Maurice Level - Thirty Hours with a Corpse, and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol

“Good, good. You will inform yourself and tell me tomorrow. Besides, I need wine, beer, and groceries. I count on you to make your mayor understand what I want. He appears not to have a correct notion of his obligations to His Majesty’s troops, or to realize that what he is not ready to deliver to us voluntarily we will certainly take from him by force.”

M. Schmoll clenched his fists.

“I have no obligation to fulfill to the enemies of my country. As for the duties with which I am charged, I do not need anybody to inform me about them.”

The officer did not deign to understand. He lifted his eyes to the shelves.

“On my word, Monsieur Hermann, you have a fine stock here.”

“It is at your service, Monsieur le Commandant,” answered the draper with a bow.

The officer now inquired about a watering place for the horses and about the vehicles available in the village. He also asked what had become of the three canvases by distinguished painters that were known to hang in the château of M. de Pignerol.

“The watering place is a hundred meters beyond the slaughterhouse. You will find some carriages at the shop of Mathias, the blacksmith. As for the paintings, I think that the servants of M. le Marquis have carried them away.”

“Too bad! Too bad!” said the officer, half to himself. “They were to be sent to the museum in Berlin. But we shall be quits if we find them a little further on.”

Having said this he reflected a second, and recapitulated, under his breath:

“The wine, the beer, the groceries, the vehicles, the watering place.”

Then he arose.

Night had come. M. Hermann placed a lamp on the counter. The officer lighted a cigarette and went on:

“One thing more. By what road did the French leave?”

“By the main road, I suppose.”

“I doubt it. But I don’t mean the civilians. I mean the soldiers.” M. Hermann hesitated.

“My God! Monsieur le Commandant, I don’t know.”

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

“Come, come! No foolishness!”

He said this in so brutal a tone that the merchant was visibly troubled.

“Well—”

He stopped, shamed by the look on M. Schmoll’s face. But he was afraid of the Prussian, and answered slowly:

“Well, they had to take—”

“You mustn’t tell that! You have no right to!” cried M. Schmoll.

“Be quiet!” shouted the officer. “Continue, Monsieur Hermann.” But M. Schmoll burst in:

“Monsieur Hermann, be silent! I order you to say nothing. While I am alive no one shall betray our soldiers. Monsieur Hermann, I forbid you to do it. Besides, you don’t know. You know nothing. He knows nothing whatever, Monsieur.”

The officer took a step toward him.

“But you? You know, don’t you?”

“I do. But if you put twenty bayonets at my breast I will not tell.”

M. Hermann bent his head and turned his skull cap between his fingers.

The officer yawned and stretched himself and then said, without paying any attention to the protests of M. Schmoll:

“You hesitate? So be it! I am going to let you reflect for a while—the time it takes me to smoke a cigarette outside. I shall be back in five minutes. Try to decide by then. I give you that advice.”

When he was gone M. Schmoll took the merchant’s hands.

“You won’t say anything, will you, Monsieur Hermann? It was only for the sake of gaining time that you seemed to yield?”

M. Hermann disengaged himself and passed behind the counter. He had raised his head and spoke with precision.

“I am going to tell him. If I could I should remain silent. All that I possess is in the hands of the Germans, both on this side of the frontier and on the other. He has told you. What we do not do voluntarily they will make us do by force. The law of the victor is a terrible law. Believe me, Monsieur Schmoll, at our age we must know how to incline ourselves to it.”

M. Schmoll lifted his arms.

“Is it you who talk like that? You!”

The officer, who was walking before the door, stopped to relight his cigarette. M. Hermann answered:

“What would you have me do? I am only an old dry-goods merchant. We have not wished the war, you or I. We were living in peace. Then why—”

“Be silent!” cried M. Schmoll. “Be silent! I am ashamed of you.”

The officer re-entered.

“Have you decided?”

“I am at your orders,” murmured M. Hermann.

“The sooner the better! Get your hat and let’s go. You know the road?”

“Very well.”

“You will serve us then as a guide. Let us get under way—and quickly.”

M. Schmoll stammered:

“Wretch! Wretch!”

The officer pushed him into the street.

“You, Mayor, come with us!”

M. Hermann exchanged his slippers for heavy shoes, drew on his cloak, locked his cash drawer, put up the shop shutters, extinguished the lamp, and followed the others out.

In the Place four companies were assembled. They put M. Schmoll between two men and the troop set out, M. Hermann leading. M. Schmoll tried to escape. They pushed him back into the ranks with the butts of their rifles. He cried aloud, pointing to M. Hermann:

“Look at the traitor! Vive la France!”

Leaving the village, they followed the national road. Then they took a road leading across the fields. Some distance away, to the left, a bridge crossed the river. But M. Hermann showed them a ford, over which the whole troop passed, scarcely wetting themselves.

“My faith!” exclaimed the officer. “We have gained almost four good kilometers. At this rate we ought to fall on their rear guard before daylight.”

The night was so black that one could hardly see three feet ahead of him. Each time in the course of the march that they came near together M. Schmoll hissed at the dark figure of the guide:

“Boche! Prussian!”

At first M. Hermann simply shrugged his shoulders. Finally, becoming annoyed, he asked the soldiers to put a handkerchief over the mayor’s mouth.

After having marched a good hour they entered a wood. At a junction where three roads crossed M. Hermann said:

“One second, so that I am sure I don’t make a mistake. In the daylight I should have no trouble, but in pitchy blackness like this!”

They advanced very carefully. The company to the rear, which had not preserved its distance, pushed against the company preceding it. The company in the lead had almost come to a halt. The column was thrown into confusion. M. Schmoll found himself against M. Hermann. The trees were so tangled that the troops could neither advance nor retire.

In the semi-panic M. Hermann gave a command in an undertone to M. Schmoll:

“Lie down! For God’s sake, lie down!”

Then, turning about and waving his hat, he shouted at the top of his voice:

“Chasseurs of the 10th! I have brought them to you! Fire into their ranks!”

IN SIMPLE little phrases, such as one uses who has repeated the same thing over and over again, the woman in mourning was telling her story to a neighbor during the intermission at the moving picture show. In these war times one makes acquaintances very easily. Any one individual’s sufferings are but a part and parcel of the sufferings of the community at large.

“Yes, madam, I lost my husband two years ago—my husband that was to be, the father of my little boy. We were to be married in the autumn. He was killed at once—at the very beginning of the war.”

“If he had to go, it was better that he shouldn’t have suffered the hardships of the trenches for a couple of years.”

“Perhaps, yes; perhaps, no. For, at least, we should have seen him again, and he would have written. While this way— My little son here, who is nearly seven years old—he hardly remembers his father. Think of it! My husband was mobilized among the very first. He was not yet twenty-six. Already for eight days he had told me: ‘It will be war. You will see.’ But, like so many others, I wouldn’t believe it.