to the French officer."

Lavigne replied from the window, taking care not to put his head out too
far:

"Do you surrender?"

"I surrender."

"Then put your rifles outside."

A rifle immediately protruded from the hole, and fell into the snow, then
another and another, until all were disposed of. And the voice which had
spoken before said:

"I have no more. Be quick! I am drowned."

"Stop pumping!" ordered the commandant.

And the pump handle hung motionless.

Then, having filled the kitchen with armed and waiting soldiers, he
slowly raised the oaken trapdoor.

Four heads appeared, soaking wet, four fair heads with long, sandy hair,
and one after another the six Germans emerged--scared, shivering and
dripping from head to foot.

They were seized and bound. Then, as the French feared a surprise, they
set off at once in two convoys, one in charge of the prisoners, and the
other conducting Maloison on a mattress borne on poles.

They made a triumphal entry into Rethel.

Monsieur Lavigne was decorated as a reward for having captured a Prussian
advance guard, and the fat baker received the military medal for wounds
received at the hands of the enemy.

TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS

Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would go for
a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks, crossed
Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then, as the
houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed the dusty road which
leads to Bezons.

They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting capes, too large and
too long, whose sleeves covered their hands; their ample red trousers
fell in folds around their ankles. Under the high, stiff shako one could
just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked Breton faces, with their
calm, naive blue eyes. They never spoke during their journey, going
straight before them, the same idea in each one's mind taking the place
of conversation. For at the entrance of the little forest of Champioux
they had found a spot which reminded them of home, and they did not feel
happy anywhere else.

At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads, when they arrived under
the trees, they would take off their heavy, oppressive headgear and wipe
their foreheads.

They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons, and looked at
the Seine. They stood there several minutes, bending over the railing,
watching the white sails, which perhaps rem