Kabanata Kabanata 18 · 第14章（5）

* * * * *

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

"The Comtesse Samoris."

"That lady in black over there?"

"The very one. She's wearing mourning for her daughter, whom she

killed."

"Come now! You don't mean that seriously?"

"Oh! it is a very simple story, without any crime in it, any violence."

"Then what really happened?"

"Almost nothing. Many courtesans were born to be virtuous women, they

say; and many women called virtuous were born to be courtesans--is that

not so? Now, Madame Samoris, who was born a courtesan, had a daughter

born a virtuous woman, that's all."

"I don't quite understand you."

"I'll explain what I mean. The Comtesse Samoris is one of those tinsel

foreign women hundreds of whom are rained down every year on Paris. A

Hungarian or Wallachian countess, or I know not what, she appeared one

winter in apartments she had taken in the Champs Elysees, that quarter

for adventurers and adventuresses, and opened her drawing-room to the

first comer or to anyone that turned up.

"I went there. Why? you will say. I really can't tell you. I went there,

as everyone goes to such places because the women are facile and the men

are dishonest. You know that set composed of filibusters with varied

decorations, all noble, all titled, all unknown at the embassies, with

the exception of those who are spies. All talk of their honor without

the slightest occasion for doing so, boast of their ancestors, tell you

about their lives, braggarts, liars, sharpers, as dangerous as the false

cards they have up their sleeves, as delusive as their name--in short,

the aristocracy of the bagnio.

"I adore these people. They are interesting to study, interesting to

know, amusing to understand, often clever, never commonplace like public

functionaries. Their wives are always pretty, with a slight flavor of

foreign roguery, with the mystery of their existence, half of it perhaps

spent in a house of correction. They have, as a rule, magnificent eyes

and incredible hair. I adore them also.

"Madame Samoris is the type of these adventuresses, elegant, mature, and

still beautiful. Charming feline creatures, you feel that they are

vicious to the marrow of their bones. You find them very amusing when

you visit them; they give card-parties; they have dances and suppers; in

short, they offer you all the pleasures of social life.

"And she had a daughter--a tall, fine-looking girl, always ready for

entertainments, always full of laughter and reckless gayety--a true

adventuress's daughter--but, at the same time, an innocent,

unsophisticated, artless girl, who saw nothing, knew nothing, understood

nothing of all the things that happened in her father's house."

"How do you know about him?"

"How do I know? That's the funniest part of the business! One morning,

there was a ring at my door, and my valet came up to tell me that M.

Joseph Bonenthal wanted to speak to me. I said directly: 'And who is

this gentleman?' My valet replied: 'I don't know, monsieur; perhaps

'tis someone that wants employment.' And so it was. The man wanted me to

take him as a servant. I asked him where he had been last. He answered:

'With the Comtesse Samoris.' 'Ah!' said I, 'but my house is not a bit

like hers.' 'I know that well, monsieur,' he said, 'and that's the very

reason I want to take service with monsieur. I've had enough of these

people: a man may stay a little while with them, but he won't remain

long with them.' I required an additional man servant at the time, and

so I took him.

"A month later, Mademoiselle Yveline Samoris died mysteriously, and here

are all the details of her death I could gather from Joseph, who got

them from his sweetheart, the Comtesse's chambermaid:

"It was a ball-night, and two newly-arrived guests were chatting behind

a door. Mademoiselle Yveline, who had just been dancing, leaned against

this door to get a little air.

"They did not see her approaching; but she heard what they were saying.

And this was what they said:

"'But who is the father of the girl?'

"'A Russian, it appears, Count Rouvaloff. He never comes near the mother

now.'

"'And who is the reigning prince to-day?'

"'That English prince standing near the window; Madame Samoris adores

him. But her adoration of anyone never lasts longer than a month or six

weeks. Nevertheless, as you see, she has a large circle of admirers. All

are called--and nearly all are chosen. That kind of thing costs a good

deal, but--hang it, what can you expect?'

"'And where did she get this name of Samoris?'

"'From the only man perhaps that she ever loved--a Jewish banker from

Berlin who goes by the name of Samuel Morris.'

"'Good. Thanks. Now that I know all about her, and see her sort, I'm

off!'

"What a start there was in the brain of the young girl endowed with all

the instincts of a virtuous woman! What despair overwhelmed that simple

soul! What mental tortures quenched her endless gayety, her delightful

laughter, her exulting satisfaction with life! What a conflict took

place in that youthful heart up to the moment when the last guest had

left! Those were things that Joseph could not tell me. But, the same

night, Yveline abruptly entered her mother's room just as the Comtesse

was getting into bed, sent out the waiting-maid, who was close to the

door, and, standing erect and pale, and with great staring eyes, she

said:

"'Mamma, listen to what I heard a little while ago during the ball.'

"And she repeated word for word the conversation just as I told it to

you.

"The Comtesse was so stupefied that she did not know what to say in

reply, at first. When she recovered her self-possession, she denied

everything, and called God to witness that there was no truth in the

story.

"The young girl went away, distracted but not convinced. And she watched

her mother.

"I remember distinctly the strange alteration that then took place in

her. She was always grave and melancholy. She used to fix on us her

great earnest eyes as if she wanted to read what was at the bottom of

our hearts. We did not know what to think of her, and we used to

maintain that she was looking out for a husband.

"One evening her doubts were dispelled. She caught her mother with a

lover. Thereupon she said coldly, like a man of business laying down the

terms of an agreement:

"'Here is what I have determined to do, mamma: We will both go away to

some little town--or rather into the country. We will live there quietly

as well as we can. Your jewelry alone may be called a fortune. If you

wish to marry some honest man, so much the better; still better will it

be if I can find one. If you don't consent to do this, I will kill

myself.'

"This time, the Comtesse ordered her daughter to go to bed, and never to

administer again this lecture so unbecoming in the mouth of a child

towards her mother.

"Yveline's answer to this was: 'I give you a month to reflect. If, at

the end of that month, we have not changed our way of living, I will

kill myself, since there is no other honorable issue left to my life.'

"Then she took herself off.

"At the end of a month, the Comtesse Samoris was giving balls and

suppers just the same as ever. Yveline then, under the pretext that she

had a bad toothache purchased a few drops of chloroform from a

neighboring chemist. The next day she purchased more; and, every time

she went out, she managed to procure small doses of the narcotic. She

filled a bottle with it.

"One morning she was found in bed, lifeless, and already quite cold,

with a cotton mask over her face.

"Her coffin was covered with flowers, the church was hung in white.

There was a large crowd at the funeral ceremony.

"Ah! well, if I had known--but you never can know--I would have married

that girl, for she was infernally pretty."

"And what became of the mother?"

"Oh! she shed a lot of tears over it. She has only begun to receive

visits again for the past week."

"And what explanation is given of the girl's death?"

"Oh! 'tis pretended that it was an accident caused by a new stove, the

mechanism of which got out of order. As a good many such accidents have

happened, the thing looks probable enough."

* * * * *

A PASSION

The sea was brilliant and unruffled, scarcely stirred, and on the pier

the entire town of Havre watched the ships as they came on.

They could be seen at a distance, in great numbers; some of them, the

steamers, with plumes of smoke; the others, the sailing vessels, drawn

by almost invisible tugs, lifting towards the sky their bare masts, like

leafless trees.

They hurried from every end of the horizon towards the narrow mouth of

the jetty which devoured these monsters; and they groaned, they

shrieked, they hissed while they spat out puffs of steam like animals

panting for breath.

Two young officers were walking on the landing-stage, where a number of

people were waiting, saluting or returning salutes, and sometimes

stopping to chat.

Suddenly, one of them, the taller, Paul d'Henricol, pressed the arm of

his comrade, Jean Renoldi, then, in a whisper, said:

"Hallo, here's Madame Poincot; give a good look at her. I assure you

that she's making eyes at you."

She was moving along on the arm of her husband. She was a woman of about

forty, very handsome still, slightly stout, but, owing to her graceful

fullness of figure, as fresh as she was at twenty. Among her friends she

was known as the Goddess on account of her proud gait, her large black

eyes, and the entire air of nobility of her person. She remained

irreproachable; never had the least suspicion cast a breath on her

life's purity. She was regarded as the very type of a virtuous,

uncorrupted woman. So upright that no man had ever dared to think of

her.

And yet for the last month Paul d'Henricol had been assuring his friend

Renoldi that Madame Poincot was in love with him, and he maintained that

there was no doubt of it.

"Be sure I don't deceive myself. I see it clearly. She loves you--she

loves you passionately, like a chaste woman who had never loved. Forty

years is a terrible age for virtuous women when they possess senses;

they become foolish, and commit utter follies. She is hit, my dear

fellow; she is falling like a wounded bird, and is ready to drop into

your arms. I say--just look at her!"

The tall woman, preceded by her two daughters, aged twelve and fifteen

years, suddenly turned pale, on her approach, as her eyes lighted on the

officer's face. She gave him an ardent glance, concentrating her gaze

upon him, and no longer seemed to have any eyes for her children, her

husband, or any other person around her. She returned the salutation of

the two young men without lowering her eyes, glowing with such a flame

that a doubt, at last, forced its way into Lieutenant Renoldi's mind.

His friend said, in the same hushed voice: "I was sure of it. Did you

not notice her this time? By Jove, she is a nice tit-bit!"

* * * * *

But Jean Renoldi had no desire for a society intrigue. Caring little for

love, he longed, above all, for a quiet life, and contented himself with

occasional amours such as a young man can always have. All the

sentimentality, the attentions, and the tenderness which a well-bred

woman exacts bored him. The chain, however slight it might be, which is

always formed by an adventure of this sort, filled him with fear. He

said: "At the end of a month I'll have had enough of it, and I'll be

forced to wait patiently for six months through politeness."

Then, a rupture exasperated him, with the scenes, the allusions, the

clinging attachment, of the abandoned woman.

He avoided meeting Madame Poincot.

But, one evening he found himself by her side at a dinner-party, and he

felt on his skin, in his eyes, and even in his heart, the burning glance

of his fair neighbor. Their hands met, and almost involuntarily were

pressed together in a warm clasp. Already the intrigue was almost begun.

He saw her again, always in spite of himself. He realized that he was

loved. He felt himself moved by a kind of pitying vanity when he saw

what a violent passion for him swayed this woman's breast. So he allowed

himself to be adored, and merely displayed gallantry, hoping that the

affair would be only sentimental.

But, one day, she made an appointment with him for the ostensible

purpose of seeing him and talking freely to him. She fell, swooning,

into his arms; and he had no alternative but to be her lover.

And this lasted six months. She loved him with an unbridled, panting

love. Absorbed in this frenzied passion, she no longer bestowed a

thought on anything else. She surrendered herself to it utterly--her

body, her soul, her reputation, her position, her happiness--all she

had cast into that fire of her heart, as one casts, as a sacrifice,

every precious object into a funeral pier.

He had for some time grown tired of her, and deeply regretted his easy

conquest as a fascinating officer; but he was bound, held prisoner. At

every moment she said to him: "I have given you everything. What more

would you have?" He felt a desire to answer:

"But I have asked nothing from you, and I beg of you to take back what

you gave me."

Without caring about being seen, compromised, ruined, she came to see

him every evening, her passion becoming more inflamed each time they

met. She flung herself into his arms, strained him in a fierce embrace,

fainted under the force of rapturous kisses which to him were now

terribly wearisome.

He said in a languid tone: "Look here! be reasonable!"

She replied:

"I love you," and sank on her knees gazing at him for a long time in an

attitude of admiration. At length, exasperated by her persistent gaze,

he tried to make her rise.

"I say! Sit down. Let us talk."

She murmured:

"No, leave me;" and remained there, her soul in a state of ecstasy.

He said to his friend d'Henricol:

"You know, 'twill end by my beating her. I won't have any more of it! It

must end, and that without further delay!" Then he went on:

"What do you advise me to do?"

The other replied:

"Break it off."

And Renoldi added, shrugging his shoulders:

"You speak indifferently about the matter; you believe that it is easy

to break with a woman who tortures you with attention, who annoys you

with kindnesses, who persecutes you with her affection, whose only care

is to please you, and whose only wrong is that she gave herself to you

in spite of you."

But suddenly, one morning the news came that the regiment was about to

be removed from the garrison; Renoldi began to dance with joy. He was

saved! Saved without scenes, without cries! Saved! All he had to do now

was to wait patiently for two months more. Saved!

In the evening she came to him more excited than she had ever been

before. She had heard the dreadful news, and, without taking off her hat

she caught his hands and pressed them nervously, with her eyes fixed on

his, and her voice vibrating and resolute.

"You are leaving," she said; "I know it. At first, I felt heart-broken;

then, I understood what I had to do. I don't hesitate about doing it. I

have come to give you the greatest proof of love that a woman can offer.

I follow you. For you I am abandoning my husband, my children, my

family. I am ruining myself, but I am happy. It seems to me that I am

giving myself to you over again. It is the last and the greatest

sacrifice. I am yours for ever!"

He felt a cold sweat down his back, and was seized with a dull and

violent rage, the anger of weakness. However, he became calm, and, in a

disinterested tone, with a show of kindness, he refused to accept her

sacrifice, tried to appease her, to bring her to reason, to make her see

her own folly! She listened to him, staring at him with her great black

eyes and with a smile of disdain on her lips, and said not a word in

reply. He went on talking to her, and when, at length, he stopped, she

said merely:

"Can you really be a coward? Can you be one of those who seduce a woman,

and then throw her over, through sheer caprice?"

He became pale, and renewed his arguments; he pointed out to her the

inevitable consequences of such an action to both of them as long as

they lived--how their lives would be shattered and how the world would

shut its doors against them. She replied obstinately: "What does it

matter when we love each other?" Then, all of a sudden, he burst out

furiously:

"Well, then, I will not. No--do you understand? I will not do it, and I

forbid you to do it." Then, carried away by the rancorous feeling which

had seethed within him so long, he relieved his heart:

"Ah, damn it all, you have now been sticking on to me for a long time in

spite of myself, and the best thing for you now is to take yourself off.

I'll be much obliged if you do so, upon my honor!"

She did not answer him, but her livid countenance began to look

shriveled up, as if all her nerves and muscles had been twisted out of

shape. And she went away without saying good-bye.

The same night she poisoned herself.

For a week she was believed to be in a hopeless condition. And in the

city people gossiped about the case, and pitied her, excusing her sin on

account of the violence of her passion, for overstrained emotions,

becoming heroic through their intensity, always obtain forgiveness for

whatever is blameworthy in them. A woman who kills herself is, so to

speak, not an adulteress. And ere long there was a feeling of general

reprobation against Lieutenant Renoldi for refusing to see her again--a

unanimous sentiment of blame.

It was a matter of common talk that he had deserted her, betrayed her,

ill-treated her. The Colonel, overcome by compassion, brought his

officer to book in a quiet way. Paul d'Henricol called on his friend:

"Deuce take it, Renoldi, it's not good enough to let a woman die; it's

not the right thing anyhow."

The other, enraged, told him to hold his tongue, whereupon d'Henricol

made use of the word "infamy." The result was a duel, Renoldi was

wounded, to the satisfaction of everybody, and was for some time

confined to his bed.

She heard about it, and only loved him the more for it, believing that

it was on her account he had fought the duel; but, as she was too ill to

move, she was unable to see him again before the departure of the

regiment.

He had been three months in Lille when he received one morning, a visit

from the sister of his former mistress.

After long suffering and a feeling of dejection, which she could not

conquer, Madame Poincot's life was now despaired of, and she merely

asked to see him for a minute, only for a minute, before closing her

eyes for ever.

Absence and time had appeased the young man's satiety and anger; he was

touched, moved to tears, and he started at once for Havre.

She seemed to be in the agonies of death. They were left alone together;

and by the bedside of this woman whom he now believed to be dying, and

whom he blamed himself for killing, though it was not by his own hand,

he was fairly crushed with grief. He burst out sobbing, embraced her

with tender, passionate kisses, more lovingly than he had ever done in

the past. He murmured in a broken voice:

"No, no, you shall not die! You shall get better! We shall love each

other for ever--for ever!"

She said in faint tones:

"Then it is true. You do love me, after all?"

And he, in his sorrow for her misfortunes, swore, promised to wait till

she had recovered, and full of loving pity, kissed again and again the

emaciated hands of the poor woman whose heart was panting with feverish,

irregular pulsations.

The next day he returned to the garrison.

Six weeks later she went to meet him, quite old-looking, unrecognizable,

and more enamored than ever.

In his condition of mental prostration, he consented to live with her.

Then, when they remained together as if they had been legally united,

the same colonel who had displayed indignation with him for abandoning

her, objected to this irregular connection as being incompatible with

the good example officers ought to give in a regiment. He warned the

lieutenant on the subject, and then furiously denounced his conduct, so

Renoldi retired from the army.

He went to live in a village on the shore of the Mediterranean, the

classic sea of lovers.

And three years passed. Renoldi, bent under the yoke, was vanquished,

and became accustomed to the woman's persevering devotion. His hair had

now turned white.

He looked upon himself as a man done for, gone under. Henceforth, he had

no hope, no ambition, no satisfaction in life, and he looked forward to

no pleasure in existence.

But one morning a card was placed in his hand, with the name--"Joseph

Poincot, Shipowner, Havre."

The husband! The husband, who had said nothing, realizing that there was

no use in struggling against the desperate obstinacy of women. What did

he want?

He was waiting in the garden, having refused to come into the house. He

bowed politely, but would not sit down, even on a bench in a

gravel-path, and he commenced talking clearly and slowly.

"Monsieur, I did not come here to address reproaches to you. I know too

well how things happened. I have been the victim of--we have been the

victims of--a kind of fatality. I would never have disturbed you in your

retreat if the situation had not changed. I have two daughters,

Monsieur. One of them, the elder, loves a young man, and is loved by

him. But the family of this young man is opposed to the marriage, basing

their objection on the situation of--my daughter's mother. I have no

feeling of either anger or spite, but I love my children, Monsieur. I

have, therefore, come to ask my wife to return home. I hope that to-day

she will consent to go back to my house--to her own house. As for me, I

will make a show of having forgotten, for--for the sake of my

daughters."

Renoldi felt a wild movement in his heart, and he was inundated with a

delirium of joy like a condemned man who receives a pardon.

He stammered: "Why, yes--certainly, Monsieur--I myself--be assured of

it--no doubt--it is right, it is only quite right."

This time M. Poincot no longer declined to sit down.

Renoldi then rushed up the stairs, and pausing at the door of his

mistress's room, to collect his senses, entered gravely.

"There is somebody below waiting to see you," he said. "'Tis to tell you

something about your daughters."

She rose up. "My daughters? What about them? They are not dead?"

He replied: "No; but a serious situation has arisen, which you alone can

settle."

She did not wait to hear more, but rapidly descended the stairs.

Then, he sank down on a chair, greatly moved, and waited.

He waited a long long time. Then he heard angry voices below stairs, and

made up his mind to go down.

Madame Poincot was standing up exasperated, just on the point of going

away, while her husband had seized hold of her dress, exclaiming: "But

remember that you are destroying our daughters, your daughters, our

children!"

She answered stubbornly:

"I will not go back to you!"

Renoldi understood everything, came over to them in a state of great

agitation, and gasped:

"What, does she refuse to go?"

She turned towards him, and, with a kind of shame-facedness, addressed

him without any familiarity of tone, in the presence of her legitimate

husband, said:

"Do you know what he asks me to do? He wants me to go back, and live

under one roof with him!"

And she tittered with a profound disdain for this man, who was appealing

to her almost on his knees.

Then Renoldi, with the determination of a desperate man playing his last

card, began talking to her in his turn, and pleaded the cause of the

poor girls, the cause of the husband, his own cause. And when he

stopped, trying to find some fresh argument, M. Poincot, at his wits'

end, murmured, in the affectionate style in which he used to speak to

her in days gone by:

"Look here, Delphine! Think of your daughters!"

Then she turned on both of them a glance of sovereign contempt, and,

after that, flying with a bound towards the staircase, she flung at them

these scornful words:

"You are a pair of wretches!"

Left alone, they gazed at each other for a moment, both equally

crestfallen, equally crushed. M. Poincot picked up his hat, which had

fallen down near where he sat, dusted off his knees the signs of

kneeling on the floor, then raising both hands sorrowfully, while

Renoldi was seeing him to the door, remarked with a parting bow:

"We are very unfortunate, Monsieur."

Then he walked away from the house with a heavy step.

* * * * *

NO QUARTER

The broad sunlight threw its burning rays on the fields, and under this

shower of flame life burst forth in glowing vegetation from the earth.

As far as the eye could see, the soil was green; and the sky was blue to

the verge of the horizon. The Norman farms scattered through the plain

seemed at a distance like little doors enclosed each in a circle of thin

beech trees. Coming closer, on opening the worm-eaten stile, one fancied

that he saw a giant garden, for all the old apple-trees, as knotted as

the peasants, were in blossom. The weather-beaten black trunks, crooked,

twisted, ranged along the enclosure, displayed beneath the sky their

glittering domes, rosy and white. The sweet perfume of their blossoms

mingled with the heavy odors of the open stables and with the fumes of

the steaming dunghill, covered with hens and their chickens. It was

midday. The family sat at dinner in the shadow of the pear-tree planted

before the door--the father, the mother, the four children, the two

maid-servants, and the three farm laborers. They scarcely uttered a

word. Their fare consisted of soup and of a stew composed of potatoes

mashed up in lard.

From time to time one of the maid-servants rose up and went to the

cellar to fetch a pitcher of cider.

The husband, a big fellow of about forty, stared at a vine-tree, quite

exposed to view, which stood close to the farm-house twining like a

serpent under the shutters the entire length of the wall.

He said, after a long silence:

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

bear good fruit."

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

speaking.

This vine-tree was planted exactly in the place where the father of the

peasant had been shot.

* * * * *

It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were in occupation of the

entire country. General Faidherbe, with the Army of the North, was at

their head.

Now the Prussian staff had taken up its quarters in this farm-house. The

old peasant who owned it, Pere Milon Pierre, received them, and gave

them the best treatment he could.

For a whole month the German vanguard remained on the look-out in the

village. The French were posted ten leagues away without moving; and yet

each night, some of the Uhlans disappeared.

All the isolated scouts, those who were sent out on patrol, whenever

they started in groups of two or three, never came back.

They were picked up dead in the morning in a field, near a farm-yard, in

a ditch. Their horses even were found lying on the roads with their

throats cut by a saber-stroke. These murders seemed to have been

accomplished by the same men, who could not be discovered.

The country was terrorized. Peasants were shot on mere information,

women were imprisoned, attempts were made to obtain revelations from

children by fear.

But, one morning, Pere Milon was found stretched in his stable, with a

gash across his face.

Two Uhlans ripped open were seen lying three kilometers away from the

farm-house. One of them still grasped in his hand his blood-stained

weapon. He had fought and defended himself.

A council of war having been immediately constituted, in the open air,

in front of the farm-house, the old man was brought before it.

He was sixty-eight years old. He was small, thin, a little crooked, with

long hands resembling the claws of a crab. His faded hair, scanty and

slight, like the down on a young duck, allowed his scalp to be plainly

seen. The brown, crimpled skin of his neck showed the big veins which

sank under his jaws and reappeared at his temples. He was regarded in

the district as a miser and a hard man in business transactions.

He was placed standing between four soldiers in front of the kitchen

table, which had been carried out of the house for the purpose. Five

officers and the Colonel sat facing him. The Colonel was the first to

speak.

"Pere Milon," he said, in French, "since we came here, we have had

nothing to say of you but praise. You have always been obliging, and

even considerate towards us. But to-day a terrible accusation rests on

you, and the matter must be cleared up. How did you get the wound on

your face?"

The peasant gave no reply.

The Colonel went on:

"Your silence condemns you, Pere Milon. But I want you to answer me, do

you understand. Do you know who has killed the two Uhlans who were found

this morning near the cross-roads?"

The old man said in a clear voice:

"It was I!"

The Colonel, surprised, remained silent for a second, looking

steadfastly at the prisoner. Pere Milon maintained his impassive

demeanor, his air of rustic stupidity, with downcast eyes, as if he were

talking to his cure. There was only one thing that could reveal his

internal agitation, the way in which he slowly swallowed his saliva with

a visible effort, as if he were choking.

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

little children stood ten paces behind scared and dismayed.

The Colonel continued:

"Do you know also who killed all the scouts of our Army, whom we have

found every morning, for the past month, lying here and there in the

fields?"

The old man answered with the same brutal impassiveness:

"It was I!"

"It is you, then, that killed them all?"

"All of them--yes, it was I."

"You alone?"

"I alone."

"Tell me the way you managed to do it?"

This time the peasant appeared to be affected; the necessity of speaking

at some length incommoded him.

"I know myself. I did it the way I found easiest."

The Colonel proceeded:

"I warn you, you must tell me everything. You will do well, therefore,

to make up your mind about it at once. How did you begin it?"

The peasant cast an uneasy glance towards his family, who remained in a

listening attitude behind him. He hesitated for another second or so,

then all of a sudden, he came to a resolution on the matter.