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Stories and Novels

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Stories and Novels Empty Stories and Novels

Message par hemingway le Lun 16 Nov 2009, 16:43

Hi everybody ;

Here,we can share our ideas about stories and novels. You may also put here some short stories and disscuss about it ,present their novelist and express your point of view about this story .

You're welcome !

Nombre de messages : 1307
Age : 27
Ma ville : Oujda
Date d'inscription : 21/12/2008

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Message par Invité le Sam 28 Nov 2009, 11:59

The Child Spy
HIS name was Stenne, little Stenne.
He was a child of Paris, sickly and pale, who might have been ten years old, perhaps fifteen; with those
urchins one can never tell. His mother was dead; his father, formerly in the navy, was keeper of a square
in he Temple quarter. Babies, nurse-maids, old ladies in reclining-chairs, poor mothers, all of toddling
Paris that seeks shelter from vehicles in those flower-gardens bordered by paths, knew Father Stenne and
adored him. They knew that beneath that rough mustache, the terror of dogs and of loiterers, lay
concealed a kind, melting, almost maternal smile, and that, in order to see that smile one had only to ask
the good man:
“How’s your little boy?”
Father Stenne was so fond of his boy! He was so happy in the afternoon, after school, when the little
fellow came for him and they made together the circuit of the paths, stopping at each bench to salute the
occupants and to answer their kind words.
Unfortunately with the siege everything changed. Father Stenne’s square was closed, petroleum was
stored there, and the poor man, forced to keep watch all the time, passed his life among the deserted and
neglected shrubs, alone, unable to smoke, and without the company of his boy except very late at night,
at home. So that you should have seen his mustache when he mentioned the Prussians. As for little
Stenne, he did not complain’ very much of that new life.
A siege! It is such an amusing thing for urchins. No school! No lessons! Vacation all the time and the
street like a fair.
The child stayed out of doors, wandering about until night. He followed the battalions of the quarter
when they went to the fortifications, choosing by preference those which had a good band; and upon that
subject little Stenne was well posted. He could tell you that the band of the 96th did not amount to much,
but that in the 55th they had a fine one. At other times he watched the troops go through the drill; then
there were the lines at the shopdoors.
With his basket on his arm, he stood in the long lines that formed in the dark winter mornings, without
gas, at the doors of the butchers’ and bakers’ shops. There, with their feet in the water, people became
acquainted, talked politics, and every one asked his advice, as M. Stenne’s son. But the games of
bouchon were the most amusing thing of all, and that famous game of galoche, which the Breton militia
had brought into fashion during the siege. When little Stenne was not at the fortifications, or at the
baker’s, you were sure to find him at the game on Place du Château d’Eau. He did not play, you
understand; it required too much money. He contented himself with watching the players, with such
One especially, a tall youth in a blue blouse, who bet nothing less than five-franc pieces, aroused his
admiration. When he ran you could hear the money jingling in his pockets.
One day, as he picked up a coin which had rolled to little Stenne’s feet, the tall youth said to him in an
“That makes you squint, eh? Well, I will tell you where they are to be found, if you want.”
When the game was ended he led him to a corner of the square and proposed to him to go with him to
sell newspapers to the Prussians; he received thirty francs per trip. At first Stenne refused, highly
indignant; and he actually stayed away from the game for three days. Three terrible days. He did not eat,
he did not sleep. At night, he saw piles of galoches at the foot of his bed, and five-franc pieces lying flat,
all glistening. The temptation was too great. On the fourth day he returned to the Château d’Eau, saw the
tall youth again, and allowed himself to be persuaded.
They set out one snowy morning, a canvas bag over their shoulders and newspapers hidden under their
blouses, When they reached the Flanders gate it was barely light. The tall youth took Stenne by the hand,
and, approaching the sentry—an honest volunteer with a red nose and a good-natured expression—he
said to him in the whining voice of a pauper:
“Let us pass, my kind monsieur. Our mother is sick, papa is dead, I am going out with my little brother
to pick up potatoes in the fields.”
And he wept. Stenne, covered with shame, hung his head. The sentry looked at them a moment, and
cast a glance at the deserted road.
“Hurry up,” he said, stepping aside; and there they were upon the Aubervilliers Road. How the tall
fellow laughed!
Confusedly, as in a dream, little Stenne saw factories transformed into barracks, abandoned barricades
covered with wet rags, long chimneys cutting the mist and rising into the sky, smokeless and broken. At
intervals, a sentry, beplumed officers looking into the distance with field-glasses, and small tents
drenched with melted snow in front of dying fires. The tall fellow knew the roads and cut across the
fields to avoid the outposts. However, they fell in with a patrol of sharp-shooters, whom they could not
avoid. The sharp-shooters were in their little cabins, perched on the edge of a ditch filled with water,
along the Soissons railroad. That time the tall fellow repeated his story in vain; they would not allow
them to pass. Then, while he was complaining, an old sergeant, all wrinkled and grizzled, who resembled
Father Stenne, came out of the guardhouse to the road.
“Come, little brats, I wouldn’t cry!” he said to the children; “we’ll let you go to get your potatoes, but
come in and warm yourselves a little first. This little fellow looks as if he was frozen!”
Alas! It was not with cold that little Stenne was trembling—it was with fear, with shame. In the
guard-house they found several soldiers crouching about a paltry fire, a genuine widow’s fire, by the heat
of which they were thawing out biscuit on the points of their bayonets. They moved closer together to
make room for the children. They gave them a little coffee. While they have were drinking, an officer
came to the door, called to the sergeant, spoke to him in an undertone and hurried away.
“MY boys,” said the sergeant, returning with a radiant face, “there will be something up to-night. They
have found out the Prussians’ countersign. I believe that this time we shall capture that infernal Bourget
There was a explosion of cheers and laughter. They danced and sang and brandished their
sword-bayonets; and the children, taking advantage of the tumult, disappeared.
When they had passed the railway there was nothing before them but a level plain, and in the distance a
long, blank wall, riddled with loopholes. It was towards that wall that they bent their steps, stooping
constantly to make it appear that they were picking up potatoes.
“Let’s go back, let’s not go on,” said little Stenne again and again.
The other shrugged his shoulders and kept on. Suddenly they heard the click of a gun being cocked.
“Lie down!” said the tall fellow, throwing himself on the ground.
When they were down, he whistled. Another whistled. Another whistle answered over the snow. They
crawled on. In front of the wall, level with the ground, appeared a pair of yellow mustaches beneath a
soiled cap. The tall youth jumped into the trench, beside the Prussian.
“This is my brother,” he said, pointing to his companion.
Little Stenne was so little, that at the sight of him the Prussian began to laugh, and he was obliged to
take him in his arms to lift him up to the breach.
On the other side of the wall were great piles of earth, felled trees, black holes in the snow, and in each
hole the same dirty cap and the same yellow mustaches, laughing when they saw the children pass.
In the corner was a gardener’s house casemated with trunks of trees. The lower room was full of
soldiers playing cards, and cooking soup over a big, blazing fire. The cabbages and pork smelled good;
what a contrast to the bivouac of the sharp-shooters! Above were the officers. They could hear them
playing the piano and opening champagne. When the Parisian entered, a joyous cheer greeted them. They
produced their newspapers; then they were given drink and were induced to talk. All the officers had a
haughty and disdainful manner; but the tall youth amused them with his faubourgian wit, his street
Arab’s vocabulary. They laughed, repeated his phrases after him, and wallowed with delight in the
Parisian mud which he brought them.
Little Stenne would have liked to talk too, to prove that he was not stupid, but something embarrassed
him. Opposite him, apart from the rest, was an older and graver Prussian, who was reading, or rather
seemed to be reading, for his eyes did not leave little Stenne. Affection and reproach were in his glance
as if he had at home a child of the same age as Stenne, and as if he were saying to himself:
“I would rather die than see my son engaged in such business.”
From that moment Stenne felt as it were a hand resting on his heart, which prevented it from beating.
To escape that torture, he began to drink. Soon everything about him whirled around. He heard vaguely,
amid loud laughter, his comrade making fun of the National Guards, of their manner of drilling; he
imitated a call to arms in the Marais, a night alarm on the ramparts. Then the tall fellow lowered his
voice, the officers drew nearer to him, and their faces became serious. The villain was warning them of
the attack of the sharp-shooters.
At that little Stenne sprang to his feet in a rage, thoroughly sober:
“Not that! I won’t have it!”
But the other simply laughed and kept on. Before he had finished, all the officers were standing. One of
them pointed to the door and said to the children:
“Clear out!”
And they began to talk among themselves very rapidly, in German.
The tall youth went out as proud as a prince, jingling his money. Stenne followed him, hanging his
head; and when he passed the Prussian whose glance had embarrassed him so, he heard a sad voice say:
“Not a nice thing to do, that. Not a nice thing.”
Tears came to his eyes.
Once in the field, the children began to run and returned quickly to the city. Their bag was full of
potatoes which the Prussians had given them. With them they passed unhindered to the trench of the
sharp-shooters. There they were preparing for the night attack. Troops came up silently and massed
behind the walls. The old sergeant was there, busily engaged in posting his men, with such a happy
expression. When the children passed, he recognised them and bestowed a pleasant smile upon them.
Oh! how that smile hurt little Stenne! For a moment he was tempted to call out:
“Don’t go there; we have betrayed you.”
But the other had told him: “If you speak we shall be shot”; and fear restrained him.
At La Courneuve, they entered an abandoned house to divide the money. Truth compels me to state that
the division was made honestly, and that little Stenne’s crime did not seem so terrible to him when he
heard the coins jingling under his blouse, and thought of the games of galoche which he had in prospect.
But when he was alone, the wretched child! When the tall fellow had left him at the gate, then his
pockets began to be very heavy, and the hand that grasped his heart grasped it tighter than ever. Paris did
not seem the same to him. The people who passed gazed sternly at him as if they knew whence he came.
He heard the word “spy” in the rumbling of the wheels, in the beating of the drums along the canal. At
last he reached home, and, overjoyed to find that his father was not there, he went quickly up to their
room, to hide under his pillow that money that weighed so heavily upon him.
Never had Father Stenne been so joyous and so good-humoured as when he returned that night. News
had been received from the provinces: affairs were looking better. As he ate, the old soldier looked at his
musket hanging on the wall, and said to the child with his hearty laugh:
“I say, my boy, how you would go at the Prussians if you were big!”
Above eight o’clock, they heard cannon.
“That is Aubervilliers. They are fighting at Bourget,” said the good man, who knew all the forts. Little
Stenne turned pale, and, on the plea that he was very tired, he went to bed; but he did not sleep. The
cannon still roared. He imagined the sharp-shooters arriving in the dark to surprise the Prussians, and
themselves falling into an ambush. He remembered the sergeant who had smiled at him and he saw him
stretched out on the snow, and many others with him. The price of all that blood was concealed there
under his pillow, and it was he, the son of Monsieur Stenne, of a soldier—tears choked him. In the
adjoining room he heard his father walk to the window and open it. Below on the square, the recall was
sounding; and a battalion was forming to leave the city. Evidently it was a real battle. The unhappy child
cloud not restrain a sob.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Father Stenne as he entered the room.
The child could not stand it any longer; he leaped out of bed and threw himself at his father’s feet. At
the movement that he made the silver pieces rolled on the floor.
“What is all this? Have you been stealing?” demanded the old man, trembling.
Thereupon, without pausing for breath, little Stenne told him that he had been to the Prussian quarters
and of what he had done there.
As he spoke, his heart felt freer; it relieved him to accuse himself. Father Stenne listened, with a terrible
face. When it was at an end, he hid face in his hands and wept.
“Father, father—” the child began.
The old man pushed him away without replying, and picked up the money.
“Is this all?” he asked.
Little Stenne motioned that it was all. The old man took down his musket and cartridge box, and said as
he put the money in his pocket:
“All right; I am going to return it to them.”
And without another word, without even turning his head, he went down and joined the troops who
were marching away in the darkness. He was never seen again.

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Stories and Novels Empty Re: Stories and Novels

Message par Invité le Sam 28 Nov 2009, 12:03

Who is the writer?
There are some minor mistakes, who can detect and correct them?
What do you know about story-telling?
If I say fiction, what is it for you?

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Message par estelle le Jeu 29 Sep 2011, 16:42

Oh hello There ! I just love those stuffs so much Very Happy And If you guys like stories ans novels , I would love to advice with MACMILAN , They have the best stories ever ! Wink

Restez sympa, je peux me tromper ;)
Restez sympa, je peux me tromper ;)

Nombre de messages : 9
Age : 25
Ma ville : Tan-Tan
Date d'inscription : 19/03/2011

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