The poor wretch came back from Germany a year afterwards, ill, worn out, done for. Only they had neglected to reveal to him why he had been imprisoned.
It is not difficult to imagine how these prisoners were hunted. A man was arrested in Barenton. A gun had been found in his bed, it would seem. He was confined for a time at Laon, managed to escape, and went right to Morny, where M. Dunard, his lifelong friend, hid him in his house. Did any one betray the runaway's retreat? I do not know, but two days after his arrival an under-officer and four men came to M. Dunard's, one from the street, the others from the garden, turned the farmer, his wife, and the maid out of doors, conscientiously searched the house, found the fugitive, and took him away. We saw the poor man pass between two gendarmes on horseback. He looked desperate; his hands, tied to one of the stirrups, were quite blue. But immanent justice, dear to the Germans, had a watchful eye. Here it was even imminent. A good citizen of Morny was just coming back from the forest, with his donkey put to a cart, loaded with wood. The ass saw a procession, which he thought unseemly, and proclaimed his opinion in the way usual to his kind. The horses, frightened by the loud hee-haw, reared and fell back. A military motor-car which was approaching could not stop in time, and gave a sudden lurch, followed by a general confusion. Horses, gendarmes, donkey, cart, and logs fell topsy-turvy to the ground. Oh, the poor prisoner with his tied-up hands! Well, he alone came off safe and sound. He alone, and the donkey of course. Gendarmes, horses, and driver got up lame to the right and left, and more or less injured. After some bandaging the Germans took their prisoner away all the same, but the interlude had given a few minutes of intense joy to many people.
For a long time we were afraid that the men of the village would be all taken away. We knew that in many northern places the male population had been carried off to fill up German prisons. When would they do the same in Morny?
"When the Germans withdraw," was the general answer.
And the expectation of this day filled us with a mixture of joy and dread. The day came, and the Germans did not withdraw. One morning all able-bodied men were summoned to the "mairie." They were taken in herds to Laon, and shut up in the citadel; for two nights they slept on the floor and had to eat a nameless stew. On the third day of their absence, towards evening, a joyful rumour spread in the village. "The men are coming back! the men are coming back!"
Women and children rushed out to meet husbands, sons, and fathers, and the noisy troop came back home, and stayed there.
We thought ourselves crushed with grief. What seemed to us most unbearable was the want of news. Every family had one or several of its members away at the front, and we asked over and over again, are they dead, wounded, ill?
And we knew no more of what happened in the invaded country, in Lille, St. Quentin, or Rethel, than of what happened in San Francisco, Paris, or Pekin. Every village was an island carefully isolated from the rest of the world, and kept up very few relations with the nearest towns. On the other hand, we can think only with compassion of the everlasting threats hanging over our heads, of the uninterrupted plunder, of the vexatious measures, which left us no rest. Yet all this was bearable compared with what we had still to support! First the bad season was coming; soon we should suffer from the cold, since fuel was rare; and even from hunger, since bread was scarce. One day Colette cried out: "Oh, mother, look! Winter is coming; the Christmas roses are in bloom." On the very same day we heard that the village had a new commandant. Until then Morny had given hospitality but to convoys and troops of the reserve. We should now have to deal with soldiers on active service. About a hundred Death's Head Hussars settled themselves in the big farm on the Laon road, and their lieutenant became the supreme chief of the commune. The invaders certainly organised their government. Every village was provided with a commandant, who grew more and more powerful. You can imagine how these people were puffed up with pride. Just think of a lieutenant, a small country squire, owning beneath the sky of Pomerania three acres of barren, unfruitful land, who all of a sudden sees himself absolute master of a rich territory of 1500 souls. It was enough to turn his head. Von Bernhausen was the name of the one we got. He was of an historical family, and gave himself out to be a rich cattle-breeder. He was a huge fellow—Geneviève and I reached to his waist—aged about twenty-six. Boldly cleft from heels to chin, he bore on his interminable legs a kind of shortened bust, a gallows head with small eyes, a little nose, still less forehead, a great deal of cheek, and still more of a thick-lipped and ever damp mouth. This ugly lieutenant was a thorough glutton, and the poultry-yards of Morny had many proofs of it. As he did not walk very upright, his coat, which was always greasy, formed in front a mass of horizontal creases that might have aroused the jealousy of an accordion. Two days after his arrival he was nicknamed Bouillot for short, a diminutive of Crabouillot, which means in the patois "dirty." Self-confident, conscious of the rights his title and name gave him, this lordly personage went to Laon, or received his superiors, without any change for the better in his dress. The peasants said he was the cousin of the Emperor. We shall be more modest, and be content with saying that his forefathers are very well known in Germany and other countries. His faults were overlooked in high quarters, and I leave you to imagine the benefit he reaped from his post and the way he understood comfort, good cheer, and service. To begin with, he requisitioned a capital cook of the place, and told her that she was to exert all her skill on behalf of Germany. A salary was quite out of the question. Early in the morning he was often to be seen in a poultry-yard, busy selecting his birds among the few geese, ducks, and fowls that were still there, and then: "I want this to be at the farm at ten o'clock." If the owner timidly asked for a note of hand, the officer turned short round and shouted in his face: "I told you to bring me this at ten o'clock."
Once he came to M. Lantois and said: "I want the carriage you've got; bring it to me." The farmer, after a moment's hesitation, dared to pronounce, too, the words "note of hand."
"I shall give none; you don't want any; your cart won't get lost."