Then, about eight o’clock in the morning, a
voice came from the vent-hole “I want to speak
to the French officer.”
Lavigne replied from the window, taking care not to
put his head out too far:
“Do you surrender?”
“I surrender.”
“Then put your rifles outside.”
A rifle immediately protruded from the hole, and fell
into the snow, then another and another, until all
were disposed of. And the voice which had spoken
before said:
“I have no more. Be quick! I am drowned.”
“Stop pumping!” ordered the commandant.
And the pump handle hung motionless.
Then, having filled the kitchen with armed and waiting
soldiers, he slowly raised the oaken trapdoor.
Four heads appeared, soaking wet, four fair heads
with long, sandy hair, and one after another the six
Germans emerged—scared, shivering and dripping
from head to foot.
They were seized and bound. Then, as the French
feared a surprise, they set off at once in two convoys,
one in charge of the prisoners, and the other conducting
Maloison on a mattress borne on poles.
They made a triumphal entry into Rethel.
Monsieur Lavigne was decorated as a reward for having
captured a Prussian advance guard, and the fat baker
received the military medal for wounds received at
the hands of the enemy.
Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little
soldiers would go for a walk. They turned to
the right on leaving the barracks, crossed Courbevoie
with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then,
as the houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed
the dusty road which leads to Bezons.
They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting
capes, too large and too long, whose sleeves covered
their hands; their ample red trousers fell in folds
around their ankles. Under the high, stiff shako
one could just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked
Breton faces, with their calm, naive blue eyes.
They never spoke during their journey, going straight
before them, the same idea in each one’s mind
taking the place of conversation. For at the
entrance of the little forest of Champioux they had
found a spot which reminded them of home, and they
did not feel happy anywhere else.
At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads,
when they arrived under the trees, they would take
off their heavy, oppressive headgear and wipe their
foreheads.
They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons,
and looked at the Seine. They stood there several
minutes, bending over the railing, watching the white
sails, which perhaps reminded them of their home, and
of the fishing smacks leaving for the open.
As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would
purchase provisions at the delicatessen, the baker’s,
and the wine merchant’s. A piece of bologna,
four cents’ worth of bread, and a quart of wine,
made up the luncheon which they carried away, wrapped
up in their handkerchiefs. But as soon as they
were out of the village their gait would slacken and
they would begin to talk.
