Author Unknown
Translated by Edmund
Content Warning: #4 (explanation)
AN INCIDENT OF THE FRANCO PRUSSIAN WAR.
The speaker, a young Prussian officer, in full uniform, bent low before the beautiful girl whom he addressed.
But Maria Moreau saw neither the courtly grace of manner, nor noted the young, handsome face and form. She only knew that the enemy of her country stood before her, that the tri-colour of France had been dragged down from its standard where it floated protectingly over the little French town, and the hated banner of Prussia put in its stead; that the very privacy of their hearths and homes had been intruded upon—in many instances ruthlessly—and that the man before her was but a representative of what the disaster entailed.
"Sir," she answered, her lips curling in undisguised scorn as she spoke, "we are women, and defenceless. It fits you well that you should make a pretence of asking, through courtesy, that which you have obtained through force. The only request we can make of our guests"—emphasising the latter word with supreme irony—"is that we may be permitted to see each other as little as possible. Unless your regretful consideration demands all the house, leave us any portion, however small, that shall be ours, not only in word but in deed."
"Mademoiselle, your wishes are commands, answered the young officer, though a blush had risen to his cheek at her hot words of scorn. "My advice to you would be to take the upper floor, where there would he no excuse for intrusion upon you. I wish most earnestly that I might withdraw my men from the house, but it is impossible. The town is small, and the troops are many. They are quartered everywhere, and even should I withdraw them, you might be subjected to fresh annoyance, from which it will be my earnest endeavour to shield you. Permit me, mademoiselle, to hand you my card, and beg you to command my services, and to report to me any incivility you may encounter."
So speaking, he placed on the table beside her a slip of pasteboard, and, making a low bow, withdrew.
The girl made no motion towards it, not even bending her haughty little head in recognition of his courtesy.
"Really, Marie," said her aunt, stretching out her hand for the card, "the young man was very polite. It would have been better policy, my dear, had your manner not been so repellent"
"Repellent!" exclaimed the young girl, rising from her seat in her excitement, and pacing up and down the room. "I wish I could have crushed him with scorn. Does he not know that a true Frenchwoman will bear any insult rather than the humiliation of Prussian magnanimity? I hate him! I hate them all! How shall I draw a free breath, knowing that they live on the same air that sustains me! Ah! France, be patient; it is but for a little longer."
"Hugh von Trenck," read the elder lady, aloud, from the card. "We must not lose this. The young man may really be of future service to us."
"Aunt, how can you? Give me the card, or tear it up yourself. Do you think I would ask a favour at his hands, or accept one? Never, never!" and her bright eyes flashed.
But madame quietly slipped the piece of pasteboard within the reticule she wore at her belt, determining, if necessary, to take the young officer at his word.
"Madame will pardon a stranger's interference, but I must beg that neither she nor Mademoiselle venture into the streets to-day. The soldiers are all in a state of revelry and riot, which might subject them to insult. Any commands I should be happy to fulfil.—
Respectfully, HUGH VON TRENCK."
Madame Moreau, some three days later, reads aloud the above from a card just slipped beneath the door.
Her niece stood before the glass, trying on her hat, and listening with curling lips.
"You see, Marie," she said, glancing up from the writing, "you must not go out. It would be rash madness."
But Marie only picked up her veil and began adjusting it to her pretty face.
"Marie, do you hear me?"
"Yes, aunt," she answered. "But inasmuch as I am very hungry, and there is nothing in the house to eat, I think it is more a matter of necessity than of choice. Besides, I would rather be openly insulted than be the subject of Herr Hugh von Trenck's magnanimous solicitude. Have no fear, auntie, I am quite able to take care of myself."
And in spite of the elder lady's entreaties, and with a good-bye kiss and a reassuring smile, she was gone.
But the smile faded, as she stood a moment on the threshold of the outside door and glanced up and down the street filled with soldiers. The colour in her cheeks paled to whiteness, and her heart beat loud and fast.
She almost determined to turn back, when some one, standing at her elbow, said, in tones so earnest as to be nearly harsh, "Did your aunt not receive my warning?" It was Hugh von Trenck who spoke.
"Are you in authority in this house, sir, over all its inmates?" she questioned. "If we are prisoners let us know it. You can then enforce your wishes."
"You do me injustice. Mademoiselle," he replied, in low, thrilling tones. "I beg, for your own sake, not for mine, not to venture out this morning."
"Your prayers and commands are all one to me, sir," she repeated.
The next moment she had gained the street, fear forgotten in her indignant anger. With quick step she hastened in the necessary direction. Beyond a rude stare of admiration she was unmolested, and her purchases were effected.
She started to return, when coming immediately towards her, extending from the curb to the wall, was a line of Prussian soldiers, arm linked in arm, their steps unsteady from liquor, and their voices raised in laughter and song. What would she do? She feared to turn and flee, lest they should pursue her. Perhaps, by hiding her tremor, and walking boldly on, they might move enough for her to pass. Herr von Trenck's hated advice rang in her ears. She should hate him trebly if it proved unnecessary. But now all the soldiers' eyes were turned on her, as they stood, an impassable phalanx, barring her way.
"Pay us toll, my pretty little Francaise," said one, fastening his coarse gaze upon her.
"Yes; pay us toll," the others echoed. "A kiss apiece!"
Concealing an awful sinking at heart, she strove to pass them by stepping down from the curb; but the outside man and first speaker threw out his arm to prevent her.
"No, no," he said in freezing tones. "You are our prisoner, and we won't let you off so easy. Pay us willingly, and we will prove good as our word. Drive us to force and we'll help ourselves."
To scream would be but to gather round her fresh tormentors, so she struggled to appear calm.
"Let me pass," she said in indignant tones.
The speaker threw his arm about her waist.
She felt his tainted breath upon her cheek. Oh, God! must her lips be polluted by his touch?
With sudden strength she wrenched herself from his grasp, the brutal laugh of the others jarring on her ears.
A scream, loud and long, burst from her lips, followed by another and another, as her persecutor again approached, when, as if by magic, some one darted in between them and felled the ruffian to the earth.
The others, bold with drink, murmured angrily, but a gleaming pistol soon silenced them, as they recognised their young colonel, and respectfully moved away.
Calling a guard, he put the man he held under his heel in arrest, then turned and offered his arm to the trembling girl.
She saw, then, for the first time, that it was Hugh von Trenck who had saved her. Haughtily refusing his arm, hating herself, hating him more, she walked in silence by his side. At her door she forced herself to speak. "Sir, I owe you my thanks," she said.
"Mademoiselle, the day will come when you will pay me your debt in full," he replied, and left her.
What did he mean? His words, the man himself, haunted her. How brave and full of courage he had been! How nobly he had come to her relief! How generously he had uttered no word of reproach, or of the truth, that she had brought it on herself. If he had not been a Prussian, she might almost have liked him. As it was—but she got no further than this. She broke down in a storm of tears.
A week later the troops, all but a small reserve, were ordered out for a sortie. Paris had long been in siege, and must soon capitulate.
With all her heart Marie prayed night and day for success to the flag already doomed. That her cause could be lost seemed to her impossible.
Now and then the winds bore to her the boom of cannon. They were fighting not far off, and among them was the man she had treated with such disdainful contempt.
Could it be that she thought of him at such a time.
The third day the fighting ceased. The Prussians were again victorious; but all night long they were bringing back the dead and the wounded to the little town.
It was just daybreak when a squad of soldiers halted at her door. She had not dreamed of undressing during the long night. A nameless dread had tortured her. She knew in a moment what it was, as she herself went down and threw open the door to receive the pale, senseless form they bore.
"This way!" cried she, with quiet dignity. and led the way to her own room and her own bed.
He had told her she should repay her debt. Could he have foreseen this day? Would he ever know what she had done for him?
For weeks his life hung in the balance; but one night he opened his grey eyes to consciousness, and they rested on the solitary figure at his side. Her aunt, weary, had gone to rest. A smile broke over the white, thin face.
"You here, Mademoiselle?" he said.
"Yes," she answered, "I am here."
He held out his wasted hand, and she silently placed hers within it. Then still, with a smile upon his lips, he fell asleep; but from that moment the tide had turned, and life had gained the victory.
He was almost well again, when one day came the tidings of the fall of Paris, and on the same day, by the fatality of fate, came to him the news of his promotion to a general's rank.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," he said, "I cannot rejoice while you weep. I once said you should pay your debt. I little imagined how you would pay it. I meant then the day should come when you should love and marry me. I had loved you from the first moment my eyes rested on you, in spite of your scorn and contempt. But now you have paid your debt in your own way. You have given me back my life. I will no longer torture you with my presence. I will go away and leave you."
And he turned his head that she might not see the moisture in his eyes.
But softly she stole to his side, and kneeling down, nestled her head in his arm.
"If I say stay, Hugh, then will you go?"
"My love—my darling! do you mock me? Oh, this is cruel!"
"Nay, Hugh, I am like my own poor Paris," she replied. "The siege has been a long one, but she and I, I fear, have alike been "Taken by Storm!""
Warragul Guardian, Thursday 11 August 1881, supplement page 2.
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