COULDEN 4 N , Robert Helmont ALPHONSE DAUDET Robert Helmont DIARY OF A RECLUSE i8yo—T8yi TRANSLATED BY L A U R A E N S O R IV/TH ILLUSTRATIONS BV PICARD AND MONTEGUT LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited Broadway, Ludgate Hill MANCPIESTER AND NEW YORK 1892 LIST OF PLATES FAGI? "Read that, Mr. Robert, said the good man" . . . i8 " Seeing me so thoroughly determined, the Keeper pressed my hand " 35 " Colaquet managed to take us tolerably straight " . . 56 " Old Guillard brought out a large jug of sparkling wine " 68 "They began drinking out of their caps " ... 74 "He lay sprawling at full length on the stone bench " . 79 " At that instant a man rushed across the moonlit orchard " 113 The Watch 1 27 " It was a balloon "........ 140 " I found a pigeon " . . . . . . . .148 " We crossed a heavy punt " . . . . . .160 "I seized hold of the chain with both hands and lowered myself into the river " 171 "They blew out his brains with a revolver " . . . 185 " I heard the clinking of glasses, the uncorking of bottles " 191 " Forgetful of the lost harvest in preparing for that of the future " 199 PREFACE While spending a day in the country on one of those pretty green islets that are dotted about in clusters on the Seine between Champrosay and Soisy, and wrestling with a friend, my foot slipped on the damp grass, and I broke my leg. My unfortunate love for athletic and violent exercise has already played me so many ugly tricks, that 1 should probably have forgotten this accident, as 1 have others, but for its precise and memorable date : the 14th of July 1870!... I still see myself at the close of that sad 2 PREFACE. day, lying on the sofa in the former studio of Eugene Delacroix, whose small house on the borders of the forest of Senart we were then occupying. When mj' leg was stretched out, I hardly suffered, for already I felt the vague restlessness of increasing fever, exag- gerating the sensation and heat of the storm}' atmos- phere, and enveloping all around me in a misty cloud, as it were, of shimmering gauze. To the accompani- ment of the piano the}' were singing the choruses of Orphe'e, and no one, not even I, suspected how serious was my condition. Through the wide-open bay window in the studio came the sweet breath of the jasmine and roses, the beat of the night-moths, and the quick flashes of lightning showing up, above the low garden walls, the sloping vineyards, the Seine, and the rising ground opposite. Suddenly the still- ness was broken by the sound of a bell ; the evening papers are brought in and opened, and voices broken by emotion, anger, or enthusiasm exclaim: "War is declared ! " From this moment nothing remains to me but the feverish recollection of a state of languor lasting six weeks ; of six weeks of bed, of splints, of cradle and plaster case, in which my leg seemed imprisoned in company with thousands of tormenting insects. PREFACE. During that hot summer, so exceptionally stormy and scorching, this inaction full of agitation was dreadful, and my anxiety, increased by the accounts of the public disasters which filled the papers that covered my bed, added to my restlessness and sleeplessness. At night the rumble of the distant trains disturbed me like the tread of endless battalions, and by day, pale and sad faces, scraps of conversations overheard in the road or at the neighbour's, through my open window : " The Prussians are at Chalons, mother Jean," and the vans at every moment raising clouds of dust in the quiet little village, lent a mundane and sinister echo to my perusal of " the news of the war." Soon we were the only Parisians left at Champrosay, left alone with the peasants, obstinately attached to the land, and still refusing to admit the idea of an invasion. Directly I could leave my couch and be moved, our departure was decided. Never shall I forget my first outing in the little old-fashioned garden, filled with the perfume of ripe peaches and fading roses. Around me, poor invalid that I was, seated on the steps of a ladder laid against the fruited wall, they were hurrying on the departure, loading the vans, gathering the iVuit and flowers in the unconscious preoccupation of leaving 4 PREFACE. nothing for the enemy ; even the child, with its arms full of toys, picking up a little spade forgotten in the grass. As for me, I inhaled the fresh air with delight ; and with an emotion caused by my weak state and my returning health, I gazed at the grey house, and at the red flowers covering the \'irginian jessamine interwoven round the bay window of the studio. I thought of the happ}' hours, so soft and tranquil, spent there the last three years, the hearty laughter, the aesthetic discussions so thoroughly in harmony with the little home, full of the memories of a great artist. Should we ever behold again the sunny path so often slowl}' paced with short and chatty steps, the verandah where we sat in the fine June evenings, in the brightness of a flowery Spanish broom which, ball-shaped, seemed like an enormous lustre lighted up in the fading twilight, the richness of its golden colour deepening as the light decreased ! The family omnibus was filled up and loaded, all our cherished ones tightly pressed against each other, the child's toys side by side with the parrokeet's cage, the bird scared by the sharp-pointed cars of a favourite greyhound : we started, passing first through Ihe little villasre with its closed and silent villas. PREFACE. 5 The peasants still held out, although disturbed at the departures, watching them from their doorways with tears rising in their eyes, and a certain uneasiness depicted in the stolid cupidity of their countenances. What a return to Paris ! The highway crowded with men and beasts, the sheep running loose between the wheels, the green of the market-gardeners' carts mingling with the piled-up furniture in the vans. On the railway embankment, which lay on one side of our road, trucks upon trucks extending in inter- minable rows, halting and whistling calls, which were answered and re-echoed on the distant line. And then at last the octroi, where the belated droves of cattle and people and vehicles are accumulated before the too narrow gateway, and — for me a novel sight — men of the National Guard mixed with the customs officers — a Parisian militia, full of zeal and good nature, whose bayonets shine amidst the crowd and in the sunshine on the slopes of the fortifications, now heightened by gabions and bristling with guns. A few days later I again journeyed to Champrosay, but the road no longer presented the same aspect. The approach of the enemy, so long threatened and now imminent, could be felt by the deserted state of the suburbs, and the care displayed by our main- 6 PREFACE. guards. Endless formalities were required in order to pass through. Amongst the loitering peasants might be seen the prowling figures of suspicious- looking spies, recalling the sinister plunderers of the battlefields ; and the solitude, the agonised expecta- tion of the districts 1 passed through — Villeneuve- Saint- Georges, Draveil — abandoned and silent, im- parted a mystery to the ver}- windings of the road, where one almost expected to see the shadow of an Uhlan vidette on the watch. Champrosay, with its solitar}' street bordered on each side by villas, seemed to grow larger in the death-like stillness : " Vasta silentio," as Tacitus says. Glimpses of parks, caught sight of through the iron gates, a background of dark shrubberies in the distance, flower-beds glowing in the brightness of a September day, here and there a circle of garden chairs on a terrace, forgotten like the idle talk that has melted into thin air, garden tools leaning against the palings, all spoke of a rural existence hastil}' interrupted, a precipitate flight, the sudden surprise, in the midst of its life, of a small Pompei, whose last hour has struck. But Nature, ever the same, was nevertheless undergoing a change ; the broken bridge at Ris, that had been blown up, and whose loosened chains dipped into the water. PREFACE. transformed the landscape, isolating on each side of the river the two little districts hitherto united by the traffic to and fro over the toll-bridge. From all these scenes uprose the agonising sensation of a great catastrophe, rendered more striking by the magnificent sun of an exceptionally fine season. At the same moment, as I closed behind me the door of our now deserted dwelling, an aged peasant, old Casaquet, came out of a neighbouring house. When all the others had taken flight and run away, he alone obstinately refused to take refuge in Paris, where his family had settled themselves as best they could. " I'm much too old ! " he said ; and he had some potatoes, a little wine, a few hens, not to speak of the grunting porker he kept under his roof. I proposed bringing him away to rejoin his people. But he stubbornly stuck to his words : " I'm much too old ! " The recollection of this old Robinson Crusoe, the last living being I had seen at Champrosay, often crossed my mind during the terrible cold and famine of the siege. What had become of him, and of the whole village, which I pictured to myself burning and blazing ; our house, our books, the piano, everything tarnished, broken, and laid waste by the invasion, PREFACE. like the suburban regions of Nogent, Champigny, Petit-Bry, and Courneuve, among whose sad ruins, villas with broken stairways and half-hanging shutters, I wandered every day?... But no ! When the war was over, and when, towards the end of the Commune, Paris becoming untenable, we came and took refuge at Champrosay, I had the pleasant surprise of finding almost everything in its habitually peaceful condition, with the exception of a few countr}'- houses that the marauders had searched, and where they had, from pure love of destruction, destroyed the wainscoting and broken all the windows. The German army had passed through, but never made any lengthened stay. Hidden behind a clump of acacias, Delacroix's house had been even more protected than others, and in the garden awakening in beauty to the smile of spring, I could breathe freely for the twofold deliverance from the siege and from the winter. I was walking along the flower borders, when old Casaquet's face peered over the garden wall, and he beamed upon me with his old wrinkled visage. Over him, too, the invasion had passed without leaving a trace. " I didn't suffer too much..." he said, twinkling his eyes, and standing on a ladder with his elbows resting on the trellis ; I'UI-'FACE. and then he related how he had borne this period of exile and solitude. It had been a real time of ■■m ^/•."' ^.■*U*;^-*--■ Mr' »v^V. feasting. There were no keepers in the forest, he cut as much wood as he liked (a treasure much B 10 PREFACE. coveted by the peasant) ; with a few poachers who had taken refuge at the Hermitage he snared roedeer and pheasants ; and whenever an isolated Prussian, an order]}' or straggler, was found in the vicinity of the quarries, he was quietly and quickly despatched. During four months he lived without any other news from Paris but the sound of the distant cannonading, and the occasional sight of an inflated balloon floating beneath the dark sky. This quiet, ant-like existence on the surface of the earth amidst the overthrow of a world was most extraordinary. I too could have lived there like the old peasant, reduced to the same expedients of primi- tive life ; and this different view of war appeared to me an appropriate setting for a melancholy picture of the invasion. That very evening I began in the large studio taking notes for "Robert Helmont's Diary of a Recluse ; " while the passing to and fro under my windows of the German cavalry patrols, still encamped on the edge of the country, the clashing of swords and jingling of curb-chains, the rough Saxon voices harshly raised in command, mingled with the thunder of the cannons. All this indeed formed part of " my diary." My feelings were still more excited on the following day by all the sad details of the PREFACE. II military occupation — the roads dark with troops, the halting and the bivouacking by the side of the ditches. To escape from the humiliating sensations of the vanquished, I wandered into the woods, lovely in this month of April : a tender green clothed the branches of the trees, the grass was gemmed with the bloom of wild hyacinths, and the warbling of the birds and the song of the nightingale were interrupted by the distant tearing sound of the mitrailleuse. Sometimes, at the turn of a quiet path, I saw coming toward me under the arching boughs, a sentimental Saxon colonel, slowly pacing on his charger the lanes and trysting-places cherished by Louis XV. and Madame de Pompadour. Then I plunged into the recesses of the deepest thickets, for these encounters gave me a revulsion of feeling which I can hardly explain. It was thus that I lived the diary of Robert Helmont at the same time that I wrote it. This little book was published by Dentu in the Musee Universel of 1873 ; but it met with little success. It told no story, and contained no interesting or con- tinued narrative ; it was merely a succession of land- scapes, portraying the melanchol}' of our invaded summer haunts. In the new edition of my complete works published by Dentu-Charpenticr, " Robert Hel- 12 PREFACE. mont " is placed at the end of the second volume of " Jack," and it finds there its proper place, describing as it does the same forest of Senart, the Hermitage, and the Pacome Gate, where I knew the hero of my novel "Jack," and recalling to life a few of the same characters. :-'.^". .-i--- t J V i^'- ••rt;--r^ . -^_ S^^ 1_ V-;; tvjLi* ' "^ ^^ Thk Hermitage, September -^rd. It is six weeks yesterday since I broke my leg. It happened on the very day war was declared. While M. de Grammont was exciting so much tumult and enthusiasm in the Senate, I myself, on returning from net-fishing in the Seine, stumbled over a stake hidden in the grass at the edge of the river, and was brought home to my Hermitage in the forest of Senart in a woodcutter's cart... I went out this morning for the first time after fifty days of fever and suffering, increased by the news of 14 ROBERT HELMONT. the war. I had nightmares of distant battles, and the sinister despatches from Forbach and Reisch- hoffen remain mixed up in ni}' mind with the pain of my wound, the heat of the plaster casing, and that restless inactivity which is the most cruel of all tortures. At last it is over ! After having seen nothing for so long but the tops of the trees, and those great stretches of blue sky of which the mono- tony is only broken by passing wings, I felt quite happy at putting my feet to the ground and getting down my stairs with faltering steps. But how weak I was ! My head swam round. From having re- mained so long in the same position, m}- leg had forgotten its proper balance and functions. It seemed no longer part of myself, as if I were no longer master of it. However, with slow steps, and the extreme nervousness which augments one's weak- ness, I was able to get to the poultry-3'ard and push open its little latticed door, half buried in the tall grass. Even this gave me a thrill of pleasure ! During my absence, my neighbour, the keeper's wife, has taken good care of all this little famih^, who watch me with an astonished, bright, and familiar gaze. The rabbits come tumbling over each other to the edge of their hutches, with their ears pricked ROBERT HELMONT. IS up and quivering. The hens go on ^vith their ceaseless pecking in the grass, making sharp sounds like those of little pickaxes. The cock, more de- monstrative, flaps his large wings with a resounding " cock-a-doodle-do." Presently I returned and seated myself on the old, worn, green-coloured stone bench, which, with the wall full of gaps and two or three apple-trees covered with moss, date from the time when my house and the orchards surrounding it were part of an old monastery built in the middle of the forest... Never had my garden appeared so beautiful to me. The fruit-trees against the Wall, rather stripped of their leaves, were laden with ripe peaches and golden bunches. The currant-bushes, spread out in thin clumps, were dotted here and tiicre with sparks of red ; and under the autumn sun, that ripens each berry, bursts each pod, and sheds each grain, the sparrows pursued one another with unequal flights, while youthful twitterings among them show how their numbers have been increased by the young broods. From time to time the heavy flight of a pheasant passed over the ruined wall, alighting in a field of buckwheat. At the top of a tall tree a squirrel was playing and cracking nuts. The gentle heat which i6 ROBERT HELMONT. pervaded the whole scene threw a wonderful feeling of repose over this little rustic corner. I had for- <• gotten the Prussians and the invasion... Suddenly the keeper and his wife came in. It was astonishing to see old Guillard at the Hermitage in the daytime — Read that, Mr. Robert, said the good man." — Pt^^e 19, ROBERT HELMONT. I9 he, the constant rover of the forest ! I understood that there must be fresh news. — Read that, Mr. Robert... said the good man. And drawing from beneath his thick velveteen waistcoat a copy of the National, crumpled and awk- wardly folded by hands little accustomed to deal with papers, he held it out to me with an air of disma}'. On the first sheet, bordered in black, were the sinister words : " The French army has capitulated.'^ I could not read any farther... ...Dazed, with closed eyes, for the space of five minutes I seemed to see nothing but those few words, surrounded by flashes of light and colour, as if I had read them on a white wall in the full glare of the sun. Alas ! there was thcrefoi'c no hope. The last barrier had broken down. It was the invasion, the mighty one... The keeper thinks that in eight days the Prussians will be here. — Ah, my dear sir, you should see the block on the roads. Between this and Paris there is a mob of cattle and vehicles. Every one is packing up and flying. Champrosay is empty ; Farmer Goudeloup is the only person who will not hear of leaving. He has sent away his wife and children, loaded his two guns, and is ready. 20 ROBERT HELMONT. — And you, Guillard, what do you intend doing ? — I, sir ? I shall do the same as Goudeloup. Our chiefs have forgotten to leave us any orders. I shall take advantage of that to remain at ni}- post, and watch my woods up to the last moment. When the Prussians come, we will barricade ourselves in the Hermitage ; for I suppose, with your bad leg, you will not think of leaving. And then, if we are attacked — well, we will defend ourselves. You will ROBERT HELMONT. fire through the windows ; I shall guard the Pacome Gate, and Mother Guillard will load the guns... Won't you, mother ?... Good fellow ! It warmed my heart to iiear him. In spite of his sixty years, the Indian, as they call him about here, with his high stature, wide shoulders, ROBERT HELMOXT. and bright eyes full of mischief and life, is still a fine-looking soldier. I thought, as I looked at him, that with such a companion there might indeed be something to do. B}- h'ing in ambush on the out- skirts of the forest he knows so thoroughly, we could demolish a few passing Prussians. But then the sensation of my weakness, of my useless condition, suddenly came back to me and overwhelmed me. After the keeper and his wife had taken leave of me, I remained all alone, seated on my bench, buried in thought. What a state of misery is mine ! To feel that craving for action and vital energy that comes on at the approach of danger, and not to be able to take ten steps in my garden. How much longer will this last ? The doctor says I must expect at least two months of it. Two months I Ah ! how dreadful,,. The air was getting chilly, my leg was hurting me. I went in and dined sadly. After dinner the keeper came — as he has done every evening since my accident — to smoke a pipe with me. He is more than ever determined to remain at the Hermitage. While he was telling me all his plans and schemes of defence, I heard in the distance, through the open window, the usual sounds of twi- light ; the wheels creaking in the ruts, the rumbling ROBERT IIELMONT. 23 of the train, the rustling of the leaves in the thickets ; and at moments another sound, as of all these blended together and increasing in volume, seemed to rise from the ground, following the course of the river and little hills on the horizon, to grow gradually louder and louder. It was like the tramp of an army on the march, hurrying on in the fading light to find their halting-place, while the first rays of moonlight fall on the barrels of the guns and the gilded spikes of the helmets... Suddenly a dull report on a level with the earth made us start. Mother Guillard, who was clearing away my modest repast, felt the pile of plates she was carrying shake in her hands. — They have blown up the bridge at Corbeil !... said the keeper. The pretty country village, where I had so often breakfasted before a day's shooting, seemed to be sixty miles farther away... For a moment we all three looked blankly at each other. At last old Guillard rose from his seat, took up his gun and his lantern, muttering between his teeth : — I am going to close the Pacome gate, he said, with an heroic gesture. Close the Pacome gate ! It seemed easy to say ; and H ROBERT HELMONT. 3^ct I fancy the good fellow will find some difficulty in doing it. For the last century the old door of the cloister has been ajar ; the forest has taken advantage of the aperture to slip through, and the indiscreet brambles have climbed in by all the cracks of its disjointed planks. If we have to undergo a siege, I do not rely much on that gate. ^^mFmTM t September t^ih. ...Long had I sought a sohtary corner, not too far away from Paris, and yet not much frequented by Pari- sians. One da}', while crossing the forest of Scnart, I discovered the Hermitage, and for the last ten years I have spent all my summers there. It was a monas- tery of " Cordeliers," burnt dcnvn in '93. The four principal walls remain standing, but mouldering and 26 ROBERT HELMOXT. crumbling at intervals, making on the turf, heaps of red stone quickly re-clothed by a rich and luxuriant vegetation : poppies, barley, stiff-growing plants with regular and pointed leaves, are divided by the stones ROBERT IIKLMONT. 27 like inlaid metal-work. One gateway looks on the road ; the other, that famous Pacome gate, opens on to the wooded thickets and the little hidden paths, full of balsam and wild mint, where, on a misty 28 ROBERT HELMONT. morning, I have often fancied I saw disappear, the hood of some old monk gathering wild herbs. Here and there along the wall, low postern gates, disused for many a century, send through the darkness of the forest long rays of light, as if the cloister con- tained all the sunhght of the woods. Inside is waste land, with burnt-up grass, little gardens belonging to the peasants, some orchards divided b}^ trellis-work, and two or three houses built of that red stone that is found in the quarries of the wood. The forester lives in one of these houses, the other is never let. Mine, a kind of irregular and curious turret, is chiefly remarkable for the Virginian creeper that completely covers it. I have cut away just enough of it to be able to open my windows. Leav- ing untouched the great worm-eaten beams in the kitchen and the worn step on the threshold, I con- tented myself with heightening a hayloft under the roof, replacing the walls by glass, and thus making a beautiful studio, where my only neighbours are the nests of the wood-pigeon and magpie swaying to and fro on the top of the trees. When I am there, the forest surrounds me like an ROBERT IIKLMONT. 29 ocean, with the swell of the foliage, the ebb and flow of the breezes, the murmuring softness of a calm. On a summer's afternoon, at the hour of silent and slumbering heat, a bumble-bee comes by regularl}', dashes against my half-open window-pane, whose brightness attracts him, then like a rebounding ball goes off, shaking the golden dust from his big wings, and disappears amongst the honey-scented bushes of privet. This bee is my clock. When he passes by I say : " Ah, it is two o'clock." And I am right... It is, in fact, a wonderful nook for work, and where my best pictures have been painted. And how I love it, this old Hermitage ! For the last ten years I have been adorning it to the best of my abilit}'. I have brought tlierc what I call my trea- sures — my books, my sketches, m}' etchings, and some old armour... And now I should have to leave all this, abandon my home, to these robbers. And what for? To go and shut myself up in Paris... But as I cannot walk, of what use should I be to them there ? They have too many useless mouths to feed already... Well, no ! Decidedly the fellow is right. We 30 ROBERT IIELMONT. must not go away from here... P)'o oris ct foci's ! ... Not being able to defend my country, the least I can do is to defend ni}' hearth. #^^"%l>:;ir^ /^^.^' September Gi/i. This morning the keeper came into my room. He wore his full-dress uniform, as on the 15th of August : green tunic, peaked cap, cross-belt, hunting-knife, and he had an air of importance beiitting the solem- nity of his appearance. — There is bad news, he said, taking up a posi- tion by the side of my bed... All the wood-rangers are recalled to Paris in order to be enrolled with the customs officers. We are starting almost immediately. ROBERT HELMONT. Honest old Guillard I He appeared somewhat agitated while talking to me, and I was myself rather disturbed b}' the sudden announcement of this de- parture. I hurriedly dressed, and we went down- stairs. On the road below was the head-keeper, with about twenty foresters and keepers — the whole cf the staff on duty in the forest. Then came the women, children, and pointers, and two large carts laden with furniture, rabbit-hatches, and chickens tied up oy the legs. The door of the house was wide open, and Mother Guillard moved to and fro inside, seeking what she must leave or take, as the conveyances were full, and the hrst-comers had taken up all the available space. The perplexity of the poor house- wife was a sight to see, as she ran from one piece of furniture to another, dragging a heavy cupboard to the door, then leaving it there, forgetting the most useful things, but lading herself with those of no value, except that they were souvenirs : the old clock with its glass shade, some marvellous portraits, a hunting-horn, a distaff, all of them covered with dust • — that excellent dust that clings to family relics, and of which each particle speaks of youth and the happy days gone by. — I trust you arc not going to remain here, Mr. ROBERT IIELMONT Robert, the good woman called out as she crossed the orchard... You shall be put on a cart. And in order to convince me more thoroughly : — In the first place, if you remain here, who will cook for you ? In reality the good creatures were rather ashamed of leaving me behind. Then- departure, although involuntary, seemed to them somewhat of a betrayal on their part. I tried to reassure them on my account, and to reassure myself at the same time. After all, who knows ? The Prussians may not come so far. Moreover, the Hermitage is in the heart of the forest, and out of the line of march. There was therefore not the slightest danger to be apprehended. At most a few days of solitude, and that did not alarm me. Seeing me so thoroughly determined, the keeper pressed ni}' hand. — Good luck, Mr. Robert... My wife will leave you our keys. You will find wine and potatoes in the cellar. Take what you choose. We will settle on our return home... And now, good mother, let us start ; and above all, you know what I said to you ; try not to cry. She, however, nearly broke down. On turning the 34 ROBERT HELMONT. key for the last time in the lock, her hand shook. She compressed her lips... At that moment a formidable hcc-Jtaw ! echoed through the Hermitage. The keeper and his wife looked at each other in consternation. — It is Colaquet !... What is to become of him ? The unfortunate Colaquet, whom they had for- gotten in the hurry of departure, was their donkc}', a pretty little grey donkey, with a .^ ._ ^. , bright and artless look. Mi ■^^'^dt wifc-r r '^ ^^^^ days before, it V^-. ^Klt ^P^ ^>--- ^ had been bitten on the muzzle by a viper, and it had been turned out to graze in a little field of after-grass ; and there he was, looking at his masters going away, leaning his swollen head, which gave him the appearance of one of the beasts of the Apocalypse, over the hedge. How could the}' take him ? He would die on the road, and yet the veterinary surgeon had promised to cure him. The fate of the poor animal, rather resembling my own, touched my heart. c »r '■ Seeing me so thoroughly determined, the keeper pressed my hand." — Pa^d 33. ROBERT IIELMONT. Z7 I promised to take care of Colaquet, and to put him into the stable every night. The good people thanked me, and we parted. A sad parting! The carts, heavy and over- loaded, slowly followed the wide forest road, grinding on the pebbles as they went along. The children were running on each side, excited by the unexpected journey. The men, in single file, skirted the edge of the wood, their guns on their shoulders, all of them old soldiers, well trained and disciplined. Behind them the dogs followed, hanging their heads un- easily, hardly straying evtn to listen to the flight of a hen -pheasant, or to sniff the trace of a rabbit. Domestic animals do not like changing their quarters, and these were following in the track of the carts, now become their wandering homes. Mother Guillard ROBERT HELMONT. came last, holding in her hand her magpie's large cage, and from time to time looking back. Seated on the curbstone near the principal en- trance, I watched them till the whole part}' disap- peared from my sight in the narrowing perspective of the road. I saw the last glance on the gun-barrels, I heard the grinding of the last wheel, and the dust of the highway swallowed them up in a cloud... It was all over. I was alone. This thought has given me an unaccountable sensation of uneasiness. A: September -jth, %th, and c)th. This new kind of life would not be without its charm, were it not disturbed by a sensation of anxiety, of uneasiness, of constant expectation, sus- pending all thought, and rendering all artistic work an impossibility. I can only undertake those trivial 40 ROBERT IIELMONT, occupations, those necessary details of everyday life, of which I have alwa3's had such a horror, and to which I must resign myself now that I am my own servant. Shall I confess it ? These trifles do not really weary me very much, and I understand recluses amusing themselves by carving roots or weaving baskets. Manual labour is a good means of regulat- ing life for those who have too much leisure and liberty. Therefore ever}^ morning I begin b}' paying a visit to the poultry-yard, and when 1 feel the warmth of an egg in the straw, I am happy. Then, walking slowly, and leaning on a stick, I go round the garden, picking the ripe fruit ; and from the long, dry, sunburnt stalks I gather the beans, whose pods l)urst open and shed their contents through my fingers. It is laughable to see me seated in front of my door, cutting up the bread for my soup, or washing my salad in a bucket. All these things give me rather a childisli comfort ; but is not conva- lescence itself like childhood ? — a fresh beginning of life. In order to avoid going up and down the broken and irregular steps of the staircase, I have placed my bed in the large room on the ground floor, which therefore answers the purpose of drawing-room, bed- ROBERT HELMONT. 4I room, and kitchen. In this very mild weather, the door leading into the garden remains wide open all da3^ I hear the noise of the hens, always busy and cackling, their little claws pattering on the sand and scratching up the straw. Next door, in the keeper's small field, I see poor Colaquet stretched out, shaking off the flies, and, with the idleness of an invalid, lolling out his tongue in front of him on the meadow, all purple with the thousand clusters of lucern. When evening comes on, with some difficulty he approaches the fence that divides us. I also drag myself there. I bathe his wound, renew the water, throw a rug over his back for the night, and he thanks me by shaking his long ears. What really distresses me in my present state of suffering is having to fetch water from the old con- vent well, just at the end of the enclosure. When I reach it, I am obliged to sit down for a moment on the edge of the cracked stonework, over- grown by rank weeds. The ornamental wrought ironwork, of an elegant and ancient style, appears, under the rust that tarnishes it, like climbing tendrils laid bare by the autumn. This melancholy is in complete harmony with the deep silence of the Hermitage, and the atmosphere of loneliness that 42 ROBERT HKLMONT, surrounds me... The bucket is heavy. On returning I stop two or three times. Over there, at the far end, there is an old door that the wind keeps slamming. The noise of ni\' footsteps echoes, and troubles me... Oh, solitude !,., September \oth. ...1 had just finished breakfasting on the lawn — on my word, an excellent breakfast too ! — fresh eggs, and grapes gathered from my beautiful purple vine. I was sitting there, idly dreaming, basking in the light, warmth, and silence, very busy looking at the smoke of my pipe and at my painted plates, on which a stray wasp was furiously attacking the emptied stalks. Around me on that clear autumn day, under a deep and pure blue sky, even more beautiful than the summer skies so often veiled and 44 ROBERT HELMONT. dimmed by hot mists, I felt the same hush of Nature, the same all-pervading sense of peace... When sud- denly a formidable explosion in my immediate vicinity shook the house, rattled the windows, and stirred the leaves, sending forth on all sides the sound of wild flutterings, screams, alarms, and galloping... This time it was not the bridge at Corbeil that was blown up, but our own, our little bridge at Champrosay. It meant: "The Prussians are here!" Immediately my heart stood still, and a veil seemed to pass over the sunlight. Then the thought crossed my mind that to-morrow, this evening maybe, the forest roads would be invaded, darkened by these wretches ; that I should be compelled to bury myself alive, and never stir out again. And I longed to see once more my beloved forest, of which 1 had been deprived for the last two months. The lanes in the woods were lovely, widened by freedom from the long summer weeds, and showing at the top, through the young branches, a long ray of light. At the cross-roads, bathed in sunlight, the faded pink heather was flowering in tufts ; and in the thickets, among the black stems, like a small forest beneath a large one, the ferns displayed their micro- scopic trees with their peculiar foliage. What a ROBERT HELMONT. 45 silence ! Generally a thousand vague sounds greeted me from afar : the trains passing b}^ and marking the distant horizon, the digging of the quarrymen, the cart-wheels slowly turning in the ruts, the strident call-whistle of the gang. And to-day, not a sound — not even that perpetual murmur which seems like the breathing of a slumbering forest — that stir of the leaves, that humming of the insects, that pretty "y)';';-//" like the unfolding of a fan, made by birds among the foliage. It seemed as if the loud report just now had stupefied all Nature. Slightly weary, 1 had seated myself under a thick oak-tree, when 1 heard a rustling in the branches. At last!... 1 expected to see a hare or a rocdeer scamper across the path ; but through the parted bushes, about ten paces from me on the road, jumped a big fellow, dressed all in black, with his gun on his shoulder, a revolver in his belt, and his head covered by a large Tyrolese hat. I was startled. I thought it was some Bavarian or Saxon rifleman. It was, however, a Parisian franc- tirciir. At that time there were some twenty of them in the forest, retreating day by day before the Prussians, lying in ambush to watch their line of march, and to knock over from time to time an Uhlan of the advance-guard. While 46 ROBERT HELMONT. the man was talking to me, his comrades, coming out of the coppice, joined us. They were nearly all old soldiers, working-men from the faubourgs of Paris. I took them back to the Hermitage, and made them drink a few bottles of wine. They told me the M A. ■■■':-' Prince of Saxony's division had reached Montereau, one stage distant from here. I learnt also from them about the defensive operations begun round Paris — the organisation o^ the troops ; and to hear them speak with such calm, such confidence, and especially ROBERT HELMONT. 47 hearing their Parisian accent, warmed my heart. Ah, brave fellows! if I could only have gone off with them, stuck on my head their ridiculous headgear, and fought in their ranks, under the walls of the good city!... But, alas! to have walked merely 48 ROBERT HELMONT. twenty steps in the woods had swollen my leg, and I was in pain. Ah, well ! I was grieved when they left me. They are probably the last Frenchmen that I shall see for some time... They left at dusk, cheered b^' my sour wine. I gave them a hen,... they carried off four... _ jjSTsiy- ^ftWSs^ No news. September 1 1 ///. September \2tJ1. Still no news. What can be going on ? Are they forced to retire ? Really, this suspense is unbearable. September XT,th. I have only bread enough for two days. I found this out in the morning, on opening the chest where Mother Guillard placed my week's provisions — six large 50 ROBERT llELMONT. floury and golden loaves, that she baked for me every Sunday. What shall I do ? I have, it is true, an oven and a kneading-trough, but not an atom of flour. Perhaps I should find some at the farm at Champ- rosay, if Goudeloup has remained there as he in- tended. But how can I get so far in my present weak condition ? Seated on my garden bench in front of my door, I was absorbed in these melancholy thoughts, when I heard the sound of an animal galloping in the keeper's field. It was Colaquet. Colaquet, generall}^ so laz}', was gambolling round the orchard, kicking up little tufts of grass with his hoofs and rolling over on his back, with a feeling of satisfaction and pleasure in living. In two bounds he came at my call, and leant his liead, no longer swollen, but now of normal size, on the wooden trellis ; the rapid motion of his long ears, whose language I am beginning to understand, telling me of his happiness at being free and delivered from his pain and infirmity. Lucky Colaquet ! he is cured before 1 am; and while I looked at him with an envious eye, I remembered that there — over there, under the shed — was an old conveyance that Guillard formerly used on fete-days to drive parties of Pari- sians through the forest. If I harnessed Colaquet, ROBERT HELMONT. 51 we might go and fetch some flour... So I set to work rummaging under the shed. Amongst the rusty pickaxes, hay-rakes, and dilapidated harrows I finally discovered a worm-eaten spring-cart, forgotten and unused, its two shafts l^'ing on the ground. B3' means of some pieces of rope and a few nails I put it into a tolerable state of repair. It occupied me till the evening ; but what an interesting piece of work ! 1 was amused in turning over those old nails, those worn-out pegs. Once or twice I surprised m3'self by whistling over my work. Pretty cool, considering I was expecting the Prussians... Now everything is ready, the cart and the team. To-morrow morning, if in the meanwhile nothing happens, we shall start for Champrosay ! Sepieinbcr \^th. I have made a compact with myself to keep a very exact diary of the strange and terrible life I have been drawn into ; if I have many days as exciting and tragic as this, I shall never be able to live through them. My hand shakes, my brain is on fire. How- ever, I must make the attempt... At first starting all went well. The weather was beautiful. I had placed a bundle of hay in the cart, 56 ROBERT HELMONT. and although Colaqiiet's eyelids were still swollen from the bite, he nianagcd to take us tolerably straight — he had so often made tliis journey, carrying bundles of linen to the riverside. In spite of the slight jolt- ing, I found the drive delightful. Not the point of a helmet nor tlie glitter of a gun-barrel to be seen. Only, on arriving at Champrosay, the deep silence that had so impressed me in the woods appeared still more striking. The peasants' cottages hardly seemed to me the same : no pigeons on the roofs, the doors closed, and the courtNards deserted. The silent belfry of the little church, with its defaced dial, stood above like a faithful guardian. Fartiier on, all the villas along the road, their grounds extending to tlie forest, were also carefully shut i\\). Tlieir sunnner wealth of flowers continued to bloom, and, undrr the shade of the clipped trees, the yellow sandy paths were but lightly strewn with a few dead leaves. Nothing could give a more vivid idea of sudden departure and flight than the sight of tlicse deserted houses, decked out as usual behind tlieir high iron gates. There seemed still a kind of quiver and warmth of life ; and at times, at the turn of the path, visions rose up in my mind of straw hats, upraised parasols, and of "ac^C"*' Colaquct managed to take us tolerably straight. '• /'.'^"Z 56. ROBERT HELMONT. 57 goats tethered on the grass-plots in their accustomed place. What, however, really seemed deathlike was the road, the highroad to Corbeil, that I had left so full of life, with a continual flow of vans, mail-coaches, market-gardeners' carts, perambulating poultry-yards full of cackle and prattle ; carriages borne along through the whirlwind of their own speed, on which float, even in the calmest weather, the veils and rib- bons of the occupants ; and the tall waggons laden with fresh hay and scythes and pitchforks, casting long shadows across the road. And now nothing and no one. In the filled-up ruts the dust has the still look of fallen snow, and the two wheels of my spring- cart glide on noiselessly. At the end of the village the farm appears in the distance, closed, and silent from the foot of its walls to the highest tile of its tall dark roof. Has Goudeloup also taken flight?... Here I am before the gateway. I knock — I call. A window above the dairy opens cautiously, and I see the cunning, somewhat unkempt head of the farmer appear, with his untrimmed beard, and his small round, suspicious eyes hidden under bushy eye- brows. 58 ROBERT IIELMONT. — Ah! it is 3'ou, Mr. Robert... Wait a moment. I am cominsr down. I Together we enter the h'ttle, low room where the carters, harvesters, and threshers usually come in the ROBERT IIELMONT. 59 evening to receive their day's pay. In a corner I perceive two loaded guns. — You see, says Goudeloup, I am ready for them... If they leave me alone, I shall not stir... But if they are imprudent enough to meddle with the farm... Let them beware! .