sacrificed, then rejected her as a thing
useless and unclean. Then she remembered her big basket full of the good things
they had so greedily devoured: the two chickens coated in jelly, the pies, the
pears, the four bottles of claret; and her fury broke forth like a cord that is
overstrained, and she was on the verge of tears. She made terrible efforts at
self-control, drew herself up, swallowed the sobs which choked her; but the
tears rose nevertheless, shone at the brink of her eyelids, and soon two heavy
drops coursed slowly down her cheeks. Others followed more quickly, like water
filtering from a rock, and fell, one after another, on her rounded bosom. She
sat upright, with a fixed expression, her face pale and rigid, hoping
desperately that no one saw her give way.
But the countess noticed
that she was weeping, and with a sign drew her husband’s attention to the fact.
He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: “Well, what of it? It’s not my fault.”
Madame Loiseau chuckled triumphantly, and murmured:
“She’s weeping for shame.”
The two nuns had betaken
themselves once more to their prayers, first wrapping the remainder of their
sausage in paper:
Then Cornudet, who was
digesting his eggs, stretched his long legs under the opposite seat, threw
himself back, folded his arms, smiled like a man who had just thought of a good
joke, and began to whistle the Marseillaise.
The faces of his neighbors
clouded; the popular air evidently did not find favor with them; they grew
nervous and irritable, and seemed ready to howl as a dog does at the sound of a
barrel-organ. Cornudet saw the discomfort he was creating, and whistled the
louder; sometimes he even hummed the words:
Amour
sacre de la patrie,
Conduis,
soutiens, nos bras vengeurs,
Liberte, liberte cherie,
Combats avec tes defenseurs!
The coach progressed more swiftly, the snow being
harder now; and all the way to Dieppe, during the long, dreary hours of the
journey, first in the gathering dusk, then in the thick darkness, raising his
voice above the rumbling of the vehicle, Cornudet continued with fierce
obstinacy his vengeful and monotonous whistling, forcing his weary and
exasperated-hearers to follow the song from end to end, to recall every word of
every line, as each was repeated over and over again with untiring persistency.
And Boule de Suif still
wept, and sometimes a sob she could not restrain was heard in the darkness
between two verses of the song.
16 April 1880.
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