The Debacle - Emile Zola [77]
‘Open the door just the same. We’ll have a rest and you’ll dig something out.’
They were already banging again when the old man put his candle down on the bar and took aim with his gun.
‘As sure as that’s a candle, I’ll blow out the brains of the first one to touch my door!’
Then there was nearly a pitched battle. They shouted curses up at him and one voice yelled that they’d better settle this bloody yokel’s hash – just like all the others he’d rather chuck his bread into the river than give a mouthful to a soldier. Rifles were already being raised and they were on the point of shooting him at almost point-blank range, but he did not even recoil, but stayed there, furious and immovable, in full view in the candlelight.
‘Nothing at all! Not a crust! They’ve taken the lot!’
Maurice was horrified and leaped forward, with Jean after him.
‘Comrades…’
He struck down the soldiers’ rifles and looked up, pleading:
‘Look, do be sensible. Don’t you recognize me? It’s me!’
‘Me! Who’s me?’
‘Maurice Levasseur, your nephew.’
Old Fouchard picked up his candle again. Obviously he recognized him. But he persisted in his determination not to give away even a glass of water.
‘Nephew or not, how do I know in this cut-throat darkness? Go on, bugger off, the whole lot of you, or I’ll shoot!’
And all through the vociferations and threats to shoot him down and set fire to the whole show he went on with the one cry which he repeated twenty times over:
‘Bugger off, the whole lot of you, or I’ll shoot!’
‘Even me, Dad?’ suddenly asked a loud voice above all the din.
The others drew back and a sergeant appeared in the flickering light from the candle. It was Honoré, whose battery was less than two hundred metres away and who for two hours had been fighting an irresistible urge to come and knock at this door. He had sworn he would never cross the threshold again and in all his four years of service he had never exchanged a single letter with the father he was now addressing so curtly. Already the marauding soldiers were in a huddle, conferring busily. The old boy’s son, and an N.C.O. as well! Nothing doing, it wasn’t so good, they’d better look somewhere else. And off they went, and vanished into the inky darkness.
When old Fouchard realized that he had been saved from looting he simply said, with no emotion whatever, as though he had seen his boy the day before:
‘Oh it’s you… all right, I’m coming down.’
It took a long time. Doors could be heard being unlocked and locked again – quite a performance by the sort of man who makes sure nothing is left lying about. Then at last the door opened, but barely ajar, and held by a strong hand.
‘Come in, you and nobody else!’
Yet he could not refuse asylum to his nephew, though it went visibly against the grain.
‘All right, you too.’
And he was by way of shutting the door pitilessly on Jean, and Maurice had to entreat him. But he was immovable: no, no, he didn’t want any strangers and thieves in his house and breaking up his furniture. Finally Honoré butted with his shoulder and let their mate in, and the old man had to give way, muttering vague threats. He had hung on to his gun. When he had taken them into the living-room and stood his rifle against the sideboard and put the candle on the table, he fell into a sullen silence.
‘Look here, Dad, we’re starving. Surely you can give us some bread and cheese!’
He made no answer and did not appear to hear, but kept going over to the window to listen in case some other lot should come and besiege his house.
‘Look, Uncle, Jean is like a brother to me. He went without everything for me. And we’ve been through so much together.’
He was still going round to make sure nothing was missing, and did not even look at them. At last he made up his mind, but still never said a word. He suddenly picked up his candle and left them in the dark, taking care to lock the door behind him so that nobody could follow. They heard him going down the cellar stairs. Once again it took a very long time. When he came back, after renewed