The Bellman Book of Fiction, 1906-1919

by Unknown

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.