—You see, says Goudeloup, I am ready for them . . . If they leave me alone, I shall not stir . . . But if they are imprudent enough to meddle with the farm . . . Let them beware!
We were talking in low tones, as if in an enemy’s country. He let me have a few loaves and a sack of flour; then having loaded my cart, we parted, promising each other soon to meet again, . . . Poor man!
Before returning home, no traces of Prussians being visible, I was tempted to go down the lane which passes under the walls of the farm and leads to the Seine. It was the whim of an artist. A river is the soul of a landscape. Animating the scene with its ceaseless movement, it gives life to all the changes of the day, and imparts grandeur to Nature by the reflection of its mirrored banks, and of glowing sunsets sinking into tranquil depths of liquid fire. Now its water faithfully reflects the surrounding melancholy. The shattered bridge, the crumbling piers piled up on either side in white heaps of stone, the iron chains dangling in the river, all this seems like a great rent in the landscape, the cruel work of the invader. No boats, no rafts—the river has returned to its wild, natural state, its surface furrowed by unfettered currents and swirling pools eddying round the ruins of the broken bridge, and bearing on its way nothing but drifting tufts of grass and roots, on which the water-wagtail, wearied out with its long flight, abandons itself to the course of the stream. On the slopes of each bank the corn and vines still stand, and the newly-mown fields are yet overshadowed by the high haycocks; a whole harvest lost and left to its fate . . .
I had stood there for a moment looking at this scene of disaster, when I heard two shots, followed by shrieks and groans, which seemed to come from the direction of the farm. I hastened to see what was the matter, and as I approached the cries of “Help—Help” were redoubled. I recognised the voice of the farmer amongst others raised in anger, a hideous jargon of sound. I whip up Colaquet, but the hill is steep and Colaquet moves not. One would almost say he was afraid. He lays back his ears and runs up against the wall; besides this, the road takes a turn, and I cannot see what is taking place on the highroad above. Suddenly, through a breach in the wall that the fall of the neighbouring bridge has made, as if expressly for me, the whole interior of the farm comes into view: the yard, the sheds, men, horses, helmets, long lances, flour sacks burst open, an unhorsed cavalry soldier lying before the well at full length in a pool of blood, and the unfortunate Goudeloup, pale, scared, a hideous object, howling and struggling between two gigantic Uhlans, who have tied a rope round his neck, and are about to swing him up by the pulley outside his hayloft. It is impossible to describe my sensations. I am filled with feelings of indignation, pity, horror, and anger . . . I forget that I am wounded and unarmed. I prepare to spring over the breach and throw myself on these wretches . . . But my foot slips . . . I hear something like the snap of a stick in my leg, followed by horrible pain. Everything goes round with me, the yard, the sheds, the pulley . . .
When I recovered consciousness, I was lying stretched on the hay in my cart before the gate of the Hermitage. The sun was setting and the wood was still. Colaquet was quietly nibbling the grass from out of the cracks in the wall. How had I got home? How had I been able to avoid the Uhlans, who swarmed on the highway. Perhaps Colaquet had the idea of coming across country and reaching the forest by the quarry road? . . . And, in truth, the good creature proudly tossed his head and moved his ears, as if to say, “I have saved you from a dangerous pass!” . . . I was in great pain, and it really required some courage to step out of the cart, unharness the donkey, and go into the house. I thought I had for the second time broken my leg. However, after an hour’s rest, I was able to rise, take a little food, and write these few pages. The pain is already less sharp, and nothing remains but a great weariness . . . Nevertheless, I do not think I shall sleep much to-night. I know they are prowling around me, that they are still there, and I have seen them at work . . . Oh! that unfortunate peasant, murdered in his farmyard, dragging himself, clutching at the walls! . . .
