She lost all
consciousness
of time.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v27 - Wat to Zor
If you love me, Dominique, don't
stay here a minute longer. ”
Then she promised to climb back to her room. They would
not know that she had helped him. She at last took him in her
arms, kissed him to convince him, in an extraordinary outburst of
passion. He was beaten. He asked not a question further.
Swear to me that your father knows of what you are doing,
and that he advises me to run away. ”
"It was my father sent me,” Françoise answered boldly.
(
»
»
»
(
»
## p. 16315 (#669) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16315
She lied. At this moment she felt nothing but a boundless
need of knowing him in safety, of escaping from this abominable
thought that the sun would give the signal for his death. When
he was gone, all mishaps might rush down upon her; it would
seem sweet to her as long as he was alive. The selfishness of
her love wished him alive before all else.
“Very well,” said Dominique: "I will do as you prefer. ”
Then they said nothing more. Dominique went to open the
window again; but suddenly a noise chilled their blood.
door was shaken, and they thought it was being opened. Evi-
dently a patrol had heard their voices; and both of them, stand-
ing pressed against each other, waited in an unspeakable anguish.
Each gave a stifled sigh; they saw how it was,- it must have
been the soldier lying across the threshold turning over. And
really, silence was restored; the snoring began again.
Dominique would have it that Françoise must first climb back
to her room. He took her in his arms; he bade her a mute fare-
well. Then he helped her to seize the ladder, and grappled
hold of it in his turn. But he refused to go down a single
rung before he knew she was in her room. When Françoise had
climbed in, she whispered, in a voice as light as breath:-
"Au revoir; I love you! ”
She stopped with her elbows resting on the window-sill, and
tried to follow Dominique with her eyes. The night was still
She looked for the sentinel, and did not see him;
only the willow made a pale spot in the midst of the darkness.
For an instant she heard the rustling of Dominique's body along
the ivy. Then the wheel creaked, and there was a gentle plash-
ing that told that the young man had found the boat. A minute
later, in fact, she made out the dark outline of a boat on the
gray sheet of the Morelle.
Then anguish stopped her breath.
At every moment she thought to hear the sentinel's cry of
alarm. The faintest sounds, scattered through the darkness,
seemed to be the hurried tread of soldiers, the clatter of arms,
the click of the hammers of their rifles. Yet seconds elapsed; the
country slept in a sovereign peace. Dominique must have been
landing on the other bank. Françoise saw nothing more. The
stillness was majestic. And she heard a noise of scuffling feet,
a hoarse cry, the dull thud of a falling body. Then the silence
grew deeper; and as if she had felt death passing by, she waited
on, all cold, face to face with the pitch-dark night.
>
very dark.
## p. 16316 (#670) ##########################################
16316
ÉMILE ZOLA
IV
»
AT DAYBREAK, shouting voices shook the mill. Old Merlier
had come down to open Françoise's door. She came down
into the court-yard, pale and very calm.
But there she gave a
shudder before the dead body of a Prussian soldier, which was
stretched out near the well, on a cloak spread on the ground.
Around the body, soldiers were gesticulating, crying aloud
in fury. Many of them shook their fists at the village. Mean-
while the officer had had old Merlier called, as mayor of the
township.
“ «See here,” said he, in a voice choking with rage, here's one
«
of our men who has been murdered by the river-side. We must
make a tremendous example, and I trust you will help us to find
out the murderer. »
"Anything you please," answered the miller in his phlegmatic
way. “Only it will not be easy. "
The officer had stooped down to throw aside a flap of the
cloak that hid the dead man's face. Then a horrible wound
appeared.
The sentinel had been struck in the throat, and the
weapon was left in the wound. It was a kitchen knife with a
black handle.
Look at this knife," said the officer to old Merlier: per-
haps it may help us in our search. ”
The old man gave a start. But he recovered himself immedi-
ately, and answered, without moving a muscle of his face: -
« Everybody in these parts has knives like that. Maybe your
man was tired of fighting, and did the job himself. Such things
have been known to happen. "
“Shut up! » the officer cried furiously. "I don't know what
keeps me from setting fire to the four corners of the village. ”
His anger luckily prevented his noticing the profound change
that had come over Françoise's face. She had to sit down on
the stone bench near the wall. In spite of herself her eyes
never left that dead body, stretched on the ground almost at her
feet. He was a big, handsome fellow, who looked like Domi.
nique, with light hair and blue eyes. This resemblance made
her heart-sick. She thought of how the dead man had perhaps
left some sweetheart behind, who would weep for him over
there in Germany. And she recognized her knife in the dead
man's throat. She had killed him.
(
»
»
>
## p. 16317 (#671) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16317
an
« He
Meanwhile the officer talked of taking terrible measures
against Rocreuse, when some soldiers came up running. They
had only just noticed Dominique's escape. It occasioned
extreme agitation. The officer visited the premises, looked out
of the window, which had been left open, understood it all, and
came back exasperated.
Old Merlier seemed very much put out at Dominique's flight.
« The idiot! ” he muttered: "he spoils it all. ”
Françoise, who heard him, was seized with anguish. For the
rest her father did not suspect her complicity. He shook his
head, saying to her in an undertone: -
«Now we are in a fine scrape! ”
“It's that rascal! it's that rascal! » cried the officer.
must have reached the woods. But he must be found for us, or
the village shall pay for it. ”
And addressing the miller:-
“Come, you must know where he is hiding ? »
Old Merlier gave a noiseless chuckle, pointing to the wide
extent of wooded hillside.
“How do you expect to find a man in there ? ” said he.
“Oh, there must be holes in there that you know of. I will
give you ten men. You shall be their guide. ”
"All right. Only it will take us a week to beat all the woods
in the neighborhood. ”
The old man's coolness infuriated the officer. In fact, he
saw the ridiculousness of this battue. It was then that he caught
sight of Françoise, pale and trembling on the bench. The young
girl's anxious attitude struck him. He said nothing for an
instant, looking hard at the miller and Françoise by turns.
“Isn't this young man,” he at last brutally asked the old
man, “your daughter's lover ? »
Old Merlier turned livid; one would have thought him on the
point of throwing himself upon the officer and strangling him.
He drew himself up stiffly; he did not answer. Françoise put
her face between her hands.
“Yes, that's it,” the Prussian went on: "you or your daughter
have helped him to run away.
You are his accomplice. For the
last time, will you give him up to us ? »
The miller did not answer. He had turned away, looking off
into the distance, as if the officer had not been speaking to him.
(c
»
## p. 16318 (#672) ##########################################
16318
EMILE ZOLA
(
(
(
This put the last touch to the latter's anger.
“Very well,” he said: "you shall be shot instead. ”
And he once more ordered out the firing party. Old Merlier
still kept cool. He hardly gave a slight shrug of his shoulders:
this whole drama seemed to him in rather bad taste. No doubt
he did not believe that a man was to be shot with so little ado.
Then when the squad had come, he said gravely:-
« You're in earnest, then ? - All right. If you absolutely must
have some one, I shall do as well as another. ”
But Françoise sprang up, half crazed, stammering out:-
Mercy, monsieur! don't do any harm to my father.
Kill me
instead. It's I who helped Dominique to escape. I am the only
culprit. ”
“Be quiet, little girl,” cried old Merlier. .
«What are you
lying for? She spent the night locked up in her room, monsieur.
She lies, I assure you. "
“No, I am not lying," the young girl replied ardently. "I
climbed down out of the window; I urged Dominique to fly. It's
the truth, the only truth. ”
The old man turned very pale. He saw clearly in her eyes
that she was not lying; and the story appalled him. Ah! these
children with their hearts, how they spoiled everything! Then
he grew angry.
“She's crazy; don't believe her. She is telling you stupid
stories. Come, let's have done with it. ”
She tried to protest again. She knelt down, she clasped her
hands. The officer looked quietly on this heart-rending struggle.
“Good God! ” he said at last, “I take your father because I
haven't got the other one. Try and find the other one, and your
father shall go free. ”
For a moment she looked at him, her eyes staring wide at the
atrocity of this proposal.
"It's horrible,” she murmured. «Where do you expect me
to find Dominique at this time? He's gone; I don't know where
he is. ”
“Well, choose. Him or your father. ”
“O my God! how can I choose? But even if I knew where
Dominique was, I could not choose! It is my heart you are
breaking. I had rather die at once. Yes, it would be soonest
Kill me, I beg of you, kill me! ”
(
Over So.
## p. 16319 (#673) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16319
The officer at last grew impatient at this scene of despair
and tears. He cried out:
"I've had enough of this! I'm willing to be good-natured, -
I consent to give you two hours. If your sweetheart isn't here
in two hours, your father shall pay for him. ”
And he had old Merlier taken to the room which had been
used for Dominique's prison. The old man asked for some to-
bacco, and fell to smoking. No emotion was detected in his
impassive face. Only, when he was alone, two big tears ran
slowly down his cheeks. His poor, dear child, how she suffered!
Françoise had stayed in the middle of the court-yard. Some
Prussian soldiers passed by, laughing. Some of them called out
to her jokes which she did not understand. She stared at the
door through which her father had just disappeared. And with
a slow movement she raised her hand to her forehead, as if to
keep it from bursting. The officer turned on his heel repeating:
“You have two hours. Try to make good use of them. ”
She had two hours. This sentence kept buzzing in her head.
Then, mechanically, she went out of the court-yard, she walked
straight before her. Whither should she go? What should she
do? She did not even try to decide, because she felt convinced
of the uselessness of her efforts. Yet she would have liked to
find Dominique. They would have come to an understanding
together; they might perhaps have hit upon an expedient. And
amid the confusion of her thoughts, she went down to the
bank of the Morelle, which she crossed below the dam, at a place
where there were some large stones. Her feet led her under the
first willow, at the corner of the field. As she bent down she
saw a pool of blood that made her turn pale. That was clearly
the place. And she followed Dominique's tracks in the trod-
den grass: he must have run; a long line of strides was to be
seen cutting through the field cornerwise. Then, farther on, she
lost the tracks; but in a neighboring field she thought she found
them again. This brought her to the outskirts of the forest,
where all traces were wiped out.
Françoise plunged in under the trees, notwithstanding. It
was a relief to be alone. She sat down for a moment; then,
remembering her time was running out, she got up again. How
long was it since she had left the mill? Five minutes ? half an
hour?
She lost all consciousness of time. Perhaps Dominique had
gone and hidden in a copse she knew of, where one afternoon
## p. 16320 (#674) ##########################################
16320
ÉMILE ZOLA
they had eaten filberts together. She went to the copse and
searched it. Only a blackbird flew out, whistling its soft, melan-
choly tune. Then she thought he had taken refuge in a hol.
low in the rocks, where he sometimes used to lie in ambush for
game; but the hollow in the rocks was empty. What was the
use of looking for him ? she would not find him: and little by
little her desire to find him grew furious; she walked on faster.
The notion that he might have climbed up a tree suddenly
struck her. From that moment she pushed on with up-turned
eyes; and that he might know she was near, she called out to
him every fifteen or twenty steps. The cuckoos answered her;
.
;
a breath of air passing through the branches made her think
he was there, and was coming down. Once she even thought
she saw him; she stopped, choking, having a good mind to run
away. What would she say to him? Had she come, then, to
lead him away and have him shot ? Oh no, she would not
mention these things. She would cry out to him to escape, not
to stay in the neighborhood. Then the thought of her father
waiting for her gave her a sharp pang. She fell upon the turf,
weeping, repeating aloud: -
“My God, my God! why am I here ! »
She must have been crazy to come. And as if seized with
fright, she ran, she tried to find a way out of the forest. Three
times she took the wrong path; and she thought she could not
find the mill again, when she came out into a field just oppo-
site Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of the village, she
stopped. Was she going to return alone ?
As she stood there, a voice called to her softly:-
« Françoise! Françoise ! »
And she saw Dominique raising his head above the edge of
a ditch. Just God, she had found him! So Heaven wished his
death ? She held back a cry, she let herself slide down into the
ditch.
“You were looking for me ? ” he asked.
Yes,” she answered, her head buzzing, not knowing what she
said.
“Ah! what's going on? ”
She looked down; she stammered out:
“Why, nothing; I was anxious—I wanted to see you. "
Then, reassured, he told her that he had not wished to go
far. He feared for them. Those rascals of Prussians were just
(
»
## p. 16321 (#675) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16321
»
the sort to wreak vengeance upon women and old men. Then
all was going well; and he added, laughing:-
"Our wedding will be for this day week, that's all. ”
Then, as she was still overcome, he grew serious again.
« But what's the matter with you? You are keeping some-
thing from me. ”
“No, I swear to you. I ran to come
He kissed her, saying that it was imprudent for either of
them to talk any longer; and he wished to get back to the for-
est. She held him back. She was trembling.
“Listen: perhaps it would be as well for you to stay here,
all the same. Nobody is looking for you; you're not afraid of
anything. ”
“Françoise, you are keeping something from me,” he repeated.
Again she swore she was keeping nothing from him. Only
she had rather know he was near; and she stammered out other
reasons besides. She struck him as acting so queerly, that now
he himself would not have been willing to leave her. Besides,
he believed the French would return. Troops had been sent
over Sauval
way.
"Ah! let them be in a hurry; let them be here as soon as
possible! ” he muttered fervently.
At this moment the Rocreuse church clock struck eleven.
The strokes came clear and distinct. She sprang up in fright:
it was two hours since she had left the mill.
"Listen,” she said rapidly: “if we should need you, I will go
up to my room and wave my handkerchief. ”
And she left him, running; while Dominique, very anxious,
stretched himself out on the edge of the ditch, to keep his eye
on the mill. As she was just running into Rocreuse, Françoise
met an old beggar, old Bontemps, who knew the whole country.
He bowed to her: he had just seen the miller in the midst of
the Prussians; then crossing himself and mumbling some discon-
nected words, he went his way.
“The two hours are over,” said the officer, when Françoise
appeared.
Old Merlier was there, sitting on the bench by the well. He
was still smoking. The young girl once more implored, wept,
fell upon her knees. She wished to gain time. The hope of
seeing the French return had grown in her; and while bewailing
her fate, she thought she heard the measured tread of an army.
Oh! if they had come, if they had delivered them all!
XXVII-TO2I
## p. 16322 (#676) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16322
"Listen, monsieur, one hour, one hour more! You can surely
grant me one hour! »
But the officer was still inflexible. He even ordered two men
to take her in charge and lead her away, that they might pro-
ceed quietly with the old man's execution. Then a frightful con-
flict went on in Françoise's heart. She could not let her father
be thus murdered. No, no, she would die with Dominique first;
and she was bounding toward her room, when Dominique himself
walked into the court-yard.
The officer and soldiers gave a shout of triumph. But he, as
if no one but Françoise had been there, stepped up to her qui-
etly, a little sternly.
“That was wrong,” said he. "Why didn't you bring me back
with you ? Old Bontemps had to tell me everything. After all,
here I am. ”
V
IT WAS three o'clock. Great black clouds had slowly filled
the sky, the tail of some not distant thunder-storm.
This yellow
sky, these copper-colored rags, changed the valley of Rocreuse,
so cheerful in the sunshine, to a cut-throat den, full of suspicious
shadows. The Prussian officer had been content to have Domi-
nique locked up, without saying anything about what fate he had
in store for him. Ever since noon, Françoise had been a prey
to infernal anguish. She would not leave the court-yard, in
spite of her father's urging. She was waiting for the French.
But the hours passed by, night was at hand, and she suffered
the more keenly that all this time gained did not seem likely to
change the frightful catastrophe.
Nevertheless at about three, the Prussians made preparations
to go. A minute before, the officer had closeted himself with
Dominique, as on the preceding day. Françoise saw that the
young man's life was being decided on. Then she clasped her
hands and prayed. Old Merlier, beside her, maintained his mute
and rigid attitude of an old peasant who does not struggle with
the fatality of facts.
“O my God! ( my God! ” said Françoise brokenly, they are
going to kill him! »
The miller drew her close to him and took her upon his knee,
like a child.
Just then the officer came out; while behind him, two men led
Dominique.
## p. 16323 (#677) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16323
»
Never, never! ” cried the latter, "I am ready to die. ”
« Think of it well,” replied the officer. « This service that
you refuse us will be done for us by another.
I offer you your
life; I am generous. It is only to be our guide to Montredom,
through the woods. There must be paths. ”
Dominique made no answer.
“Then you are still obstinate ? »
“Kill me, and let us have done with it,” he answered.
Françoise, with hands clasped, implored him from across the
yard. She had forgotten all; she would have urged him to some
piece of cowardice. But old Merlier grasped her hands, that the
Prussians might not see her delirious gesture.
"He is right,” he murmured: “it's better to die. ”
The firing party was there. The officer was waiting for a
moment of weakness on Dominique's part. He still counted on
winning him over. There was a dead silence. From the dis-
tance were heard violent claps of thunder. A sultry heat weighed
upon the country; and in the midst of this silence a shriek burst
forth:
« The French! the French ! »
It was really they. On the Sauval road, on the outskirts of
the wood, you could make out the line of red trousers. Inside
the mill there was an extraordinary hubbub. The Prussian sol-
diers ran about with guttural exclamations. For the rest, not a
shot had been fired yet.
« The French! the French! ” screamed Françoise, clapping her
hands.
She was like mad. She had broken loose from her father's
embrace, and she laughed, her arms waving in the air. At last
they were coming, and they had come in time, since Dominique
was still there, erect!
A terrible firing that burst upon her ears like a thunder-
stroke made her turn round. The officer had just muttered:
« First of all, let us finish this job. ”
And pushing Dominique up against the wall of a shed with
his own hands, he had ordered, “Fire! » When Françoise turned
round, Dominique was lying on the ground, his breast pierced
with twelve bullets.
She did not weep; she stood there in a stupor. Her eyes
were fixed, and she went and sat down under the shed, a few
steps from the body. She looked at it; at moments she made a
>
## p. 16324 (#678) ##########################################
16324
ÉMILE ZOLA
vague and childlike movement with her hand. The Prussians
had laid hold of old Merlier as a hostage.
It was a fine fight. Rapidly the officer stationed his men,
recognizing that he could not beat a retreat without being over-
powered. It was as well
It was as well to sell his life dearly. Now it was the
Prussians who defended the mill, and the French that made the
attack. The firing began with unheard-of violence. For half an
hour it did not stop. Then a dull explosion was heard, and a
shot broke off one of the main branches of the hundred-year-old
elm. The French had cannon. A battery drawn up just above
the ditch in which Dominique had hidden, swept the main street
of Rocreuse. From this moment the struggle could not last long.
Ah! the poor mill! Shot pierced it through and through.
Half the roofing was carried away. Two walls crumbled. But
it was, above all, on the side toward the Morelle that the ruin
done was piteous. The ivy, torn from the shattered walls, hung
in rags; the river swept away débris of every sort; and through
a breach you could see Françoise's room, with her bed, the white
curtains of which were carefully drawn. Shot upon shot, the old
wheel received two cannon-balls, and gave one last groan: the
paddles were washed away by the current, the carcass collapsed.
The mill had breathed out its soul.
Then the French stormed the place. There was a furious
fight with side-arms. Beneath the rust-colored sky, the cut-throat
hollow of the valley was filled with slain. The broad meadows
looked grim, their rows of poplars streaking them with shadows.
To the right and left, the forests were like the walls of a circus,
shutting in the combatants; while the springs, the fountains, the
running waters, gave forth sounds of sobbing, amid the panic of
the country-side.
Under the shed, Françoise had not stirred, crouched down
opposite Dominique's body. Old Merlier was killed outright by
a spent bullet. Then when the Prussians had been annihilated,
and the mill was burning, the French captain was the first man
to enter the court-yard. From the beginning of the campaign it
was the only success he had won. And all aglow, drawing up
his tall figure to its full height, he laughed with his gracious air
of a fine cavalier. And seeing Françoise, imbecile, between the
dead bodies of her husband and father, amidst the smoking ruins
of the mill, he gallantly saluted her with his sword, crying out:-
“Victory! Victory! ”
## p. 16325 (#679) ##########################################
16325
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
(1817-1893)
-
LTHOUGH the golden period of Spanish literature lies in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it would be a mistake
to suppose that modern Spain is deficient in literature. On
the contrary, the recent and present activity is vigorous and product-
ive. Especially is this true since 1876, when the Carlist wars ended,
and society entered upon an era of progress and prosperity. The
.
dominant literary form that has developed under these improved con-
ditions is that of fiction, which is true of Spain in common with
all other modern nations in which letters are cultivated. The novel,
both in its popular appeal to the public and in the talent it com-
mands, is a form which throws history and the essay, poetry and the
drama, into comparative insignificance. Zola hardly exaggerated when
he said the novel was modern literature. In Spain, such novelists
as Alarcón, Valera, Valdés, Galdós, De Pereda, and Bazán, overmatch
in prominence and power any writers representing other divisions
of literature, and have an international importance.
Nevertheless, writers of great ability and wide reputation, particu-
larly in the fields of history and criticism, exist. The historical writ-
ings of the eminent politicians Castelar and Cánovas, the criticism of
Menéndez, the poetry of Ventura de la Vega, Nuñez de Arce, Selgas,
Campoamor, and Zorrilla, need no apology, and are familiar and hon-
ored in their own country. In the group of poets, Zorrilla occupies
a conspicuous place as a singer of Spain's departed grandeur. He
belongs with the conservatives rather than with the liberals of liter-
ature. He prefers to hark back to bygone glories and invoke the
spirit of his ancestors. In this sense he may be said to be reaction-
ary. But his influence is altogether noble and high. It is natural
that one who has studied and reproduced the old legends so faith-
fully should sing as a man
((
“Mourning the worship of more Christian years. ”
José Zorrilla y Moral first came into reputation in a dramatic
way. The brilliant Madrid journalist and poet Larra committed sui-
cide in 1837 under romantic circumstances; and at his funeral Zorrilla,
newly come to the city and quite unknown to fame, read some verses
which at once set him in the public eye. This dirge remains one
## p.
stay here a minute longer. ”
Then she promised to climb back to her room. They would
not know that she had helped him. She at last took him in her
arms, kissed him to convince him, in an extraordinary outburst of
passion. He was beaten. He asked not a question further.
Swear to me that your father knows of what you are doing,
and that he advises me to run away. ”
"It was my father sent me,” Françoise answered boldly.
(
»
»
»
(
»
## p. 16315 (#669) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16315
She lied. At this moment she felt nothing but a boundless
need of knowing him in safety, of escaping from this abominable
thought that the sun would give the signal for his death. When
he was gone, all mishaps might rush down upon her; it would
seem sweet to her as long as he was alive. The selfishness of
her love wished him alive before all else.
“Very well,” said Dominique: "I will do as you prefer. ”
Then they said nothing more. Dominique went to open the
window again; but suddenly a noise chilled their blood.
door was shaken, and they thought it was being opened. Evi-
dently a patrol had heard their voices; and both of them, stand-
ing pressed against each other, waited in an unspeakable anguish.
Each gave a stifled sigh; they saw how it was,- it must have
been the soldier lying across the threshold turning over. And
really, silence was restored; the snoring began again.
Dominique would have it that Françoise must first climb back
to her room. He took her in his arms; he bade her a mute fare-
well. Then he helped her to seize the ladder, and grappled
hold of it in his turn. But he refused to go down a single
rung before he knew she was in her room. When Françoise had
climbed in, she whispered, in a voice as light as breath:-
"Au revoir; I love you! ”
She stopped with her elbows resting on the window-sill, and
tried to follow Dominique with her eyes. The night was still
She looked for the sentinel, and did not see him;
only the willow made a pale spot in the midst of the darkness.
For an instant she heard the rustling of Dominique's body along
the ivy. Then the wheel creaked, and there was a gentle plash-
ing that told that the young man had found the boat. A minute
later, in fact, she made out the dark outline of a boat on the
gray sheet of the Morelle.
Then anguish stopped her breath.
At every moment she thought to hear the sentinel's cry of
alarm. The faintest sounds, scattered through the darkness,
seemed to be the hurried tread of soldiers, the clatter of arms,
the click of the hammers of their rifles. Yet seconds elapsed; the
country slept in a sovereign peace. Dominique must have been
landing on the other bank. Françoise saw nothing more. The
stillness was majestic. And she heard a noise of scuffling feet,
a hoarse cry, the dull thud of a falling body. Then the silence
grew deeper; and as if she had felt death passing by, she waited
on, all cold, face to face with the pitch-dark night.
>
very dark.
## p. 16316 (#670) ##########################################
16316
ÉMILE ZOLA
IV
»
AT DAYBREAK, shouting voices shook the mill. Old Merlier
had come down to open Françoise's door. She came down
into the court-yard, pale and very calm.
But there she gave a
shudder before the dead body of a Prussian soldier, which was
stretched out near the well, on a cloak spread on the ground.
Around the body, soldiers were gesticulating, crying aloud
in fury. Many of them shook their fists at the village. Mean-
while the officer had had old Merlier called, as mayor of the
township.
“ «See here,” said he, in a voice choking with rage, here's one
«
of our men who has been murdered by the river-side. We must
make a tremendous example, and I trust you will help us to find
out the murderer. »
"Anything you please," answered the miller in his phlegmatic
way. “Only it will not be easy. "
The officer had stooped down to throw aside a flap of the
cloak that hid the dead man's face. Then a horrible wound
appeared.
The sentinel had been struck in the throat, and the
weapon was left in the wound. It was a kitchen knife with a
black handle.
Look at this knife," said the officer to old Merlier: per-
haps it may help us in our search. ”
The old man gave a start. But he recovered himself immedi-
ately, and answered, without moving a muscle of his face: -
« Everybody in these parts has knives like that. Maybe your
man was tired of fighting, and did the job himself. Such things
have been known to happen. "
“Shut up! » the officer cried furiously. "I don't know what
keeps me from setting fire to the four corners of the village. ”
His anger luckily prevented his noticing the profound change
that had come over Françoise's face. She had to sit down on
the stone bench near the wall. In spite of herself her eyes
never left that dead body, stretched on the ground almost at her
feet. He was a big, handsome fellow, who looked like Domi.
nique, with light hair and blue eyes. This resemblance made
her heart-sick. She thought of how the dead man had perhaps
left some sweetheart behind, who would weep for him over
there in Germany. And she recognized her knife in the dead
man's throat. She had killed him.
(
»
»
>
## p. 16317 (#671) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16317
an
« He
Meanwhile the officer talked of taking terrible measures
against Rocreuse, when some soldiers came up running. They
had only just noticed Dominique's escape. It occasioned
extreme agitation. The officer visited the premises, looked out
of the window, which had been left open, understood it all, and
came back exasperated.
Old Merlier seemed very much put out at Dominique's flight.
« The idiot! ” he muttered: "he spoils it all. ”
Françoise, who heard him, was seized with anguish. For the
rest her father did not suspect her complicity. He shook his
head, saying to her in an undertone: -
«Now we are in a fine scrape! ”
“It's that rascal! it's that rascal! » cried the officer.
must have reached the woods. But he must be found for us, or
the village shall pay for it. ”
And addressing the miller:-
“Come, you must know where he is hiding ? »
Old Merlier gave a noiseless chuckle, pointing to the wide
extent of wooded hillside.
“How do you expect to find a man in there ? ” said he.
“Oh, there must be holes in there that you know of. I will
give you ten men. You shall be their guide. ”
"All right. Only it will take us a week to beat all the woods
in the neighborhood. ”
The old man's coolness infuriated the officer. In fact, he
saw the ridiculousness of this battue. It was then that he caught
sight of Françoise, pale and trembling on the bench. The young
girl's anxious attitude struck him. He said nothing for an
instant, looking hard at the miller and Françoise by turns.
“Isn't this young man,” he at last brutally asked the old
man, “your daughter's lover ? »
Old Merlier turned livid; one would have thought him on the
point of throwing himself upon the officer and strangling him.
He drew himself up stiffly; he did not answer. Françoise put
her face between her hands.
“Yes, that's it,” the Prussian went on: "you or your daughter
have helped him to run away.
You are his accomplice. For the
last time, will you give him up to us ? »
The miller did not answer. He had turned away, looking off
into the distance, as if the officer had not been speaking to him.
(c
»
## p. 16318 (#672) ##########################################
16318
EMILE ZOLA
(
(
(
This put the last touch to the latter's anger.
“Very well,” he said: "you shall be shot instead. ”
And he once more ordered out the firing party. Old Merlier
still kept cool. He hardly gave a slight shrug of his shoulders:
this whole drama seemed to him in rather bad taste. No doubt
he did not believe that a man was to be shot with so little ado.
Then when the squad had come, he said gravely:-
« You're in earnest, then ? - All right. If you absolutely must
have some one, I shall do as well as another. ”
But Françoise sprang up, half crazed, stammering out:-
Mercy, monsieur! don't do any harm to my father.
Kill me
instead. It's I who helped Dominique to escape. I am the only
culprit. ”
“Be quiet, little girl,” cried old Merlier. .
«What are you
lying for? She spent the night locked up in her room, monsieur.
She lies, I assure you. "
“No, I am not lying," the young girl replied ardently. "I
climbed down out of the window; I urged Dominique to fly. It's
the truth, the only truth. ”
The old man turned very pale. He saw clearly in her eyes
that she was not lying; and the story appalled him. Ah! these
children with their hearts, how they spoiled everything! Then
he grew angry.
“She's crazy; don't believe her. She is telling you stupid
stories. Come, let's have done with it. ”
She tried to protest again. She knelt down, she clasped her
hands. The officer looked quietly on this heart-rending struggle.
“Good God! ” he said at last, “I take your father because I
haven't got the other one. Try and find the other one, and your
father shall go free. ”
For a moment she looked at him, her eyes staring wide at the
atrocity of this proposal.
"It's horrible,” she murmured. «Where do you expect me
to find Dominique at this time? He's gone; I don't know where
he is. ”
“Well, choose. Him or your father. ”
“O my God! how can I choose? But even if I knew where
Dominique was, I could not choose! It is my heart you are
breaking. I had rather die at once. Yes, it would be soonest
Kill me, I beg of you, kill me! ”
(
Over So.
## p. 16319 (#673) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16319
The officer at last grew impatient at this scene of despair
and tears. He cried out:
"I've had enough of this! I'm willing to be good-natured, -
I consent to give you two hours. If your sweetheart isn't here
in two hours, your father shall pay for him. ”
And he had old Merlier taken to the room which had been
used for Dominique's prison. The old man asked for some to-
bacco, and fell to smoking. No emotion was detected in his
impassive face. Only, when he was alone, two big tears ran
slowly down his cheeks. His poor, dear child, how she suffered!
Françoise had stayed in the middle of the court-yard. Some
Prussian soldiers passed by, laughing. Some of them called out
to her jokes which she did not understand. She stared at the
door through which her father had just disappeared. And with
a slow movement she raised her hand to her forehead, as if to
keep it from bursting. The officer turned on his heel repeating:
“You have two hours. Try to make good use of them. ”
She had two hours. This sentence kept buzzing in her head.
Then, mechanically, she went out of the court-yard, she walked
straight before her. Whither should she go? What should she
do? She did not even try to decide, because she felt convinced
of the uselessness of her efforts. Yet she would have liked to
find Dominique. They would have come to an understanding
together; they might perhaps have hit upon an expedient. And
amid the confusion of her thoughts, she went down to the
bank of the Morelle, which she crossed below the dam, at a place
where there were some large stones. Her feet led her under the
first willow, at the corner of the field. As she bent down she
saw a pool of blood that made her turn pale. That was clearly
the place. And she followed Dominique's tracks in the trod-
den grass: he must have run; a long line of strides was to be
seen cutting through the field cornerwise. Then, farther on, she
lost the tracks; but in a neighboring field she thought she found
them again. This brought her to the outskirts of the forest,
where all traces were wiped out.
Françoise plunged in under the trees, notwithstanding. It
was a relief to be alone. She sat down for a moment; then,
remembering her time was running out, she got up again. How
long was it since she had left the mill? Five minutes ? half an
hour?
She lost all consciousness of time. Perhaps Dominique had
gone and hidden in a copse she knew of, where one afternoon
## p. 16320 (#674) ##########################################
16320
ÉMILE ZOLA
they had eaten filberts together. She went to the copse and
searched it. Only a blackbird flew out, whistling its soft, melan-
choly tune. Then she thought he had taken refuge in a hol.
low in the rocks, where he sometimes used to lie in ambush for
game; but the hollow in the rocks was empty. What was the
use of looking for him ? she would not find him: and little by
little her desire to find him grew furious; she walked on faster.
The notion that he might have climbed up a tree suddenly
struck her. From that moment she pushed on with up-turned
eyes; and that he might know she was near, she called out to
him every fifteen or twenty steps. The cuckoos answered her;
.
;
a breath of air passing through the branches made her think
he was there, and was coming down. Once she even thought
she saw him; she stopped, choking, having a good mind to run
away. What would she say to him? Had she come, then, to
lead him away and have him shot ? Oh no, she would not
mention these things. She would cry out to him to escape, not
to stay in the neighborhood. Then the thought of her father
waiting for her gave her a sharp pang. She fell upon the turf,
weeping, repeating aloud: -
“My God, my God! why am I here ! »
She must have been crazy to come. And as if seized with
fright, she ran, she tried to find a way out of the forest. Three
times she took the wrong path; and she thought she could not
find the mill again, when she came out into a field just oppo-
site Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of the village, she
stopped. Was she going to return alone ?
As she stood there, a voice called to her softly:-
« Françoise! Françoise ! »
And she saw Dominique raising his head above the edge of
a ditch. Just God, she had found him! So Heaven wished his
death ? She held back a cry, she let herself slide down into the
ditch.
“You were looking for me ? ” he asked.
Yes,” she answered, her head buzzing, not knowing what she
said.
“Ah! what's going on? ”
She looked down; she stammered out:
“Why, nothing; I was anxious—I wanted to see you. "
Then, reassured, he told her that he had not wished to go
far. He feared for them. Those rascals of Prussians were just
(
»
## p. 16321 (#675) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16321
»
the sort to wreak vengeance upon women and old men. Then
all was going well; and he added, laughing:-
"Our wedding will be for this day week, that's all. ”
Then, as she was still overcome, he grew serious again.
« But what's the matter with you? You are keeping some-
thing from me. ”
“No, I swear to you. I ran to come
He kissed her, saying that it was imprudent for either of
them to talk any longer; and he wished to get back to the for-
est. She held him back. She was trembling.
“Listen: perhaps it would be as well for you to stay here,
all the same. Nobody is looking for you; you're not afraid of
anything. ”
“Françoise, you are keeping something from me,” he repeated.
Again she swore she was keeping nothing from him. Only
she had rather know he was near; and she stammered out other
reasons besides. She struck him as acting so queerly, that now
he himself would not have been willing to leave her. Besides,
he believed the French would return. Troops had been sent
over Sauval
way.
"Ah! let them be in a hurry; let them be here as soon as
possible! ” he muttered fervently.
At this moment the Rocreuse church clock struck eleven.
The strokes came clear and distinct. She sprang up in fright:
it was two hours since she had left the mill.
"Listen,” she said rapidly: “if we should need you, I will go
up to my room and wave my handkerchief. ”
And she left him, running; while Dominique, very anxious,
stretched himself out on the edge of the ditch, to keep his eye
on the mill. As she was just running into Rocreuse, Françoise
met an old beggar, old Bontemps, who knew the whole country.
He bowed to her: he had just seen the miller in the midst of
the Prussians; then crossing himself and mumbling some discon-
nected words, he went his way.
“The two hours are over,” said the officer, when Françoise
appeared.
Old Merlier was there, sitting on the bench by the well. He
was still smoking. The young girl once more implored, wept,
fell upon her knees. She wished to gain time. The hope of
seeing the French return had grown in her; and while bewailing
her fate, she thought she heard the measured tread of an army.
Oh! if they had come, if they had delivered them all!
XXVII-TO2I
## p. 16322 (#676) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16322
"Listen, monsieur, one hour, one hour more! You can surely
grant me one hour! »
But the officer was still inflexible. He even ordered two men
to take her in charge and lead her away, that they might pro-
ceed quietly with the old man's execution. Then a frightful con-
flict went on in Françoise's heart. She could not let her father
be thus murdered. No, no, she would die with Dominique first;
and she was bounding toward her room, when Dominique himself
walked into the court-yard.
The officer and soldiers gave a shout of triumph. But he, as
if no one but Françoise had been there, stepped up to her qui-
etly, a little sternly.
“That was wrong,” said he. "Why didn't you bring me back
with you ? Old Bontemps had to tell me everything. After all,
here I am. ”
V
IT WAS three o'clock. Great black clouds had slowly filled
the sky, the tail of some not distant thunder-storm.
This yellow
sky, these copper-colored rags, changed the valley of Rocreuse,
so cheerful in the sunshine, to a cut-throat den, full of suspicious
shadows. The Prussian officer had been content to have Domi-
nique locked up, without saying anything about what fate he had
in store for him. Ever since noon, Françoise had been a prey
to infernal anguish. She would not leave the court-yard, in
spite of her father's urging. She was waiting for the French.
But the hours passed by, night was at hand, and she suffered
the more keenly that all this time gained did not seem likely to
change the frightful catastrophe.
Nevertheless at about three, the Prussians made preparations
to go. A minute before, the officer had closeted himself with
Dominique, as on the preceding day. Françoise saw that the
young man's life was being decided on. Then she clasped her
hands and prayed. Old Merlier, beside her, maintained his mute
and rigid attitude of an old peasant who does not struggle with
the fatality of facts.
“O my God! ( my God! ” said Françoise brokenly, they are
going to kill him! »
The miller drew her close to him and took her upon his knee,
like a child.
Just then the officer came out; while behind him, two men led
Dominique.
## p. 16323 (#677) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16323
»
Never, never! ” cried the latter, "I am ready to die. ”
« Think of it well,” replied the officer. « This service that
you refuse us will be done for us by another.
I offer you your
life; I am generous. It is only to be our guide to Montredom,
through the woods. There must be paths. ”
Dominique made no answer.
“Then you are still obstinate ? »
“Kill me, and let us have done with it,” he answered.
Françoise, with hands clasped, implored him from across the
yard. She had forgotten all; she would have urged him to some
piece of cowardice. But old Merlier grasped her hands, that the
Prussians might not see her delirious gesture.
"He is right,” he murmured: “it's better to die. ”
The firing party was there. The officer was waiting for a
moment of weakness on Dominique's part. He still counted on
winning him over. There was a dead silence. From the dis-
tance were heard violent claps of thunder. A sultry heat weighed
upon the country; and in the midst of this silence a shriek burst
forth:
« The French! the French ! »
It was really they. On the Sauval road, on the outskirts of
the wood, you could make out the line of red trousers. Inside
the mill there was an extraordinary hubbub. The Prussian sol-
diers ran about with guttural exclamations. For the rest, not a
shot had been fired yet.
« The French! the French! ” screamed Françoise, clapping her
hands.
She was like mad. She had broken loose from her father's
embrace, and she laughed, her arms waving in the air. At last
they were coming, and they had come in time, since Dominique
was still there, erect!
A terrible firing that burst upon her ears like a thunder-
stroke made her turn round. The officer had just muttered:
« First of all, let us finish this job. ”
And pushing Dominique up against the wall of a shed with
his own hands, he had ordered, “Fire! » When Françoise turned
round, Dominique was lying on the ground, his breast pierced
with twelve bullets.
She did not weep; she stood there in a stupor. Her eyes
were fixed, and she went and sat down under the shed, a few
steps from the body. She looked at it; at moments she made a
>
## p. 16324 (#678) ##########################################
16324
ÉMILE ZOLA
vague and childlike movement with her hand. The Prussians
had laid hold of old Merlier as a hostage.
It was a fine fight. Rapidly the officer stationed his men,
recognizing that he could not beat a retreat without being over-
powered. It was as well
It was as well to sell his life dearly. Now it was the
Prussians who defended the mill, and the French that made the
attack. The firing began with unheard-of violence. For half an
hour it did not stop. Then a dull explosion was heard, and a
shot broke off one of the main branches of the hundred-year-old
elm. The French had cannon. A battery drawn up just above
the ditch in which Dominique had hidden, swept the main street
of Rocreuse. From this moment the struggle could not last long.
Ah! the poor mill! Shot pierced it through and through.
Half the roofing was carried away. Two walls crumbled. But
it was, above all, on the side toward the Morelle that the ruin
done was piteous. The ivy, torn from the shattered walls, hung
in rags; the river swept away débris of every sort; and through
a breach you could see Françoise's room, with her bed, the white
curtains of which were carefully drawn. Shot upon shot, the old
wheel received two cannon-balls, and gave one last groan: the
paddles were washed away by the current, the carcass collapsed.
The mill had breathed out its soul.
Then the French stormed the place. There was a furious
fight with side-arms. Beneath the rust-colored sky, the cut-throat
hollow of the valley was filled with slain. The broad meadows
looked grim, their rows of poplars streaking them with shadows.
To the right and left, the forests were like the walls of a circus,
shutting in the combatants; while the springs, the fountains, the
running waters, gave forth sounds of sobbing, amid the panic of
the country-side.
Under the shed, Françoise had not stirred, crouched down
opposite Dominique's body. Old Merlier was killed outright by
a spent bullet. Then when the Prussians had been annihilated,
and the mill was burning, the French captain was the first man
to enter the court-yard. From the beginning of the campaign it
was the only success he had won. And all aglow, drawing up
his tall figure to its full height, he laughed with his gracious air
of a fine cavalier. And seeing Françoise, imbecile, between the
dead bodies of her husband and father, amidst the smoking ruins
of the mill, he gallantly saluted her with his sword, crying out:-
“Victory! Victory! ”
## p. 16325 (#679) ##########################################
16325
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
(1817-1893)
-
LTHOUGH the golden period of Spanish literature lies in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it would be a mistake
to suppose that modern Spain is deficient in literature. On
the contrary, the recent and present activity is vigorous and product-
ive. Especially is this true since 1876, when the Carlist wars ended,
and society entered upon an era of progress and prosperity. The
.
dominant literary form that has developed under these improved con-
ditions is that of fiction, which is true of Spain in common with
all other modern nations in which letters are cultivated. The novel,
both in its popular appeal to the public and in the talent it com-
mands, is a form which throws history and the essay, poetry and the
drama, into comparative insignificance. Zola hardly exaggerated when
he said the novel was modern literature. In Spain, such novelists
as Alarcón, Valera, Valdés, Galdós, De Pereda, and Bazán, overmatch
in prominence and power any writers representing other divisions
of literature, and have an international importance.
Nevertheless, writers of great ability and wide reputation, particu-
larly in the fields of history and criticism, exist. The historical writ-
ings of the eminent politicians Castelar and Cánovas, the criticism of
Menéndez, the poetry of Ventura de la Vega, Nuñez de Arce, Selgas,
Campoamor, and Zorrilla, need no apology, and are familiar and hon-
ored in their own country. In the group of poets, Zorrilla occupies
a conspicuous place as a singer of Spain's departed grandeur. He
belongs with the conservatives rather than with the liberals of liter-
ature. He prefers to hark back to bygone glories and invoke the
spirit of his ancestors. In this sense he may be said to be reaction-
ary. But his influence is altogether noble and high. It is natural
that one who has studied and reproduced the old legends so faith-
fully should sing as a man
((
“Mourning the worship of more Christian years. ”
José Zorrilla y Moral first came into reputation in a dramatic
way. The brilliant Madrid journalist and poet Larra committed sui-
cide in 1837 under romantic circumstances; and at his funeral Zorrilla,
newly come to the city and quite unknown to fame, read some verses
which at once set him in the public eye. This dirge remains one
## p.
