Epiphany
“Ah!” said Captain the Comte de Garens, “I should think I do remember that Twelfth Night, during the war!
“I was a quartermaster in the Hussars in those days, and for the past fortnight I’d been wandering about scouting in front of a German advance-guard. The night before, we had sabred some Uhlans and lost three men; poor little Raudeville was one of them. You remember Joseph de Raudeville.
“Well, that day my captain ordered me to take ten men to go and occupy the village of Porterin and guard it all night. There had been five fights in three weeks in the place, and not twenty houses were left standing nor twelve people still dwelling in the damned wasps’ nest.
“So I took my ten men and went off at about four o’clock. It was five o’clock, and pitch-dark, when we reached the first ruins of Porterin. I called a halt and ordered Marchas—you know, Pierre de Marchas, who married the Martel-Auvelin girl, the Marquis de Martel-Auvelin’s daughter—to go on alone into the village and bring back a report.
“I had chosen only volunteers, all men of good family. In the army the men prefer not to be on familiar terms with bounders. Marchas was a live wire, as sly as a fox and as wily as a serpent. He could scent a Prussian like a dog a bone, could find food in a spot where we should have died of hunger without him, and could get information from anyone, always accurate, with incredible skill.
“He returned ten minutes later.
“ ‘All serene,’ he said; ‘There hasn’t been a Prussian in the place for three days. The village is a sinister place. I had a talk with a sister who is looking after four or five sick people in an abandoned convent.’
“I ordered my men forward, and we entered the main street. We caught vague glimpses, to right and left, of roofless walls hardly visible in the profound darkness. Here and there a light gleamed behind a window; a family, prompted by courage or necessity, had stayed to guard its barely standing home. Rain was beginning to fall, a thin, icy drizzle that froze before it wetted, as soon as it touched our coats. The horses stumbled over stones, beams, and articles of furniture. Marchas was our guide, walking at our head and leading his beast by the bridle.
“ ‘Where are you taking us?’ I asked him.
“ ‘I’ve got a good place,’ he replied.
“Soon he stopped in front of a small villa, still intact, and fast locked. It was right on the road, with a garden at the rear.
“Picking up a large stone by the entrance gate, Marchas smashed the lock; then he mounted the steps, broke in the front door with kicks and shoulder-thrusts, lit a candle-end that he always kept in his pocket, and preceded us into the pleasant and comfortable home of some wealthy private citizen. He guided us with marvellous assurance, as though he had lived in the house, which he was, as a matter of fact, seeing for the first time.
“Two men remained outside, guarding our horses.
“ ‘The stables must be on the left,’ said Marchas to fat Ponderel, who was following him; ‘I saw them as I came in. Go and put up the animals: we don’t need them any more.’
“He turned to me.
“ ‘Give your orders—can’t you?—damn your eyes!’
“The fellow was always surprising me.
“ ‘I’m going to put sentries round the village,’ I replied, laughing. ‘I’ll find you here when I’ve finished.’
“ ‘How many men are you taking?’ he asked.
“ ‘Five. The others will relieve them at ten tonight.’
“ ‘Right. You’re leaving me four to get food, do the cooking, and lay the table. I’m going to find where the wine is hidden.’
“I went off to reconnoitre the deserted streets as far as the point where they ran out into the plain, and placed my sentries.
“I was back again in half an hour. I found Marchas lying in a large lounge chair; he had taken off its loose cover, for love of soft living, he said. He was toasting his feet at the fire, and smoking an excellent cigar, the scent of which filled the room. He was alone, his elbows on the arms of the chair, his head sunk between his shoulders, his cheeks pink, his eyes bright, and his expression one of delighted contentment.
“I heard a clatter of plates in the next room. Marchas greeted me with a beatific smile.
“ ‘All serene,’ he said; ‘I found the claret in the henhouse, the champagne under the front doorsteps, and the brandy—fifty bottles of real good stuff—in the kitchen garden, under a pear-tree, which, in the light of a lantern, did not look to me to be quite straight. As for victuals, we’ve two hens, a goose, a duck, three pigeons, and a blackbird found in a cage; nothing, in fact, but our feathered friends. It’s all cooking now. This is a splendid place.’
“I had sat down opposite him. The flame in the fireplace scorched my nose and cheeks.
“ ‘Where did you find that wood?’ I asked.
“ ‘Wonderful wood,’ he murmured, ‘first-rate carriage, a coupé. It’s the paint that makes it flare up, a sort of punch of spirit and varnish. A jolly good house!’
“I laughed at the fellow, he was so comic.
“ ‘And to think it’s Twelfth Night!’ he continued. ‘I’ve had a bean put in the goose; but there’s no queen; what a pity!’
“ ‘What a pity!’ I echoed; ‘but what do you want me to do about it?’
“ ‘Find ’em, of course!’
“ ‘What?’
“ ‘Women.’
“ ‘Women? … You’re mad.’
“ ‘Well, I found the brandy under the pear-tree—didn’t I?—and the champagne under the doorsteps, and I had nothing to go on, either. Whereas, for you, a skirt is a sure sign. You just have a hunt, old man.’
“He seemed so grave, so serious, so convinced, that I could not tell if he were jesting.
“ ‘Marchas,’ I replied, ‘you’re pulling my leg.’
“ ‘No, I’m not; I never do, on service.’
“ ‘But where the devil do you expect me to find women?’
“ ‘Anywhere. There must be two or three left in the neighbourhood. Rout them out and bring them along.’
“I rose. It was too hot in front of the fire.
“ ‘Do you want a suggestion?’ added Marchas.
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Go and find the priest.’
“ ‘The priest. What for?’
“ ‘Ask him to supper, and tell him to bring a woman.’
“ ‘The priest! A woman! Ha! ha! ha!’
“ ‘I’m not joking,’ replied Marchas with extraordinary seriousness. ‘Go and find the priest, and tell him our situation. He must be frightfully bored; he’ll come all right. But tell him we must have at least one woman, a decent woman, of course, since we’re all gentlemen. He must have his female parishioners’ names and natures at his fingers’ ends. If there’s a possible one about, and you make a good job of it, he’ll tell you who she is.’
“ ‘But, good Lord, Marchas, what are you thinking of?’
“ ‘My dear Garens, you can do it beautifully. It’ll be awfully funny. Damn it, we’re all good fellows, decently bred and agreeable and that sort of thing. Give the priest our names, make him laugh, soften his heart, seduce him, and win him over!’
“ ‘No, it’s impossible.’
“He drew up his chair. The dog knew my pet weakness, and replied:
“ ‘Think what a joke it would be, and what a good story it will make. The whole army will be talking of it. It’ll get you no end of a reputation.’
“I wavered, tempted by the adventure.
“ ‘Come on, Garens,’ he persisted. ‘You’re commander here, and the only man who can go and seek out the local commander of the Church. Do go. And I’ll make a poem about it, in the Revue des Deux Mondes, after the war, I swear I will. You owe it to your men; you’ve been trotting them all over the place for a solid month.’
“I got up.
“ ‘Where is the rectory?’ I asked.
“ ‘Take the second turning on the left. At the end of it, you’ll find an avenue, and, at the end of the avenue, the church. The rectory is beside it.’
“As he went out, he called after me:
“ ‘Tell him the menu, to give him an appetite.’
“I had no difficulty in finding the priest’s little house, beside a large ugly brick church. The door had no bell or knocker, and I beat it with my upon fist.
“ ‘Who’s there?’ asked a loud voice from within.
“ ‘Quartermaster of Hussars,’ I replied.
“I heard a noise of bolts and a key being turned, and found myself face to face with a tall, potbellied priest, with the chest of a prizefighter, formidable hands issuing from his rolled-back sleeves, a red complexion, and an air of good-fellowship.
“I saluted him in military fashion.
“ ‘Good afternoon, your Reverence.’
“He had feared a surprise, an ambuscade by wandering troops, and it was with a smile that he replied:
“ ‘Good afternoon, friend; come in.’
“I followed him into a little room with a red tiled floor; a meagre fire was burning, very different from Marchas’ furnace.
“He showed me a chair, and then said:
“ ‘What can I do for you?’
“ ‘First of all, your Reverence, permit me to introduce myself.’
“And I offered him my card.
“He took it, and repeated under his breath:
“ ‘The Comte de Garens.’
“ ‘There are eleven of us here, your Reverence,’ I continued, ‘five out on guard, and six installed in the house of some unknown resident. The six are Garens, myself here, Pierre de Marchas, Ludovic de Ponderel, the Baron d’Étreillis, Karl Massonligny, the son of the artist, and Joseph Herbon, a young musician. I have come, on their behalf and my own, to ask you to do us the honour of supping with us. It is a Twelfth Night supper, sir, and we should like to make some sort of festive occasion of it.’
“The priest smiled.
“ ‘This hardly seems an occasion for merriment,’ he murmured.
“ ‘We’re fighting every day, sir,’ I replied. ‘Fourteen of our comrades have died in the past month, and three fell only yesterday. It is war. We’re staking our lives every moment; haven’t we the right to play the game gaily? We are Frenchmen, we love to laugh, and we can laugh anywhere. Our fathers laughed on the scaffold! And this evening we want to relax a little, like gentlemen, not a vulgar orgy, you understand. Are we wrong?’
“ ‘You are right, my friend,’ he replied eagerly, ‘and I have the greatest pleasure in accepting your invitation. Hermance!’ he shouted.
“An aged peasant woman, bent, wrinkled, and hideous, appeared and asked:
“ ‘What is it?’
“ ‘I shan’t be dining here, girl.’
“ ‘Where are you dining, then?’
“ ‘With the gentlemen of the Hussars.’
“I wanted to say: ‘Bring your servant,’ for the sake of seeing Marchas’ face, but I did not dare.
“ ‘Among those of your parishioners who have stayed in the village,’ I began, ‘can you think of anyone, man or woman, whom I could invite also?’
“He paused and thought.
“ ‘No, no one,’ he replied.
“ ‘No one!’ … I persisted. ‘Come now, your Reverence, do think. It would be vastly diverting to have ladies. Married couples, I mean. Of course, I don’t know any. The baker and his wife, perhaps? The grocer, the … the … the … the watchmaker … the … the shoemaker … the … the chemist and his lady. … We’ve good food, and wine, and we should love to leave a kindly remembrance of ourselves here.’
“Again the priest reflected for some time, and finally declared with decision:
“ ‘No, no one.’
“I began to laugh.
“ ‘But, damn it, your Reverence, it’s a pity not to have a queen; we’ve got a bean. Now do think. Isn’t there a married mayor, a married deputy mayor, a married town councillor, a married schoolmaster? …’
“ ‘No, all the ladies have gone.’
“ ‘What, is there no good lady with her man in the whole place, to whom we could give this little pleasure, for it would be a great pleasure for them, in the present circumstances?’
“All of a sudden the priest burst out in a violent fit of laughter that shook his whole body.
“ ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ he exclaimed, ‘I’ve got it; by the Lord, I’ve got it! Ha! ha! ha! we’ll have a good laugh, my lads, that we will. And they’ll be awfully pleased, awfully pleased! Ha! ha! Now, where are you billeted?’
“I told him the house, and described it. He knew it.
“ ‘That’s splendid. It’s M. Bertin-Lavaille’s place. I’ll be there in half an hour with four ladies!!! Ha! ha! ha! four ladies!!! …’
“He went out with me, still laughing, and left me, repeating:
“ ‘In half an hour, then, at Bertin-Lavaille’s house.’
“I went back quickly, in great astonishment and excitement.
“ ‘How many places?’ inquired Marchas, catching sight of me.
“ ‘Eleven. Six of us Hussars, the priest, and four ladies.’
“He was overwhelmed. It was my hour of triumph.
“ ‘Four ladies! Did you say four ladies?’ he repeated.
“ ‘I said four ladies.’
“ ‘Real women?’
“ ‘Real women.’
“ ‘Good God! My congratulations!’
“ ‘I accept them. I deserve them.’
“He quitted his armchair, and opened the door. I saw a fine white cloth laid on a long table round which three Hussars in blue aprons were setting plates and glasses.
“ ‘There will be women!’ shouted Marchas, and the three men capered about and applauded mightily.
“All was ready. We were waiting. We waited for nearly an hour. A delicious smell of roasting poultry was wafted over the whole house.
“A knock upon the shutter made us all start up simultaneously. Fat Ponderel ran to open the door and, scarcely a minute later, a little nun appeared in the doorway. She was thin, wrinkled, and timid; and bowed in turn to each of the four scared Hussars who watched her come in. Behind her was a noise of sticks tapping upon the corridor tiles, and, when she had passed into the drawing room, I could see three old white-bonneted heads following behind, all swaying along with different movements, one lolling to the right, and another to the left. And three old women appeared, limping, dragging a leg, lamed with disease and deformed by old age, three pensioned-off invalids, the only three patients still capable of walking out of the hospital, directed by Sister Saint-Benedict.
“She had turned back towards her patients, full of solicitude for them; then, seeing the gold lace that marked me as a quartermaster, she addressed me:
“ ‘Thank you very much, sir, for thinking of these poor women. They have very little pleasure in their lives, and it is a great happiness and a great honour that you are bestowing on them.’
“I could see the priest, who had remained in the darkness of the passage; he was laughing uproariously. I too began to laugh, especially at sight of Marchas’ face. Then I showed the nun some chairs:
“ ‘Sit down, Sister; we are very proud and happy that you have accepted our modest invitation.’
“She took three chairs from along the wall and set them in a row before the fire. Then she led up her three charges and sat them down therein, taking away their sticks and shawls, which she laid down in a corner. Pointing to the first woman, a thin creature with an enormous stomach, obviously dropsical, she announced:
“ ‘This is old Mother Paumelle, whose husband was killed by falling off a roof and whose son died in Africa. She is sixty-two.’
“Then she indicated the second, a tall woman whose head was always shaking.
“ ‘This is old Mother Jean-Jean, aged sixty-seven. She is almost blind; her face was scorched in a fire and her right leg half burnt away.’
“Finally she showed us the third, a sort of dwarf with protruding eyes rolling in every direction, round and vacant.
“ ‘This is Putois, a half-wit. She is only forty-four.’
“I had saluted the three as though they were Royal Highnesses to whom I was being presented. I turned to the priest:
“ ‘You are a treasure, your Reverence,’ I said, ‘and all of us here owe you a debt of gratitude.’
“Everyone laughed, except Marchas, who seemed in a furious temper.
“ ‘Sister Saint-Benedict is served,’ suddenly shouted Karl Massonligny.
“I sent her in front with the priest, and followed supporting old Mother Paumelle, taking her arm and leading her into the next room, not without difficulty, for her bloated body seemed heavier than iron.
“Fat Ponderel took in Mother Jean-Jean, who whined for her crutch, and little Joseph Herbon led Putois, the idiot, to the dining room, which was full of the odour of food.
“As soon as we were in our places, the Sister clapped her hands three times, and, with the precision of soldiers presenting arms, the women rapidly crossed themselves. Then the priest slowly recited the Latin words of the Benedicite.
“We all sat down, and the two fowls appeared, carried in by Marchas, who was eager to act as a waiter in order to avoid being present as a guest at the absurd meal.
“ ‘The champagne, quick!’ I shouted. A cork popped with a noise like a pistol-shot, and, despite the protests of the priest and the Sister, the three Hussars seated beside the three invalids forcibly poured their three full glasses down their neighbours’ throats.
“Massonligny, who had a gift for making himself at home anywhere and at his ease with anyone, was paying elaborate and rarely comic attentions to Mother Paumelle. The victim of dropsy was still gay at heart in spite of her misfortunes, and made lively and teasing replies in a falsetto voice that sounded as if it were artificially assumed. She laughed so violently at her neighbour’s pleasantries that her huge belly seemed on the point of flying up and rolling all over the table. Little Herbon had seriously taken in hand the business of making the half-wit drunk, and the Baron d’Étreillis, who was rather slow in the uptake, questioned Mother Jean-Jean on the life, customs, and direction of the hospital.
“ ‘Oh!’ cried the frightened nun to Massonligny. ‘You will make her ill; please don’t make her laugh like that, I beg you, sir. Oh! sir! …’
“She rose and flew at Herbon, to snatch away the full glass he was nimbly emptying into Putois’ mouth.
“The priest was almost helpless with laughter, repeating:
“ ‘Let them alone for once, Sister, it doesn’t do them any harm. Let them alone.’
“After the two fowls we had eaten the duck, flanked by the three pigeons and the blackbird; then the goose appeared, smoking and golden, spreading around a warm smell of browned, juicy meat.
“Mother Paumelle, who was growing more lively, clapped her hands; Mother Jean-Jean stopped replying to the Baron’s numerous questions, and Putois uttered little grunts of pleasure, half cries and half sighs, like the sound made by little children who are offered sweets.
“ ‘May I take charge of this animal?’ inquired the priest. ‘I am an expert in such operations.’
“ ‘Certainly, your Reverence.’
“ ‘Might we have the window open a little?’ asked the Sister. ‘They are too hot; I am sure they will be ill.’
“ ‘Open the window for a minute,’ I said, turning to Marchas.
“He opened it and the cold air from outside came in, setting the candles flickering and the smoke from the goose eddying round the room; the priest, with a napkin round his neck, was scientifically removing the bird’s wings.
“We watched him at work, without speaking, fascinated by his lovely skill, and dowered with renewed appetites at the sight of the huge golden creature whose limbs fell one after another into the brown gravy at the bottom of the dish.
“Suddenly, in the middle of our greedy, attentive silence, there entered through the open window the sound of a distant rifle shot.
“I was on my feet so quickly that my chair fell over behind me.
“ ‘To horse, all of you!’ I cried. ‘Marchas, take two men and go and get news. I shall be waiting here for you in five minutes.’
“And while the three riders galloped away into the night, I and my two other Hussars mounted at the steps of the villa. The priest, the Sister, and the three worthy women showed their scared faces at the windows.
“Nothing more was to be heard, except for the barking of a dog in the distance. The rain had stopped; it was cold, very cold. A moment later I could hear a galloping horse, a single horse returning.
“It was Marchas.
“ ‘Well?’ I shouted.
“ ‘Nothing at all,’ he replied. ‘François has wounded an old peasant who refused to answer to the “Who goes there?” and continued to advance, in spite of the order to clear off. They’re bringing him in, and we shall see who he is.’
“I ordered the horses to be put back in the stables, and sent my two men to meet the others. Then I returned to the house.
“The priest, Marchas, and I carried down a mattress into the drawing room for the wounded man; the Sister tore us a napkin and made lint of it, while the three bewildered women remained sitting in a corner.
“Soon I heard a sound of sabres clattering on the road; I took a candle to give light to the men who were returning. They came into sight, bearing the inert, slack, long, sinister shape that a human body becomes when the vigour of life has withdrawn.
“The wounded man was laid upon the mattress prepared for him, and I saw at the first glance that he was dying.
“There was a rattling in his throat, and he was spitting blood; it trickled from the corners of his lips, spurting from his mouth at each hiccup. The poor man was covered with it! His cheeks, his beard, his hair, his neck, his clothes, all seemed to have been scoured and bathed in a basin of red. The blood had congealed upon him, and had grown stale, dull, and mixed with mud; a horrible sight.
“Wrapped in a great frieze cloak, the old man kept half opening sad, lightless, empty eyes, that seemed dazed with astonishment, like those of a shot beast fallen at the hunter’s feet; already three parts dead, besotted with surprise and terror, he stared at his slayer.
“ ‘Ah!’ cried the priest, ‘it’s Father Placide, the old shepherd from Les Moulins. The poor old man’s deaf, and cannot have heard. Dear! dear! you’ve killed the poor wretch!’
“The Sister had torn away his blouse and his shirt, and was gazing at a little purple hole, no longer bleeding, in the middle of his chest.
“ ‘There is nothing to be done,’ she said.
“The shepherd, gasping terribly, was still spitting blood at every one of his last breaths; in his throat, right down to the lungs, could be heard a ceaseless, sinister, gurgling sound.
“The priest, standing over him, raised his right hand, made the sign of the cross, and in a slow, solemn voice uttered the Latin words that wash clean the soul.
“Before he had finished, the old man was shaken with a brief shudder, as though something inside him had just broken. He had stopped breathing. He was dead.
“Turning round, I saw a spectacle more ghastly than the last agonies of the unfortunate man: the three old women, standing huddled together, were making hideous grimaces of anguish and horror.
“I went towards them, and they began to utter shrill screams and tried to run away, as though I were going to kill them too.
“Mother Jean-Jean, who could put no weight on her burnt leg, fell full length upon the floor.
“The Sister, abandoning the dead man, ran to her charges, and, without a word or a glance at me, wrapped them in their shawls, gave them their crutches, hustled them to the door, thrust them out of it, and vanished with them into the utter blackness of the night.
“I realised that I could not even send one Hussar with them; the mere noise of his sabre would have driven them out of their minds.
“The priest was still staring at the dead man.
“At last he turned round towards me.
“ ‘A bad business,’ he said, ‘a bad business.’ ”