The Child Spy by
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 eyes!
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 undertone:
"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
"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
"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
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
"Let's go back, let's not go on," said little Stenne again and
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
"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:
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
"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
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,
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
"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.