—Come, ferryman, make haste! . . .
—It is the Draveil doctor, whispered my companion.
I too had recognised the kindly voice, that is heard day and night on highroads and byeways, always encouraging and always hurried. How did he come there? Had he therefore stayed at Draveil? . . . I should have liked to have called out to him: “Good-night, Doctor!” But a moment’s reflection stopped me. A lucky thought, in truth; for directly after we crossed a heavy punt, with a lantern in the bow, passing over from one side of the river to the other; and I saw by the side of dear Doctor R— in his old felt hat, weather-beaten by all the storms of Seine and Oise, some shining helmets.
By rare good fortune we were beyond the rays of their lantern, which deepened the shadow through which our boat was gliding, and we passed by unseen. No less danger awaited us a little farther on—the railway bridge, of which three arches were blown up, blocking the river with its gigantic remains. I really hardly know how we were able to get through this fearful barrier in the dark, without being swamped or dashed to pieces. At Port-Courcelles we had the same fear. The enormous gnarled willows of the two islets became in the night so many shoals, that we narrowly escaped. At last we reach Ablon and its lock. Here the cannon round Paris resounds clear and terrible, sending forth at each instant the red flash of its thunder . . . We ought to have expected it: the lock is closed. Fortunately our boat is light, and together we shall be able, as I have so often done, to hoist it on to the bank, and carry it over to the other side of the barrier. We land at the little steps where the innkeeper of Ablon skins his eels on summer days, and where the fishermen sit patiently with their rods, bathed in sunshine from the top of their boating-hats down to their shoes of untanned leather. It is astonishing how a feeling of danger changes the whole aspect of things! . . . When nearly at the top of the steps, I perceived against the darkness, ten paces from me, a sentry on his beat, pacing up and down the quay. Lower down, the lock-keeper’s house, turned into a Prussian outpost, has all its windows lighted up. I wish to go down quickly, re-embark, and gain the other bank; but Goudeloup will not listen to me. His eyes remain obstinately fixed on that shadow which looms through the fog, and whistles while trampling above us. I try to drag him away. He escapes, makes one bound . . . I hear a dull sound, a smothered cry, the rattle of arms, and the heavy fall of a man.
But the unfortunate soldier, that he has left stretched out by the river-side, has found strength before dying to fire his gun. The sharp report rouses both banks of the river. Impossible to land. We quickly push out into the middle of the stream, and row hard up the river. It is all like a bad dream. The wind and current, everything is against us. A boat pushes off from the lock, coming straight at us, lighted by a torch which dips up and down as it watches for us, while another boat approaches us in a contrary direction.
—To the dredger . . . whispers Goudeloup in my ear.
