Читать книгу The Bellman Book of Fiction, 1906-1919 - Various - Страница 4

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Le Muet started as the cold steel of a rifle barrel touched his neck, and turning his head stumbled to his feet. Behind him stood four Bavarian soldiers grinning maliciously at his surprise. They spoke to him, and he made no attempt to answer.

“Have you seen the French?” they asked again.

He gaped at them with an empty expression. One of them seized him by the arm, and twisted it cruelly. A low, hoarse, guttural sound came from Le Muet’s lips, and his face was convulsed with effort. Shaking himself loose, he pointed to his ears and mouth, then let his chin sink upon his breast. He spread his hands in a gesture of despondency, and shook his head from side to side.

The soldiers looked at him angrily, then their leader, giving the peasant a push which sent him upon his knees among the turnips, issued an order in a low voice, and as silently as they had come the four men disappeared, with bodies bent low, among the trees of the plantation.

When Le Muet looked again they were out of sight. His heart was beating, he trembled, and it seemed as if there was no strength in his limbs and that the struggle he had made to utter intelligible sounds had left him exhausted. For a long time he knelt staring at the woods before he rose to his feet and shook his fist in the direction in which they had gone. Then he took to his heels, and ran as quickly as he could to the village.

When all the able-bodied men in the village had gone, there remained only two, Monsieur the curé and he whom they called Le Muet, a strapping big fellow with the strength of an ox, to whom, for no fault of his own, had been denied the gifts of speech and hearing.

Naturally Le Muet was not called upon to do his years in the army. His dumb deafness would have broken the heart of any drill sergeant as it did that of his schoolmaster who, having heard of lip-reading, experimented with him for a month and then broke his best ruler over the lad’s stupid head.

Not that Le Muet was stupid except in book learning. When one is dumb, one talks to beasts and birds in sounds that they can understand, and as for hearing, there is no need of that with a dog who speaks with his eyes, his tail, his body. And Le Muet had a dog, a shaggy, unkempt animal with vagabond habits, who disappeared for days at a time, and returned without explanation from marauding expeditions in the woods. It was said that the gamekeeper had sworn to riddle him with shot the first time he caught him in the act, but, after all, the gamekeeper was a merciful man, and there is no doubt that he missed many a good chance to rob Le Muet of his heel companion. The dog was harmless enough, although it may well be understood that he would not have hesitated to try his teeth upon those Bavarian invaders, had he not gone the day before upon a poaching quest.

There was only one person to whom Le Muet could betake himself in the hour of need: Monsieur the curé, who had remained behind to look after the women and children. The curé was a robust little man, with a brown, wrinkled face and eyes full of understanding and sympathy: eyes that, alas, no longer twinkled merrily, but were dulled with a great sadness. He was standing on the other side of the square from the church, looking intently at the building as if to commit to memory the position of every one of its timeworn and hallowed stones, for it was known that even churches were not spared by the barbarians, and any day they might appear in the village with fire and sword.

Le Muet hesitated a little, standing with heaving breast, his eyes bloodshot with his running, before he ventured to lay his hand upon the sleeve of the black soutane. The curé, as if roused from a dream, looked at him, then grew grave with apprehension. Hastily he looked in the direction from which Le Muet had come, and pointed. Le Muet nodded his head eagerly, and in clumsy pantomime told his tale: four fingers for four men, the helmets, the barrel upon his neck, the crouching retreat.

The curé, laying his hand upon Le Muet’s arm, patted it gently, and led the way across the square and into the church. Near the door he knelt, and Le Muet followed his example. For a few seconds they remained thus, side by side, their faces turned to the altar, then the curé rose to his feet and let his eyes pass lovingly from window to window, from painted saint to sculptured and, guiding Le Muet to the door, came out, locked the carved double door, and descended the steps.

For a moment he stood there with bent head, then set out briskly, going from house to house, telling the women not to be afraid, but to collect the children, get food and covering together, and to meet in the square. Soon they were there, a piteous band, very silent and hushed. One mother carried in her arms two children, a baby a few months old and a boy of three, and as the curé saw her stumble, he reached out and took the boy into his arms.

As the curé led the way, there was a moment of panic, and some hung back, but gradually the little band fell in behind him, and at the end came Le Muet, stepping out with short strides so as not to tread upon any one’s heels. They passed through the village street, their eyes straining in front of them that they might not see the open windows and the doors, the flowers climbing and crowding about the green shutters, the smoke still rising from hearths on which the midday meal had been cooking. An old woman sank to the ground, and without a word two of the younger raised her and, supporting her, guided her frail and stumbling feet.

At the crossroads, the curé halted and, standing on the steps of the cross with its carven figure of the Redeemer, looked over his little band, and raising his hand blessed them in a trembling voice, then in a command, ringing out strong and clear like that of a soldier, set them in motion once more on the road to safety.

All at once Le Muet halted. What was he doing? He who had no human kin had left behind him the one thing he loved: his dog. His brain was confused by the excitement of the day, otherwise he would not have forgotten how often he had been sought out and found by the faithful creature. He looked in front of him. The company of refugees was just turning the corner. He must find his dog. Surely Monsieur the curé would forgive him; besides, with his long legs, he could easily catch up. Resolutely he turned on his heel and trudged back the way he had come.

As he passed through the village square, from an open door came a tempting odor of cooking, and with a sly grunt he stepped inside, filled a bowl from the soup pot and sat down. One must eat, whatever comes to pass, and it is easier to die with a full stomach than an empty one.

He had just sopped up the last drop of cabbage soup with an end of loaf when, turning his eyes to the open door, he was amazed to see a couple of horsemen dismounting in front of it. As if they knew their way, they tethered their horses to a post and strode into the cottage.

Le Muet rose to his feet, and the intruders covered him with their rifles. Suddenly one of them broke into a grin and, turning, spoke to his companion. They lowered their rifles, and the first comer nodded in a friendly fashion to Le Muet and offered him his hand.

In a daze Le Muet accepted the courtesy. What a surprise! Here, in a Uhlan uniform, was the peddler, Woerth, who had travelled the countryside for many a year. He had not been seen for a long time, and now—Le Muet grinned in response. The peddler had done him many a kindness, and tramped the woods with him more times than once: a sharp-faced, thin man, with white-lashed blue eyes.

He sat down at the table again as they dipped their cans into the soup pot and divided the loaf. With a careless air the peddler knocked in the head of the cider cask, and filled three glasses. Le Muet began to feel at his ease. After all, he knew the peddler, and if this was war, surely it was not an affair of bloodshed; one sat at the table with an old friend and drank cider. He could not understand what they were saying, but he could discover nothing to be afraid of in their looks.

When they had eaten and drunken their fill, the peddler lit his pipe, and with a smile strolled about the room, opening closet doors, lifting up the lid of the linen chest, pulling out the drawers of the carved bureau and scattering the contents on the floor, knocking the walls and stamping on the floor as if to discover the hiding place of treasure. But nothing of value rewarded his search, and he appeared angry, for he swept the few little china ornaments from the mantel shelf and stamped upon them.

Le Muet rose to his feet. He must be going. His dog might be searching for him, and, besides, if he was to catch up with Monsieur the curé he must be getting along. As he walked to the door, the peddler turned sharply, and taking a couple of quick strides let his hand fall heavily on his shoulder. There was no good humor in the peddler’s face now. He gave a word of command to his companion, who produced a rope, and putting a tight knot around Le Muet’s wrist, gave him a shove that propelled him out of the door.

What was going to happen now, wondered Le Muet. He was not long left in doubt. His captors went from house to house, picking their plunder, clothes, bric-a-brac, copper cooking utensils, till they had accumulated two huge bundles tied in blankets. They were loaded upon Le Muet’s back and, mounting their horses, the peddler and his comrade rode on slowly, driving Le Muet like a cow before them.

A dull rage, all the more terrible since it could find no expression, filled his heart now. His load lay upon his neck and shoulders like lead, and the sweat trickled down his face and the furrow of his bent and tortured hack. When he stopped, a prod from lance or saber set his failing legs moving once more, and he ground his teeth in speechless agony. So, too, perhaps feel the dumb carriers of burdens, but in the brain of Le Muet the suffering was intensified. In his obstinate way he had set his heart upon finding his dog, and now with every step he took he might be going further away.

They were going through the plantation now, and approaching the forest. It was hard going among the low brushwood that caught like so many grasping hands at his legs and tripped him up. Would they never stop for rest? They were within the woods now. At last the two horsemen dismounted, and looked about them as if seeking a landmark. Seeing a pile of white stones from the quarry, they nodded their heads, and with a look at their watches sat down on the edge of the pathway.

Le Muet lay on the ground exhausted, and they let him lie undisturbed, talking to each other in low tones. The mute must have slept, for when he opened his eyes again there were gray uniforms all about him, their wearers sprawling on the ground in easy attitudes. Here and there dimly among the trees he could see others leaning upon their rifles. He sat up and looked about him.

The peddler had a map in front of him, and bending over it was a fine officer; for so he must be, since the peddler nodded servilely whenever the other spoke. Le Muet was still staring when the officer raised his head and caught sight of him. He turned to the peddler, who laughed and pointed to his mouth and ears, assuming a stupid expression, and the officer nodded curtly and bent over the map again. In a little while he called some of his men about him and spoke to them. They disappeared on either side of the narrow path. There was no sign of a horse anywhere, and Le Muet wondered if they were stabled in the quarry, and if their lot was better than his.

The peddler folded up his map, and coming over to Le Muet pointed to a clump of brushwood, and with a struggle the weary unfortunate rose to his feet, shouldered his bundles and followed. They lay down, the peddler with his rifle by his side. In a moment they were joined by the officer and six of his men. They reclined quietly, as if listening.

Suddenly the officer raised his pistol. Something was coming through the brushwood; but he lowered it with a grim smile as a shaggy head, followed by a shaggy body, made its appearance. There was a bound, and Le Muet felt himself tumbled to earth under the impact of a clumsy body. A rough tongue was licking his face. His dog had found him.

Nothing else mattered now, and with strange, uncouth murmurings he clasped the shaggy body to his own again and again. He did not see that the officer’s face had grown dark with anger or that he had raised his pistol again only to slip it back into the holster as the peddler touched his arm and cautiously pointed through an opening in the bushes. A man in a blue uniform had just risen to his feet on the path, and was looking about him with a searching glance. Nothing stirred in the thickets, and he walked on.

Le Muet saw the figures beside him stiffen, and rifles raised. Suddenly the dog moved uneasily and gave a low whimper. With a savage indrawing of his breath the officer turned sharply and, shortening his sword, drove it into the body of the dog. A whispered command, and a heavy rifle butt fell upon its head.

Le Muet sat upright, staring, confused. He held the quivering body close against him, dead to all thought but that of this strangely cruel deed. What was it all about? In a flash it came to him. Those about him were lying in wait to kill, and those whom they would kill were his own: Frenchmen like himself, like the man who had risen in the clearing and walked on unconscious of danger.

With a mighty effort he held himself from flinging his weight upon the officer. He was not afraid now. They had killed his dog. They might kill him, only there were others coming, unwarned, and he without voice to warn them: those others who were also of France.

Oh, if only Monsieur the curé were with him. The curé had shown him pictures of miracles wrought by God, the blessed mother and the saints: miracles wherein the sick were healed, the blind were made to see, the dumb to speak. Perhaps, if he tried, words would come to his lips, words would come in time to save those who were about to come into this trap. Bending his head low, he filled his lungs, he felt the muscles about his abdomen tighten. His mind was surging with desire, he was about to speak at last; and then the breath he had sucked within him filtered through the passage of his throat in harsh and broken gasps.

A buffet on the mouth from the officer threw him on his back, and for a moment he lay stunned, but for a moment only; then bounding to his feet, with a desperate leap that cleared the brush he was out and upon the path. Through the trees in front of him he saw the glint of bayonets. They were coming, coming into the trap. He must run to them.

All at once he felt arms about his knees. Two of the Germans had crept out from the other side of the path and were holding him by the ankles. With a wrench of his strong legs be loosened himself from the hold: two swift kicks, and he was free. To run—he did not notice the rope stretched across the path at the level of his ankles and with a jerk he fell upon his face. At once they were upon him. He felt a writhing hand that tore at his throat and, bending his chin, he bit savagely at it with his firm teeth. It seemed to him as if he had superhuman power, and that he had but to open his mouth to send forth a ringing cry.

He was on his knees now, a man upon his back, and bending forward suddenly he swung the clawing thing over his shoulder to the ground. His hands sought the throat. Then came a sharp, agonizing pain. The other had stabbed him in the back, with a wrench and a twist of the bayonet blade.

He rose to his feet as if by a miracle, one foot uplifted to step forward, then set his foot down upon the ground. The earth was trembling and swaying beneath him. With his lacerated hands he tore at his throat as if to pluck the useless vocal cords from their covering of flesh. A strange bellowing came from his lips,—now red with a bloody foam,—growing in volume, and then, as he strained at his throat with compressing hands, he felt a great joy and triumphant peace come upon him. He was speaking—no, it was a shout—so clearly—so easily:

“Back, comrades—a boche trap—” and then, as he sank to his knees, “Vive la France!”

He did not hear—how could he, the deaf one?—the volleys that passed over his body as the French halted and in a swift rush deployed to left and right of the path; the tramping of feet in the brushwood; the dull thud of rifle butts, and squeal of agony as bayonet found what it sought.

When it was over, the French commander looked grimly and without compassion at the sullen face of the German captain staring up at him from the ground, then turned to look down curiously at the body of Le Muet.

“One of yours?” he asked. “He wears no uniform.”

“A peasant from the village—captured; he was deaf and dumb,” grunted the captain with a spasm of pain.

The commander drew himself up sharply. “Deaf and dumb—nonsense!”

The peddler, lying against a tree endeavoring to staunch a leg wound, saw the French commander look at him inquiringly.

“Surely, he was a mute. It was impossible for him to say a word. I knew him very well,” he hastened to answer.

The commander looked at him as if astonished, then turned away, with a murmur.

“I must have been dreaming, but I could have sworn he called out, ‘Vive la France’”; and then, because he was a poet, he added: “But then, when every stone of la patrie cries out, why not this dumb peasant? It is a war of miracles.”

Robert W. Sneddon.