[adapted]

by
Guy de Maupassant

For several days in a row, small groups of a beaten army had passed through the town. They were only disorganized groups, not well-trained soldiers. The men wore long, dirty beards and torn uniforms; they moved forward in a tired way, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed very tired, worn out, not able to think or decide, walking on only from habit, and falling to the ground from tiredness the moment they stopped.

One saw, especially, many men who had joined the army, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their money, bending under the weight of their rifles; and small active volunteers, easily scared but full of excitement, as eager to attack as they were ready to run away; and among these, a few soldiers with red trousers, the sad few left from a division killed in a great battle; serious artillerymen, side by side with ordinary foot soldiers; and, here and there, the shining helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had trouble keeping up with the faster pace of the regular soldiers.

Large groups of soldiers not in the regular army with fancy names “Avengers of Defeat,” “Citizens of the Tomb,” “Brethren in Death” — passed by in their turn, looking like bandits. Their leaders, former cloth sellers or grain sellers, or animal fat or soap sellers — warriors because of what happened, officers because of their mustaches or their money — covered with weapons, flannel, and gold lace, spoke in a serious way, discussed war plans, and acted as if they alone carried the future of dying France on their proud shoulders; though, in fact, they were often afraid of their own men — bad men, often very brave, but thieves and men who love pleasure.

People said that the Prussians were going to enter Rouen soon.

The members of the National Guard, who for the past two months had been looking around very carefully in the nearby woods, sometimes shooting their own guards, and getting ready to fight whenever a rabbit made a noise in the bushes, had now returned to their homes. Their weapons, their uniforms, all the deadly equipment with which they had frightened all the milestones along the main road for eight miles around, had suddenly and almost magically disappeared.

The last of the French soldiers had just crossed the Seine on their way to Pont-Audemer, through Saint-Sever and Bourg-Achard, and behind them the defeated general, unable to do anything with the sad rest of his army, himself upset at the final defeat of a nation used to winning and badly beaten although it had famous bravery, walked between two assistants.

Then a deep calm, a shaking, silent fear, came over the city. Many a big-bellied citizen, made weak by years spent on business, nervously waited for the invaders, shaking for fear that his meat roasting tools or kitchen knives would be seen as weapons.

Life seemed to have stopped suddenly; the shops were shut, the streets empty. Now and then a local, afraid of the silence, moved quickly by in the shadows by the walls. The pain of waiting made people even want the enemy to come.

In the afternoon of the day after the French soldiers left, a group of uhlans, coming from no one knew where, went quickly through the town. A little later, a black mass came down St. Catherine’s Hill, while two other invading groups appeared, one on the Darnetal road and one on the Boisguillaume road. The front guards of the three army groups arrived at exactly the same moment at the Square of the Hotel de Ville, and the German army went through all the nearby streets, its units making the pavement ring with their firm, even steps.

Orders shouted in an unknown, harsh language rose up to the windows of the houses that seemed dead and empty; while behind the tightly closed shutters eager eyes looked out at the winners — masters now of the city, its future, and its lives, by the “right of war.” The people, in their dark rooms, were filled with that terror which comes after great disasters, after deadly earthquakes, against which all human skill and strength are useless. For the same thing happens whenever the usual order of things is upset, when safety no longer exists, when all those rights usually protected by human law or by Nature are in the hands of mindless, cruel force.

The earthquake crushing a whole nation under falling roofs; the flood let loose, and swallowing in its deep waters the dead bodies of drowned farmers, along with dead oxen and wooden beams torn from broken houses; or the army, full of glory, killing those who defend themselves, taking the rest as prisoners, robbing in the name of the Sword, and thanking God to the thunder of cannon — all these are terrible disasters, which destroy all belief in eternal justice, all that trust we have been taught to feel in the protection of Heaven and the reason of man.

Small groups of soldiers knocked at each door, and then went inside the houses; for the people who lost knew they would have to be polite to those who won.

After a short time, once the first fear had passed, calm returned. In many houses the Prussian officer ate at the same table with the family. He was often polite, and, to be polite, said he was sorry for France and that he did not like being forced to take part in the war. This feeling was received with thanks; also, his protection might be needed some day or other. By being tactful the number of men made to stay in one’s house might be reduced; and why should one cause the anger of a person on whom one’s whole well-being depended? Such behavior would seem less like bravery than like foolish daring.

And being too bold is not a weakness of the citizens of Rouen anymore as it was in the days when their city became famous for its brave defenses. Last of all — the last reason based on the politeness of the country — the people of Rouen said to each other that it was only right to be polite in one’s own house, as long as there was no public show of being friendly with the foreigner. So, outside, citizen and soldier did not know each other; but in the house both talked freely, and each evening the German stayed a little longer, warming himself at the warm fireplace.

Even the town itself slowly took back its usual look. The French rarely went outside, but the streets were full of Prussian soldiers. Also, the officers of the Blue Hussars, who proudly dragged their weapons along the sidewalks, seemed to look down on the simple townspeople only a little more than the French horse soldiers who had drunk at the same cafes the year before.

But there was something in the air, a something strange and not easy to notice, a foreign air that was too hard to stand like a smell that goes everywhere — the smell of invasion. It went into homes and public places, changed the taste of food, made one imagine one’s self in very far lands, among dangerous, wild tribes.

The invaders demanded money, much money. The local people paid what was asked; they were rich. But, the richer a Norman shopkeeper becomes, the more he feels bad when he has to give up anything that belongs to him, when he has to see any part of his money pass into the hands of someone else.

However, within six or seven miles of the town, along the river as it flows to Croisset, Dieppedalle and Biessart, boatmen and fishermen often pulled up to the surface of the water the body of a German, swollen in his uniform, killed by a hit from a knife or a club, his head smashed by a stone, or perhaps pushed from some bridge into the water below. The mud at the bottom of the river hid these secret acts of revenge — wild, yet right; these not written down actions of courage; these quiet attacks full of greater danger than battles fought in broad daylight, and also with no touch of romance around them. For hate of the foreigner always gives strength to a few brave people, ready to die for an idea.

At last, as the enemy soldiers, though putting the town under very strict rules, had not done any of the terrible acts that people had said they did during their victory march, the people became braver, and the needs of business again made the local merchants active. Some of these had important business in Havre — now held by the French army — and wanted to try to reach that port by the land road to Dieppe, taking the boat from there.

Because of the German officers they had met, they got a permit to leave the town from the general in charge.

A large four-horse coach had therefore been hired for the journey, and ten passengers had given their names to the owner, they decided to start on a certain Tuesday morning before sunrise, to avoid a crowd.

The ground had been frozen hard for some time, and about three o’clock on Monday afternoon, big black clouds from the north dropped their snow without stopping all through that evening and night.

At half-past four in the morning the travellers met in the yard of the Hotel de Normandie, where they were going to sit in the coach.

They were still half asleep, and shaking with cold under their blankets. They could see one another but not clearly in the dark, and the mountain of heavy winter blankets in which each was wrapped made them look like a group of very fat priests in their long robes. But two men recognized each other, a third came up to them, and the three began to talk. “I am bringing my wife,” said one. “So am I.” “And I, too.” The first speaker added: “We will not return to Rouen, and if the Prussians come near Havre we will go to England.” All three, it turned out, had made the same plans, being of similar character and nature.

Still the horses did not have their harness on. A small lantern carried by a boy from the stable came out now and then from one dark doorway to go in at once into another. The stomping of horses’ hooves, softened by the animal waste and straw of the stable, was heard from time to time, and from inside the building came a man’s voice, talking to the animals and cursing at them. A soft tinkle of bells showed that the harness was being made ready; this tinkle soon became a steady jingling, louder or softer depending on the movements of the horse, sometimes stopping completely, then starting again in a sudden loud sound with a hoof with an iron shoe scraping the ground.

The door suddenly closed. All noise stopped.

The very cold townspeople were silent; they stayed still, stiff with cold.

A thick curtain of shining white flakes fell without stopping to the ground; it hid all shapes, covered all objects in an icy coat of foam; nothing could be heard across the whole silent city frozen by winter except the faint rustle, without a name, of falling snow — a feeling more than a sound — the gentle mixing of tiny, light flakes which seemed to fill all space, to cover the whole world.

The man came back with his lantern, leading with a rope a sad-looking horse, clearly being led out when he did not want to go. The stable man put him beside the pole, tied the straps, and spent some time walking around him to make sure that the harness was okay; because he could use only one hand, the other was busy holding the lantern. As he was about to get the second horse he saw the still group of travellers, already white with snow, and said to them: “Why don’t you get inside the coach? You’d be under shelter, at least.”

They did not seem to have thought of this, and they at once took his advice. The three men seated their wives at the far end of the coach, then got in themselves; lastly the other unclear, snow-covered people climbed to the remaining seats without a word.

The floor was covered with straw, and the feet sank into it. The ladies at the far end, who had brought with them small copper foot-warmers heated by a kind of special fuel, began to light them, and spent some time talking in low voices about their good points, saying again and again things which they had all known for a long time.

At last, six horses, instead of four, were attached to the coach because the roads were very muddy, a voice outside asked: “Is every one there?” To which a voice from inside answered: “Yes,” and they started.

The vehicle moved slowly, slowly, very slowly; the wheels sank into the snow; the whole body of the coach creaked and groaned; the horses slipped, breathed hard, gave off steam, and the driver’s long whip cracked again and again, flying here and there, curling up, then throwing out its length like a thin snake, as it hit some round side, which at once became tight as it tried harder.

But the day went on quickly. Those light flakes which one traveller, a man from Rouen, had said were like a rain of cotton fell no longer. A dim light came through dark, heavy clouds, which made the country look even whiter, a whiteness broken sometimes by a row of tall trees covered with white frost, or by a cottage roof covered with snow.

Inside the coach the passengers looked at each other curiously in the weak light of early morning.

Right at the back, in the best seats of all, Monsieur and Madame Loiseau, wine sellers who sold in large amounts of the Rue Grand-Pont, slept opposite each other. Before, an office worker for a merchant who had failed in business, Loiseau had bought his master’s share, and made a lot of money for himself. He sold very bad wine at a very low price to the shopkeepers in the country, and was known, among his friends and people he knew, as a clever rascal, a true Norman, full of jokes and tricks. His character as a cheat was so clear that, among the people of Rouen, the very name of Loiseau became a word people used for cheating.

Besides this, Loiseau was known for his practical jokes of every kind — his tricks, kind or unkind; and no one could say his name without adding right away: “He’s a very special man — Loiseau.” He was short and had a big belly, had a red face with a gray beard.

His wife — tall, strong, very sure, with a loud voice and a clear way — was the one for order and numbers in the business which Loiseau made lively with his cheerful activity.

Beside them, serious and calm, from a higher class, sat Mr. Carre-Lamadon, a very important man, a leader in the cotton business, owner of three spinning mills, an officer of the Legion of Honor, and a member of the General Council. During all the time when the Empire was in power he stayed the leader of the friendly Opposition, only so he could get more praise for his loyalty when he would join the side which he, at the same time, fought against with “polite weapons,” as he said himself.

Madame Carre-Lamadon, much younger than her husband, was the comfort of all the officers from good families staying in Rouen. Pretty, slim, graceful, she sat opposite her husband, wrapped in her furs, and looking sadly at the poor inside of the coach.

Her neighbors, the Count and Countess Hubert de Breville, had one of the most noble and oldest names in Normandy. The count, a nobleman who was old and who looked very noble, tried to improve, by every trick of washing and dressing, his natural likeness to King Henry IV, who, according to a story of which the family were very proud, had been the favorite lover of a De Breville lady, and father of her child — the woman’s husband was, because of this, made a count and governor of a province.

A colleague of Monsieur Carre-Lamadon in the General Council, Count Hubert represented the Orleanist party in his department. The story of his marriage to the daughter of a small shipowner at Nantes had always stayed a bit of a mystery. But since the countess clearly seemed from a good family, hosted guests perfectly, and was even thought to have been loved by a son of Louis-Philippe, the nobles competed with each other to honor her, and her drawing-room stayed the finest in the whole countryside — the only one that kept the old spirit of polite manners, and that was not easy to get into.

The money of the Brevilles, all in land and houses, was, people said, five hundred thousand francs a year.

These six people took the far end of the coach, and stood for Society — with money — the strong, well-known society of good people with religion and moral rules.

It happened by chance that all the women were seated on the same side; and the countess also had, next to her, two nuns, who spent the time moving their long rosary beads and saying softly paternosters and aves. One of them was old, and so deeply marked with smallpox that she looked as if she had received a load of shot right in the face. The other, who looked sick, had a pretty but thin face, and a narrow, weak chest, weakened by that burning faith which makes martyrs and visionaries.

A man and woman, sitting opposite the two nuns, made everyone look at them.

The man — a well-known person — was Cornudet, the democrat, who scared all respectable people. For the past twenty years his big red beard had often been wet from the beer mugs in all the republican cafes. With the help of his friends and brothers he had wasted a lot of money left to him by his father, a long-time candy maker, and he now waited impatiently for the Republic, so that he might at last be given the job he had earned by his revolutionary parties.

On the fourth of September — maybe because of a practical joke — he was made to think he had been named prefect; but when he tried to start the job the office clerks in charge did not accept that he was the boss, and so he had to step down. In other ways he was a good man, harmless and helpful, he had worked very hard to set up an organized defence of the town. He had pits dug in the flat country, young forest trees cut down, and traps set on all the roads; then, when the enemy came near, very satisfied with his preparations, he quickly returned to the town. He thought he could now do more good at Havre, where new trenches would soon be needed.

The woman, who was a prostitute, was known for being unusually plump for her age, which had given her the nickname of “Boule de Suif” (Tallow Ball). Short and round, as fat as a pig, with puffy fingers tight at the joints, looking like rows of short sausages; with shiny, tightly stretched skin and a very big chest filling the top of her dress, she was still attractive and very popular, because of her fresh and nice look. Her face was like a dark red apple, a flower bud just starting to open; she had two beautiful dark eyes, with thick, heavy eyelashes, which made a shadow in them; her mouth was small, ripe, good for kissing, and had the tiniest white teeth.

As soon as people knew who she was the proper older married women of the group began to whisper among themselves, and the words “hussy” and “public scandal” were said so loudly that Boule de Suif raised her head. She at once gave such a hard, bold look at the people near her that there was a sudden silence in the group, and all lowered their eyes, except Loiseau, who watched her with clear interest.

But talk soon started again among the three ladies, whom the presence of this girl had suddenly brought together in the bonds of friendship — one might almost say in those of closeness. They decided that they should join together, so to speak, in their pride as wives in front of this shameless woman; for married love always looks down on its easy brother.

The three men, also, brought together by a certain careful feeling woken by Cornudet being there, spoke about money in a tone that showed they looked down on the poor. Count Hubert told about the losses he had suffered because of the Prussians, spoke about the cattle that had been stolen from him, the crops that had been ruined, with the easy way of a nobleman who was also a ten-times millionaire, and for whom such losses would hardly make life difficult for even one year.

Monsieur Carre-Lamadon, a man with much experience in the cotton business, had made sure to send six hundred thousand francs to England as money for the bad times he was always expecting. As for Loiseau, he had managed to sell to the French army supply office all the wines he had in stock, so that the state now owed him a large amount of money, which he hoped to receive at Havre.

And all three looked at one another in a friendly, kind way. Although they had different social position, they were united in the brotherhood of money — in that great secret group made up of those who have, who can jingle gold wherever they choose to put their hands into their trousers’ pockets.

The coach went so slowly that at ten o’clock in the morning it had not gone twelve miles. Three times the men in the group got out and walked up the hills. The passengers were getting worried, for they had planned to eat lunch at Totes, and it seemed now as if they would hardly get there before dark. Everyone was looking hard for an inn by the road, when, suddenly, the coach got stuck in deep snow, and it took two hours to pull it out.