Mademoiselle Fifi | Page 4

heavy rain at the gallop of four
horses.
At once an awakening thrill seemed to run through the group of officers
and shook them from their lethargy; the languid poses straightened up,
faces became animated and they began to talk.
Although the shower was continuing as heavy as ever, the Major
affirmed that it was not so dark, and Lieutenant Otto announced
positively that the weather was clearing up. Even Mademoiselle Fifi
seemed unable to keep still. He rose and sat down again. His harsh and
clear eye was looking for something to break; suddenly, glaring at the
lady with the mustache, the young prig drew his revolver: "You shall
not witness it, you!" said he, and, without leaving his seat, he aimed.
Two bullets fired in rapid succession put out the eyes of the portrait.
Then he exclaimed: "Let us explode a mine!" And at once the
conversation was interrupted, as if a powerful and new curiosity had
taken hold of every one present.
A mine, that was his invention, his way of destroying, his favorite
amusement.
When he hurriedly left his chateau, Comte Fernand d'Armoy d'Uville,
the legitimate owner, had had no time to take with him nor hide away
anything except the silver-plate, which he had stowed away in a hole
made in a wall. Now as he was immensely wealthy and lived in great
luxury, his large salon, the door of which communicated with the
dining-room, presented the appearance of a Picture Gallery before the
precipitate flight of the master.
Priceless paintings and aquarelles were hanging on the walls, while on

the tables, the étagères and the elegant cabinets, thousands of bric à
brac and bibelots, statuettes, Dresden and Chinese vases, old ivories
and Venice pottery peopled the large room with their precious and odd
multitude.
Hardly any were left by this time. Not that they had been stolen; the
Major, Graf Farlsberg, would not have permitted nor tolerated it; but
Mademoiselle Fifi once in a while exploded a mine; and on such
occasions all the officers enjoyed themselves thoroughly for five
minutes.
The little Markgraf went to the salon to fetch what he needed; he
brought in a tiny and graceful Chinese tea-pot of the Rose family,
which he filled with gun powder, and through the neck of which he
carefully introduced a long piece of tinder, lighted it and, running,
carried this infernal machine into the next room.
Then he returned quickly and closed the door behind him. All the
Germans stood up and waited, their faces wreathed in childlike smiles
of curiosity, and as soon as the explosion shook the Chateau, they
hurried in all at once.
Mademoiselle Fifi, who had been the first one to rush in, was
deliriously clapping his hands in front of a terra cotta Venus, whose
head at last had been blown off; and each picked up broken pieces of
China, wondering at the strange indentation of the fragments,
examining the new damage done, claiming that some of the damage
had been caused by previous explosions. And the Major was
contemplating, with a paternal look, the large salon upset by this
Neronian firework and strewn with the debris of the objects of Art. He
came out first, declaring good- naturedly: "It was very successful this
time!"
But such a spout of smoke had invaded the dining-room, mixing with
the smoke of tobacco, that it was impossible to breathe. The
Commander opened the window, and all the officers, who had come
back to drink a last glass of cognac, crowded near it.

The damp air blew into the room bringing in a kind of water dust,
which sprayed and powdered the beards, and a smell of inundation.
They were looking at the tall trees bending under the shower, the broad
valley darkened by this outflow of the black low clouds[*], and in the
distance the Church spire rising like a gray point in the pelting rain.
[*][Note from Brett: The original uses "clowds," but I think "clouds"
was intended.]
Since the arrival of the Germans, the Church bell had not rung. It was
in fact the only resistance with which the invaders met in that
neighborhood, the resistance of the bell-tower. The Curate had not
refused to receive and feed Prussian soldiers; he had even, on several
occasions, accepted to drink a bottle of beer or claret with the enemy
Commander, who often used him as a benevolent intermediary. But it
was useless to ask him for a single ring of his bell; he would rather
have faced a firing squad. That was his way of protesting against
invasion, a peaceful protest, the protest of silence, the only one, said he,
that became a priest, a man of peace and not of blood. And everybody
for ten miles around praised the