Great French Short Stories

Paul Negri

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780486115412
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

Twelve of the finest short stories by great French writers comprise this excellent collection, with themes that range from desire and psychological intrigue to the mysteries of failure and success.
Includes: `The Horla` and `The Necklace` by Guy de Maupassant; `The Attack on the Mill` by Emile Zola; `Mocromegas` by Voltaire; `The Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaler` by Gustave Flaubert; `Mateo Falcone` by Prosper Mérimée; `The Return of the Prodigal Son` by André Gide; `The Dark Lantern` by Jules Renard; `Emilie` by Gérard de Nerval; `The Unknown Masterpieces` by Honoré de Balzac; `The Pope's Mule` by Alphonse Daudet; and `Salomé` by Jules Laforgue.
Classic explorations of passion, terror, and fate, these enduring literary gems will be invaluable to students and teachers of French literature and a joy for anyone who delights in fine writing.

Emile Zola

THE ATTACK ON THE MILL

L’Attaque du Moulin

I

Old Merlier’s mill, that fine summer evening, was extremely festive. In the courtyard three tables had been laid, placed end to end, and were awaiting the guests. Everyone in the vicinity knew that on that day Merlier’s daughter Françoise was to be betrothed to Dominique, a young man who was reproached for laziness, but whom the women for three leagues around looked upon with a gleam in their eyes, he was so handsome.

This mill of old Merlier’s was a real treat. It was located right in the center of Rocreuse, in the spot where the highway makes a bend. The village has only one street, two rows of cottages, one row on each side of the road; but there, at the bend, meadows open out, and tall trees, following the course of the Morelle, cover the bottom of the valley with magnificent shade. In all of Lorraine, there isn’t a more charming corner of nature. To the right and to the left, dense forests and centuries-old woods climb gentle slopes, filling the horizon with an ocean of greenery; while, toward the south, the plain stretches, wonderfully fertile, unfurling to infinity plots of ground divided by quickset hedges. But the charm of Rocreuse is chiefly due to the coolness of this pocket of greenery on the hottest days of July and August. The Morelle comes down from the forests, beneath which it flows for leagues; it brings along the murmuring sounds, the chilly and meditative shade of the woods. And that stream isn’t the only source of coolness; all sorts of running streams sing beneath the trees; at each step, springs gush forth; when you follow the narrow paths, you feel as if underground lakes are penetrating the moss and taking advantage of the slightest cracks, at the foot of the trees, between the rocks, to pour out in crystal fountains. The whispering voices of these brooks are raised so loud and in such numbers that they drown out the song of the bullfinches. You’d think you were in some enchanted park, with cascades falling everywhere.

Farther down, the grasslands are soaked. Gigantic chestnut trees cast black shadows. Along the edges of the meadows, long curtains of poplars align their rustling tapestries. There are two avenues of enormous plane trees that cross the fields as they ascend to the old Château de Gagny, today in ruins. In this continually watered land, the grass grows luxuriantly. It forms a sort of garden plot between the two wooded hills, but a natural garden, with the meadows for lawns and the giant trees constituting the colossal flower beds. When the noonday sun beams down vertically, the shadows grow blue and the illuminated grass sleeps in the heat, while a chilly shudder runs through the foliage.

And it was there that old Merlier’s mill brightened a corner of that wild greenery with its click-clack. The building, made of plaster and boards, seemed as old as the world. Half of it dipped into the Morelle, which at that spot rounds out into a clear pool. A sluice had been installed, with the water dropping several meters onto the mill wheel, which creaked as it turned with the asthmatic cough of a loyal servant who had grown old in the household. When people advised old Merlier to replace it, he shook his head, saying that a young wheel would be lazier and wouldn’t know its job so well; and he used to patch up the old one with anything that came to hand, barrel staves, rusty scraps of iron, zinc, lead. The wheel seemed all the merrier for it, with its profile that had become strange, with its tufts of grass and moss all over. When the water struck it with its silvery current, it was covered with pearls, and its strange framework seemed to be adorned with a shining set of mother-of-pearl necklaces.

The part of the mill that dipped into the Morelle that way looked like a barbarian ark that had washed up there. A good half of the dwelling was built on piles. The water came in under the floor, there were deep places well known in the vicinity for the eels and enormous crayfish that were caught there. Downstream from the water drop, the pool was as limpid as a mirror, and when the wheel wasn’t disturbing it with its foam, you could see schools of large fish swimming as slowly as a naval squadron. A broken staircase led down to the stream, near a piling to which a boat was tied up. A wooden gallery passed over the street. The mill had irregularly spaced windows. It was a hodgepodge of angles, small walls, belatedly added constructions, beams, and roof levels, which made it look like an old citadel that had been dismantled. But ivy had grown on it, and all sorts of climbing plants stopped up the cracks that were too big and threw a green mantle over the old dwelling. The well-born young ladies who passed that way used to draw old Merlier’s mill in their sketchbooks.

On the side facing the road, the house was more solid. A stone gate led into the large courtyard, which was bordered on the right and left with sheds and stables. Near a well, an immense elm covered half the courtyard with its shade. At the far end of the yard, the house aligned the four windows of its second story, surmounted by a dovecote. Old Merlier’s only concession to finery was to have that house front whitewashed every ten years. It had just been repainted, and it dazzled the village when the sun lit it up at midday.

For twenty years, old Merlier had been mayor of Rocreuse. He was esteemed for the fortune he had been able to earn. People thought he was worth about eighty thousand francs, accumulated one sou at a time. When he married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as dowry, he barely owned more than his two arms. But Madeleine had never regretted her choice, because he had carried on the business of the couple so vigorously. Now his wife was dead and he remained a widower with his daughter Françoise. No doubt, he could have retired and let his mill wheel sleep in the moss; but he would have been too bored, and the house would have seemed dead to him. He kept on working for the pleasure of it. At the time, old Merlier was a tall old man, with a long, taciturn face; he never laughed, but all the same he was very jolly inside. He had been elected mayor on account of his money, and also for the fine appearance he made when officiating at a wedding.

Françoise Merlier had just turned eighteen. She wasn’t considered one of the real beauties of the vicinity, because she was puny. Up to the age of fifteen she had even been homely. People in Rocreuse couldn’t understand why the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Merlier, both so sturdy, grew up so unsatisfactorily, as if regretfully. But at fifteen, though she remained frail, she developed a little face that was the prettiest in the world. She had black hair and dark eyes, and yet was very pink; her lips were always laughing, her cheeks were dimpled, and there seemed to be a wreath of sunlight on her clear brow. Although underdeveloped for local tastes, she wasn’t scrawny, far from it; what they really meant to say was that she wouldn’t have been able to lift a sack of wheat; but, as she grew older, she was becoming quite chubby, and in time she would be as round and luscious as a quail. Only, her father’s long periods of silence had made her sensible while still quite young. If she was constantly laughing, that was to give pleasure to others. Deep down, she was serious.

Naturally, every local lad wooed her, even more for her money than for her pleasant personality. And she had finally made a choice that had just shocked the countryside. Across the Morelle lived a tall young fellow called Dominique Penquer. He wasn’t from Rocreuse. Ten years earlier, he had come from Belgium to take over an inheritance from an uncle; this small property was located at the very edge of the Forest of Gagny, just opposite the mill, at a few rifle shots’ distance. He said he had come merely to sell that property and go back home, but it seems that the area delighted him, because he never moved away. He was seen cultivating his little field and harvesting a few vegetables, which he lived on. He used to fish and hunt; several times the gamekeepers almost caught him and reported him to the police. This free-wheeling existence, which the peasants couldn’t rightly see how he could afford, had finally given him a bad reputation. They vaguely called him a poacher. At any rate, he was lazy, because he was often found asleep on the grass at hours when he should have been working. The cottage he lived in, underneath the outermost trees in the forest, didn’t resemble an honest fellow’s home, either. If he had had dealings with the wolves in the ruins of Gagny, that wouldn’t have surprised the old women one bit. And yet at times the girls ventured to defend him, because he was splendid-looking, that suspicious character, supple and tall as a poplar, with a very white skin and blond beard and hair that looked like gold in the sunlight. Now, one fine morning Françoise had announced to old Merlier that she loved Dominique and would never consent to marry any other man.

Just imagine what a cudgel blow old Merlier received that day! As was his custom, he said nothing. He was wearing his meditative expression, but his inner jollity was no longer gleaming from his eyes. They both sulked for a week. Françoise, too, was quite solemn. What was tormenting old Merlier was his failure to understand how that rascally poacher had been able to bewitch his daughter. Dominique had never come to the mill. The miller kept a lookout, and observed the wooer on the other side of the Morelle lying on the grass and pretending to be asleep. From her room Françoise could see him. The matter was clear; they must have fallen in love making eyes at each other over the mill wheel.

Meanwhile, another week went by. Françoise was becoming more and more solemn. Old Merlier still wasn’t saying anything. Then, one evening, silently, he himself brought in Dominique. Françoise was just laying the table. She didn’t appear surprised; all she did was add another setting; but the little dimples in her cheeks had just appeared again, and her laughter had returned. That morning, old Merlier had gone to see Dominique in his cottage on the edge of the woods. There the two men had talked for three hours, with doors and windows shut. No one ever found out what it was they said to each other. What is certain is that, when he came out, old Merlier was already treating Dominique like his son. No doubt the old man had found the lad he had gone looking for, an upstanding lad, in that lazybones who stretched out on the grass to get the girls to love him.

All Rocreuse talked. The women, in their doorways, couldn’t say enough about the folly of old Merlier, who was taking a scoundrel into his house that way. He let them talk. Perhaps he had recalled his own wedding. He hadn’t owned a red cent, either, when he had married Madeleine and her mill, but that hadn’t prevented him from being a good husband. Besides, Dominique put an end to the gossip by beginning to work so hard that the locals were amazed. The mill hand had just been drafted into the army, and Dominique wouldn’t hear of their hiring anyone else. He carried the sacks, drove the cart, and struggled with the ancient wheel when it needed to be coaxed to turn—all this so cheerfully that people came to watch him for their pleasure. Old Merlier wore his taciturn smile. He was very proud of having realized what that lad had in him. There’s nothing like love to put heart into young men.

Amid all this heavy labor, Françoise and Dominique adored each other. They rarely spoke to each other, but they looked at each other with a smiling tenderness. Up to then old Merlier hadn’t said a word about the wedding; and both of them respected that silence, awaiting the old man’s pleasure. Finally, one day toward the middle of July, he had had three tables laid in the courtyard, under the big elm, inviting his friends from Rocreuse to come that evening for a drink with him. When the courtyard was full and everyone had his glass in his hand, old Merlier raised his very high and said:

“It’s to have the pleasure of announcing to you that Françoise will marry that strapping fellow there in a month, on Saint Louis’s Day.”

Then they clinked glasses noisily. Everyone was laughing. But old Merlier, raising his voice, went on to say:

“Dominique, kiss your betrothed. It’s the thing to do.”

And they kissed, their faces red, while the guests laughed even louder. It was a real celebration. They emptied a small cask. Then, when only close friends were left, they chatted tranquilly. Night had fallen, a starry, very bright night. Dominique and Françoise, seated on a bench one next to the other, said nothing. An old peasant was talking about the war that the Emperor had declared on Prussia. All the village boys had already left. The day before, troops had gone by again. The fight was going to be a tough one.

“Bah!” said old Merlier, with the egotism of a happy man. “Dominique is a foreigner, he won’t have to go . . .” And if the Prussians came, he’d be there to defend his wife.

The idea that the Prussians might come seemed like a good joke. They were going to get a real drubbing, and all would soon be over.

“I’ve already seen them, I’ve already seen them,” the old peasant repeated in a hollow voice.

There was a silence. Then they clinked glasses again. Françoise and Dominique hadn’t heard any of this; they had taken each other’s hand gently, behind the bench so that they couldn’t be seen doing it, and they felt so good that way that they just sat there, their eyes lost in the depths of the darkness.

What a warm, splendid night! The village was falling asleep on the two sides of the white highway, as untroubled as a child. All that was still heard, at long intervals, was the crowing of some rooster that had awakened too early. From the great forests nearby, long exhalations descended and passed over the rooftops like caresses. The meadows, with their dark shade trees, took on a mysterious, reflective majesty, while all the springs, all the running waters that gushed forth in the dark, seemed to be the cool, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping countryside. At moments, the old mill wheel, in slumber, seemed to be having dreams, like those old watchdogs that bark as they snore; it creaked, it spoke to itself, rocked by the water drop in the Morelle; that sheet of water emitted a steady musical sound like an organ pipe. Never had such extensive peace been spread over a more fortunate corner of nature.

II

One month later to the day, precisely on the eve of Saint Louis’s Day, Rocreuse was living in terror. The Prussians had beaten the Emperor, and were advancing toward the village in forced marches. For a week, people passing along the road had been announcing the Prussians: “They’re at Lormières, they’re at Novelles”; and, hearing these reports that they were drawing near so quickly, every morning the people of Rocreuse thought they saw them coming down through the Forest of Gagny. But they didn’t come, and that frightened people even more. They would surely fall upon the village at night and slaughter everyone.

On the night before, a little before daybreak, there had been an alarm. The inhabitants had awakened, hearing a loud noise of men on the road. The women were already falling on their knees and crossing themselves, when some people recognized red trousers through their cautiously half-opened windows. It was a French detachment. Their captain had immediately asked for the local mayor, and he had remained at the mill after talking with old Merlier.

The sun was rising cheerfully that day. It would be hot at noon. A golden brightness hovered over the woods, while down below, above the meadows, white mists were rising. The village, clean and pretty, was waking up in the cool air, and the countryside, with its stream and fountains, had the moist charms of a bunch of flowers. But that beautiful day didn’t make anyone smile. They had just seen the captain walking to and fro around the mill, looking at the neighboring houses, crossing the Morelle, and, from there, studying the region with binoculars. Old Merlier, who accompanied him, seemed to be giving him explanations. Next, the captain had stationed soldiers behind walls, behind trees, in hollows. The bulk of the detachment was camping in the courtyard of the mill. Was there going to be a battle, then? And when old Merlier got back, he was questioned. He gave a long nod but didn’t speak. Yes, there was going to be a battle.

Françoise and Dominique were there in the courtyard looking at him. Finally he took his pipe out of his mouth, and spoke this simple sentence:

“Ah, my poor children, it’s not tomorrow that I’ll marry you!”

Dominique, his lips taut, with an angry wrinkle on his brow, raised himself up at times, keeping his eyes fixed on the Forest of Gagny, as if he wanted to see the Prussians arrive. Françoise, very pale and solemn, was coming and going, supplying the soldiers’ needs. They were cooking soup in a corner of the courtyard and were joking while awaiting their food.

Meanwhile, the captain seemed delighted. He had inspected the bedrooms and main parlor of the mill that faced the stream. Now,...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Note
• Table of Contents
• THE LEGEND OF ST. JULIAN THE HOSPITALER - La Légende de Saint Julien l’Hospitalier
• THE NECKLACE - La Parure
• THE HORLA - Le Horla
• THE UNKNOWN MASTERPIECE - Le Chef-d’Oeuvre Inconnu
• THE ATTACK ON THE MILL - L’Attaque du Moulin
• MATEO FALCONE
• THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON - Le Retour de l’Enfant Prodigue
• THE DARK LANTERN - La Lanterne Sourde
• EMILIE
• MICROMEGAS - Micromégas
• THE POPE’S MULE - La Mule du Pape
• SALOMÉ
• DOVER · THRIFT · EDITIONS