A Lady's Story (short story)

Nine years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were riding towards evening in haymaking time to fetch the letters from the station.

The weather was magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of thunder, and saw an angry black storm-cloud which was coming straight towards us. The storm-cloud was approaching us and we were approaching it.

Against the background of it our house and church looked white and the tall poplars shone like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My companion was in high spirits. He kept laughing and talking all sorts of nonsense. He said it would be nice if we could suddenly come upon a medieval castle with turreted towers, with moss on it and owls, in which we could take shelter from the rain and in the end be killed by a thunderbolt.…

Then the first wave raced through the rye and a field of oats, there was a gust of wind, and the dust flew round and round in the air. Pyotr Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on his horse.

“It’s fine!” he cried, “it’s splendid!”

Infected by his gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that in a minute I should be drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning.

Riding swiftly in a hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and feels like a bird, thrills one and puts one’s heart in a flutter. By the time we rode into our courtyard the wind had gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the grass and on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stable.

Pyotr Sergeyitch himself took the bridles off, and led the horses to their stalls. I stood in the doorway waiting for him to finish, and watching the slanting streaks of rain; the sweetish, exciting scent of hay was even stronger here than in the fields; the storm-clouds and the rain made it almost twilight.

“What a crash!” said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loud rolling peal of thunder when it seemed as though the sky were split in two. “What do you say to that?”

He stood beside me in the doorway and, still breathless from his rapid ride, looked at me. I could see that he was admiring me.

“Natalya Vladimirovna,” he said, “I would give anything only to stay here a little longer and look at you. You are lovely to-day.”

His eyes looked at me with delight and supplication, his face was pale. On his beard and mustache were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to be looking at me with love.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. I know you cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; only know that I love you. Be silent, do not answer me, take no notice of it, but only know that you are dear to me and let me look at you.”

His rapture affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, listened to his voice which mingled with the patter of the rain, and stood as though spellbound, unable to stir.

I longed to go on endlessly looking at his shining eyes and listening.

“You say nothing, and that is splendid,” said Pyotr Sergeyitch. “Go on being silent.”

I felt happy. I laughed with delight and ran through the drenching rain to the house; he laughed too, and, leaping as he went, ran after me

The Flaying (short story)

Finally, I was able to obtain an appointment with an official from the Department of Employment. I knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for the permission to enter.

I stepped towards him with a few steps, steps that I tried to make sturdy, but I failed, though I managed to put on a pale smile.
He pointed towards a chair in front of him. I bowed before I sat down. On the glass surface of his office I placed a green envelope that contains a set of documents that will speak on my behalf.

He opened the envelope and browsed through the papers with skilled, hairy and big white fingers, then close the envelope and puckered his lips. Through his medical eyeglasses he glanced at me with looks that had no meaning, or possibly they had meaning but I wasn’t certain what they meant.
He smiled and said: “are you lucky?”

I was sitting silently the whole time. His question drowned me more in my silence. The silence wasn’t fear from him or wisdom from my side; rather it’s Convinced of the futility of speech.

I was stunned completely by his question; I couldn’t find any expression to respond or to figure out what was the hidden message behind the question!
He repeated his question in different wording: “ Do you see yourself as one of those who posses good fortune?”

How do I know!
Most of those and whom we call fortunate people in the World do not need luck to be so.
What I feel now it gives me the privilege and status of “Misfortunate” and unchallenged, I won the title “ The chief of the misfortunate people”

I’m an unlucky man.
I need a little bit of success.

Two answers attended my mind at that instant to respond to his question. The first impulsive answer came to my mind was: “If I’m a lucky man, will I be here now! And facing you! And of course I didn’t dare to say it. In stead I said, “I think I see myself as those who are fortunate.
I intended by this response to deal with his thoughts in contrive to gain his confidence ...


All institutions are striving in a quest of success and wishing seriously that all their staff would be lucky and successful in providing high-quality service to the work they are doing.

“I think I see myself as those who are fortunate.” I said,
His instant answer was, “That not good enough! I have to be certain and place that into practice right away!
Moment of silence, he examined me with his eyes, then said;
-“ Do you have money?”
“Pardon me!”
“A few dirhams?”
“ I have some.”
“ Then go to the nearest shop and buy a scratch and win card and come back quickly, you will find me here waiting for you!” He added affirmatively, “ Make sure it is a scratchy card”.

At this moment, the human vulnerabilities took a grasp over my mind and my entire being. Although I astonished by his request, I didn’t find any way out only to comply with his command.
I rushed to the nearest shop, the kind that sells cigarettes, different kind of chewing gum, candies, chocolates, stamps and of course lottery cards and of the type of scratch and win.
Many times I came across those cards and noticed many people were buying it but I paid little attention to it, as a matter of fact I was censuring it.

I returned back running,
The sweat poured out from my forehead and my under armpits. I worried the sweat would turn to bad odour and could be smelly. I sniffed under my arm. The odour was at the beginning of its formation. I speculated the meeting wont take longer and the odour wont dare to declare it self and be noticeably smell unless I’m out in the street or somewhere in an open space.

Without knocking on the door, I pushed it and entered. I placed in front of him a small scratch card decorated with some stripes, pictures and coral colors.
As I was sitting I noticed he was avoiding looking at the card, as if he was afraid of harm that might be caused by the card and befall on him, or visa versa.
He handed me a piece of silver coin, and asked to scratch the gray stripe in the middle of the card. I wasn’t surprised by his command, since I know the card has to be scratched.

He watched me while I was scratching. All of a sudden I wondered what if this is his way to test my abilities and skills! Scratching the card might be one way to test whether I will be successful person or a failure in doing my job! Without thinking twice about all the possibilities of any answers that might spur from my thoughts, carefully I started scratching the card. I created my own unique way in doing that, with an easy touch not rough or hard, first I stared with the corners then the top of the card, then the bottom, and before I carried out the last scratch, I drew thin lines in the middle forming what it look like a triangle, and with one accurate and exact stroke I removed the gray surface of the card and revealed all the figures beneath it!

At this moment in time I did not know exactly how I felt the urge of scratching my scalp.
Suddenly I felt strong burning sensation to scratch my entire body, which started to itch, it felt like a devouring crime violated me. Like an army of ants conquered and bitten me from my head to my toes.
I did not pay any attention to the numbers that started to be clear and obvious. The fierce desire of the itch and the scratch hampered my thoughts, and I never bothered to think about the outcomes results of this meeting either.

He looked at the card in front of him, when he saw the figures, his eyes widened, his face turned red and yellow, then he opened his mouth in disbelief, with difficulty he swallowed his saliva exposing the feelings which were caused by the figures within him. However, immediately with a quick calm and fake wise manner he hid his astonishment; in the meantime I was resisting but I found enjoyment and console in scratching.

With expert well-trained hands that show his skills, he put the card in his office drawer. And said, “Lucky, you are lucky. I mean… we will take in our considerations your file in our next meeting at this evening!”
He extended his hand saying goodbye, I extended one hand while the other one was busy scratching.
He pressed his strong fingers against my fingers it was hurting pressure but the ache of the devouring which I was facing was more painful.

I exited his office. In the street, I walked on the sidewalk. My brain filled with white emptiness.

In split second as if it was a sparkle of lightning, and in the heedlessness of the consciousness that connected me with the reality, it seemed to me this scratching which reached its crucial peak by then was skinning the supple layer of my skin and replacing it by figures

The Game of Billiards (short story)

AS they have been fighting two days, and have passed the night with their knapsacks on, beneath a flood of rain, the soldiers are completely exhausted. And yet for three mortal hours they have been left waiting, with grounded arms, in the puddles of the highroads and the mud of the saturated fields.

Benumbed by fatigue, by sleepless nights, and with their uniforms drenched with rain, they crowd together to warm and comfort one another. There are some who sleep standing, leaning against a neighbor’s knapsack, and weariness and privations can be read distinctly upon those relaxed faces, overcome with sleep. Rain, mud, no fire, nothing to eat, a low, black sky, and the enemy in the air about.

It is funereal.

What are they doing there? What is going on? The guns, with their muzzles pointed towards the wood, have the appearance of watching something. The mitrailleurs in ambush stare fixedly at the horizon.

Everything seems ready for an attack. Why do they not attack? What are they waiting for?

They are awaiting orders, and headquarters sends none. And yet the headquarters are not far away. They are at yonder stately Louis-Treize château, whose red bricks, scoured by the rain, glisten among the trees half-way up the hill. Truly a princely dwelling, quite worthy to bear the banner of a marshal of France.

Behind a broad moat and a stone wall which separate them from the road, smooth green lawns, lined with vases of flowers, extend to the porch. On the other side, the private side of the house, the hornbeam hedges show luminous gaps; the pond in which swans are swimming lies like a mirror, and beneath the pagodalike roof of an enormous aviary, peacocks and golden pheasants flash their wings and display their plumage, uttering shrill cries amid the foliage. Although the owners have gone away, one does not feel the abandonment, the desolation of war. The oriflamme of the leader of the army has safeguarded even the tiniest flowers in the lawns, and it is an impressive thing to find so near the battle-field that opulent tranquillity that is born of perfect order, of the accurate alignment of the shrubbery, of the silent depths of the avenues.

The rain, which fills the roads yonder with such disgusting mud, and digs such deep ruts, here is nothing more than an elegant, aristocratic shower, reviving the red of the bricks and the green of the lawns, polishing the leaves of the orange-trees and the white feathers of the swans. Everything glistens, everything is peaceful. Really, but for the flag floating on the roof, but for the two soldiers on sentry-go before the gate, one would never suspect that it is the headquarters of an army. The horses are resting in the stables. Here and there one sees a groom, or an orderly in undress uniform, loitering about the kitchen, or a gardener in red trousers placidly drawing his rake over the gravel in the great courtyards.

The dining-room, the windows of which look upon the porch, discloses a half-cleared table; uncorked bottles, soiled and empty glasses on the rumpled cloth; the end of a banquet, after the guests have gone.

In the adjoining room one may hear loud voices, laughter, the clicking of balls and the clinking of glasses. The marshal is playing his game of billiards, and that is why the army is waiting for orders.

When the marshal had begun his game, the heavens might fall, but nothing in the world could prevent him from finishing it.

Billiards! that is the weakness of that great warrior. He stands there, as grave as in battle, in full

uniform, his breast covered with medals, with kindled eyes, flushed cheeks, excited by feasting, grog, and the game. His aides-de-camp surround him, zealous and respectful. uttering admiring exclamations at each of his strokes. When the marshal makes a point, they all hasten to mark it; when the marshal is thirsty, they all rush to prepare his grog. There is a constant rustling of epaulettes and plumes, a jingling of medals; and to see all those sweet smiles, those artful, courtierlike reverences, all those new uniforms and embroidery in that lofty apartment, with its oaken wainscoting, looking upon parks and courts of honour, recalls the autumn days at Compiègne, and affords the eyes a little rest from the stained cloaks that shiver yonder along the roads, forming such sombre groups in the rain.

The marshal’s opponent is a young captain of the staff, belted and curled and light-gloved, who is in the first rank of billiard-players and capable of beating all the marshals on earth; but he has the tact to keep a respectful distance behind his chief, and devotes his energies to the task of not winning, and at the same time not losing too easily. He is what is called an officer with a future.

Attention, young man, let us be on our guard! The marshal has fifteen, and you ten. The point is to keep the game in that condition to the end; then you will have done more for your promotion than if you were outside with the others, beneath those torrents of water which drown the horizon, soiling your natty uniform, tarnishing the gold of your aiguillettes, awaiting orders which do not come.

It is really an interesting game. The balls roll and clash and mingle their colours. The cushions send them merrily back; the cloth waxes hot. Suddenly the flash of a cannon-shot passes across the sky. A dull sound rattles the windows. Everybody starts, and they look at each other anxiously. The marshal alone has neither seen nor heard anything; leaning over the table, he is busily engaged in planning a magnificent draw-shot; draw-shots are his strong point.

But there comes another flash, then another. The cannon-shots succeed each other in hot haste. The aides-de-camp run to the windows. Can it be that the Prussians are attacking.

“Very well, let them attack!” says the marshal, chalking his cue. “It’s your turn, captain.”

The staff quivers with admiration. Turenne asleep upon a gun-carriage was nothing compared to this marshal, who plays billiards so tranquilly at the moment of going into action. Meanwhile the uproar redoubles. With the roar of the cannon is mingled the tearing sound of the mitrailleuses, the rattle of musketry. A red steam, black at the edges, rises around the lawns. The whole park is on fire. The terrified peacocks and pheasants shriek in the aviary; the Arabian horses, smelling the powder, rear in the stables.

The headquarters begins to be excited. Despatch after despatch. Couriers arrive at full speed. They ask for the marshal.

The marshal cannot be seen. Did I not tell you that nothing could prevent him from finishing his game?

“It is your turn, captain.”

But the captain is distraught. That is what it is to be young. Behold he loses his head, forgets his tactics, and makes two runs in succession, which almost give him the game. Thereupon the marshal becomes furious. Surprise and indignation animate his manly face. Just at this moment a horse ridden at a hard gallop rushes into the courtyard. An aide-de-camp covered with mud forces his way past the sentries and ascends the steps at one bound. “Marshal, marshal!” You should see how he is greeted. Puffing with anger and red as a rooster, the marshal appears at the window, his billiard-cue in his hand:

“What’s the matter? What’s all this? Isn’t there any sentry there?”

“But, marshal——”

“All right, in a moment; wait for my orders, in God’s name!”

And the window is violently closed.

Wait for his orders! That is just what they are doing, the poor fellows. The wind drives the rain and the grapeshot full in their faces. Whole battalions are wiped out, while others stand useless, with their arms in readiness, utterly unable to understand their inaction. Nothing to do. They are awaiting orders.

However, as one needs no orders to die, the men fall by hundreds behind the shrubs, in the moats, in front of the great silent château. Even after they have fallen, the grape tears them still, and from the open wounds the generous blood of France flows noiselessly. Above, in the billiard-room, it is getting terribly warm too; the marshal has recovered his lead, but the little captain is defending himself like a lion.

Seventeen! eighteen! nineteen!

They hardly have time to mark the points. The roar of the battle draws nearer. The marshal has but one more to go. Already shells are falling in the park. Suddenly one bursts over the pond. The mirror is shattered; a swan in deadly alarm swims wildly about amid an eddy of bloody feathers. That is the last stroke.

Then, a profound silence. Only the rain falling on the hedges, a confused rumbling at the foot of the hill, and, along the muddy roads, a sound like the trampling of a hurrying flock. The army is in full retreat.The marshal has won his game

A VAMPIRE LOVE STORY (short story)

I have lived for a very long time. Immortality is not always forever, but for me it has lasted for many centuries.

During this time I have acquainted myself with the kind of loneliness that a mortal could never understand. I have seen years pass by in the way that others measure days... hours... I am alone, not only as a person, but as an entire society. The world I came from is long gone. Every world I have ever known is gone.

Then I found a ray of sunlight. The year was 1982 and I was haunting the gritty streets of Manhattan. It was summer, and the city was alive with the smell of people melting under the heat.

She was a sweet young thing. I occasionally dabble with the emotions of mortals for my own amusement. Nothing serious... I enjoy the company, the feeling of being wanted, being desired. I am one of the lucky few of my kind with enough control to enjoy this.

She was... disarming. I am not usually so drawn to a mortal woman, but she was so full of life. She was as elegant as a Roman princess, as witty as a Greek sophist, and a laugh that set me on fire.

As the night wore on I found myself wondering if I were experiencing blood lust for her. However no, this was a new feeling, something totally unexpected. Something I had only ever seen hints of over the centuries.

I don't know if everyone has a soul mate. It took me many mortal lifetimes to find mine. But I know they exist.

I also know that what I was feeling was love. I know it because the next night, I told her what I was. I had never done that before, spoken the truth to a human. If it had been lust or infatuation I would have seen her a few more times and then would have disappeared into the night. But I told this one.

She didn't believe me of course. But I had proof. It didn't take long before she was running, screaming.

I followed her. I followed her always. I waited in the shadows watching her, even as she married, even as she started a family. I'd like to think that a part of her knew I was there, that maybe a part of her was fond of her pale shadow.

The greatest sign of my love is that I never turned her. Even at the end, as she lay there prone, helpless, passing beyond. I knew she would not want this. By then I knew her well. I understood her soul. She would have rather died.

And so she did, and I was left alone again, to wander the world in eternal, immortal loneliness.

The Child Spy (short story)

HIS name was Stenne, little Stenne.

He was a child of Paris, sickly and pale, who might have been ten years old, perhaps fifteen; with those urchins one can never tell. His mother was dead; his father, formerly in the navy, was keeper of a square in he Temple quarter. Babies, nurse-maids, old ladies in reclining-chairs, poor mothers, all of toddling Paris that seeks shelter from vehicles in those flower-gardens bordered by paths, knew Father Stenne and adored him. They knew that beneath that rough mustache, the terror of dogs and of loiterers, lay concealed a kind, melting, almost maternal smile, and that, in order to see that smile one had only to ask the good man:

“How’s your little boy?”

Father Stenne was so fond of his boy! He was so happy in the afternoon, after school, when the little fellow came for him and they made together the circuit of the paths, stopping at each bench to salute the occupants and to answer their kind words.

Unfortunately with the siege everything changed. Father Stenne’s square was closed, petroleum was stored there, and the poor man, forced to keep watch all the time, passed his life among the deserted and neglected shrubs, alone, unable to smoke, and without the company of his boy except very late at night, at home. So that you should have seen his mustache when he mentioned the Prussians. As for little Stenne, he did not complain’ very much of that new life.

A siege! It is such an amusing thing for urchins. No school! No lessons! Vacation all the time and the street like a fair.

The child stayed out of doors, wandering about until night. He followed the battalions of the quarter when they went to the fortifications, choosing by preference those which had a good band; and upon that subject little Stenne was well posted. He could tell you that the band of the 96th did not amount to much, but that in the 55th they had a fine one. At other times he watched the troops go through the drill; then

there were the lines at the shop doors.

With his basket on his arm, he stood in the long lines that formed in the dark winter mornings, without gas, at the doors of the butchers’ and bakers’ shops. There, with their feet in the water, people became acquainted, talked politics, and every one asked his advice, as M. Stenne’s son. But the games of bouchon were the most amusing thing of all, and that famous game of galoche, which the Breton militia had brought into fashion during the siege. When little Stenne was not at the fortifications, or at the

baker’s, you were sure to find him at the game on Place du Château d’Eau. He did not play, you understand; it required too much money. He contented himself with watching the players, with such eyes!

One especially, a tall youth in a blue blouse, who bet nothing less than five-franc pieces, aroused his admiration. When he ran you could hear the money jingling in his pockets.

One day, as he picked up a coin which had rolled to little Stenne’s feet, the tall youth said to him in an undertone:

“That makes you squint, eh? Well, I will tell you where they are to be found, if you want.”

When the game was ended he led him to a corner of the square and proposed to him to go with him to sell newspapers to the Prussians; he received thirty francs per trip. At first Stenne refused, highly indignant; and he actually stayed away from the game for three days. Three terrible days. He did not eat, he did not sleep. At night, he saw piles of galoches at the foot of his bed, and five-franc pieces lying flat, all glistening. The temptation was too great. On the fourth day he returned to the Château d’Eau, saw the tall youth again, and allowed himself to be persuaded.

They set out one snowy morning, a canvas bag over their shoulders and newspapers hidden under their blouses, When they reached the Flanders gate it was barely light. The tall youth took Stenne by the hand, and, approaching the sentry—an honest volunteer with a red nose and a good-natured expression—he

said to him in the whining voice of a pauper:

“Let us pass, my kind monsieur. Our mother is sick, papa is dead, I am going out with my little brother to pick up potatoes in the fields.”

And he wept. Stenne, covered with shame, hung his head. The sentry looked at them a moment, and cast a glance at the deserted road.

“Hurry up,” he said, stepping aside; and there they were upon the Aubervilliers Road. How the tall fellow laughed!

Confusedly, as in a dream, little Stenne saw factories transformed into barracks, abandoned barricades covered with wet rags, long chimneys cutting the mist and rising into the sky, smokeless and broken. At intervals, a sentry, beplumed officers looking into the distance with field-glasses, and small tents drenched with melted snow in front of dying fires. The tall fellow knew the roads and cut across the

fields to avoid the outposts. However, they fell in with a patrol of sharp-shooters, whom they could not avoid. The sharp-shooters were in their little cabins, perched on the edge of a ditch filled with water, along the Soissons railroad. That time the tall fellow repeated his story in vain; they would not allow them to pass. Then, while he was complaining, an old sergeant, all wrinkled and grizzled, who resembled

Father Stenne, came out of the guardhouse to the road.

“Come, little brats, I wouldn’t cry!” he said to the children; “we’ll let you go to get your potatoes, but come in and warm yourselves a little first. This little fellow looks as if he was frozen!”

Alas! It was not with cold that little Stenne was trembling—it was with fear, with shame. In the guard-house they found several soldiers crouching about a paltry fire, a genuine widow’s fire, by the heat of which they were thawing out biscuit on the points of their bayonets. They moved closer together to make room for the children. They gave them a little coffee. While they have were drinking, an officer came to the door, called to the sergeant, spoke to him in an undertone and hurried away.

“MY boys,” said the sergeant, returning with a radiant face, “there will be something up to-night. They have found out the Prussians’ countersign. I believe that this time we shall capture that infernal Bourget again.”

There was a explosion of cheers and laughter. They danced and sang and brandished their sword-bayonets; and the children, taking advantage of the tumult, disappeared.

When they had passed the railway there was nothing before them but a level plain, and in the distance a long, blank wall, riddled with loopholes. It was towards that wall that they bent their steps, stooping constantly to make it appear that they were picking up potatoes.

“Let’s go back, let’s not go on,” said little Stenne again and again.

The other shrugged his shoulders and kept on. Suddenly they heard the click of a gun being cocked.

“Lie down!” said the tall fellow, throwing himself on the ground.

When they were down, he whistled. Another whistled. Another whistle answered over the snow. They crawled on. In front of the wall, level with the ground, appeared a pair of yellow mustaches beneath a soiled cap. The tall youth jumped into the trench, beside the Prussian.

“This is my brother,” he said, pointing to his companion.

Little Stenne was so little, that at the sight of him the Prussian began to laugh, and he was obliged to take him in his arms to lift him up to the breach.

On the other side of the wall were great piles of earth, felled trees, black holes in the snow, and in each hole the same dirty cap and the same yellow mustaches, laughing when they saw the children pass.

In the corner was a gardener’s house casemated with trunks of trees. The lower room was full of soldiers playing cards, and cooking soup over a big, blazing fire. The cabbages and pork smelled good; what a contrast to the bivouac of the sharp-shooters! Above were the officers. They could hear them playing the piano and opening champagne. When the Parisian entered, a joyous cheer greeted them. They

produced their newspapers; then they were given drink and were induced to talk. All the officers had a haughty and disdainful manner; but the tall youth amused them with his faubourgian wit, his street

Arab’s vocabulary. They laughed, repeated his phrases after him, and wallowed with delight in the Parisian mud which he brought them.

Little Stenne would have liked to talk too, to prove that he was not stupid, but something embarrassed him. Opposite him, apart from the rest, was an older and graver Prussian, who was reading, or rather seemed to be reading, for his eyes did not leave little Stenne. Affection and reproach were in his glance as if he had at home a child of the same age as Stenne, and as if he were saying to himself:

“I would rather die than see my son engaged in such business.”

From that moment Stenne felt as it were a hand resting on his heart, which prevented it from beating. To escape that torture, he began to drink. Soon everything about him whirled around. He heard vaguely, amid loud laughter, his comrade making fun of the National Guards, of their manner of drilling; he imitated a call to arms in the Marais, a night alarm on the ramparts. Then the tall fellow lowered his

voice, the officers drew nearer to him, and their faces became serious. The villain was warning them of the attack of the sharp-shooters.

At that little Stenne sprang to his feet in a rage, thoroughly sober:

“Not that! I won’t have it!”

But the other simply laughed and kept on. Before he had finished, all the officers were standing. One of them pointed to the door and said to the children:

“Clear out!”

And they began to talk among themselves very rapidly, in German.

The tall youth went out as proud as a prince, jingling his money. Stenne followed him, hanging his head; and when he passed the Prussian whose glance had embarrassed him so, he heard a sad voice say:

“Not a nice thing to do, that. Not a nice thing.”

Tears came to his eyes.

Once in the field, the children began to run and returned quickly to the city. Their bag was full of potatoes which the Prussians had given them. With them they passed unhindered to the trench of the sharp-shooters. There they were preparing for the night attack. Troops came up silently and massed behind the walls. The old sergeant was there, busily engaged in posting his men, with such a happy expression. When the children passed, he recognised them and bestowed a pleasant smile upon them.

Oh! how that smile hurt little Stenne! For a moment he was tempted to call out:

“Don’t go there; we have betrayed you.”

But the other had told him: “If you speak we shall be shot”; and fear restrained him.

At La Courneuve, they entered an abandoned house to divide the money. Truth compels me to state that the division was made honestly, and that little Stenne’s crime did not seem so terrible to him when he heard the coins jingling under his blouse, and thought of the games of galoche which he had in prospect.

But when he was alone, the wretched child! When the tall fellow had left him at the gate, then his pockets began to be very heavy, and the hand that grasped his heart grasped it tighter than ever. Paris did not seem the same to him. The people who passed gazed sternly at him as if they knew whence he came.

He heard the word “spy” in the rumbling of the wheels, in the beating of the drums along the canal. At last he reached home, and, overjoyed to find that his father was not there, he went quickly up to their room, to hide under his pillow that money that weighed so heavily upon him.

Never had Father Stenne been so joyous and so good-humoured as when he returned that night. News had been received from the provinces: affairs were looking better. As he ate, the old soldier looked at his musket hanging on the wall, and said to the child with his hearty laugh:

“I say, my boy, how you would go at the Prussians if you were big!”

Above eight o’clock, they heard cannon.

“That is Aubervilliers. They are fighting at Bourget,” said the good man, who knew all the forts. Little Stenne turned pale, and, on the plea that he was very tired, he went to bed; but he did not sleep. The cannon still roared. He imagined the sharp-shooters arriving in the dark to surprise the Prussians, and themselves falling into an ambush. He remembered the sergeant who had smiled at him and he saw him stretched out on the snow, and many others with him. The price of all that blood was concealed there

under his pillow, and it was he, the son of Monsieur Stenne, of a soldier—tears choked him. In the adjoining room he heard his father walk to the window and open it. Below on the square, the recall was sounding; and a battalion was forming to leave the city. Evidently it was a real battle. The unhappy child cloud not restrain a sob.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Father Stenne as he entered the room.

The child could not stand it any longer; he leaped out of bed and threw himself at his father’s feet. At the movement that he made the silver pieces rolled on the floor.

“What is all this? Have you been stealing?” demanded the old man, trembling.

Thereupon, without pausing for breath, little Stenne told him that he had been to the Prussian quarters

and of what he had done there.

As he spoke, his heart felt freer; it relieved him to accuse himself. Father Stenne listened, with a terrible face. When it was at an end, he hid face in his hands and wept.

“Father, father—” the child began.

The old man pushed him away without replying, and picked up the money.

“Is this all?” he asked.

Little Stenne motioned that it was all. The old man took down his musket and cartridge box, and said as he put the money in his pocket:

“All right; I am going to return it to them.”

And without another word, without even turning his head, he went down and joined the troops who

were marching away in the darkness. He was never seen again.