But one day passed, then two, then three and the scout did not return and when a week had gone by we all gave him up for dead. And it was then that the head cook spoke out, saying that he refused to believe what he heard. He said that the scout had not died but deserted and he accused the scout chosen by Count Lothaire from among his best men of being a traitor and a coward and that was when a captain, a friend of the other man, slew the cook with his sword. The more experienced soldiers protested at so severe a punishment and time soon proved them right for from that day on the food grew steadily worse.
The second scout sent by Count Lothaire returned two days later. I didn’t see him with my own eyes, nor did Pierre, but those who did said he rode into camp bearing all the marks of sickness and of death. He was pale, his eyes glazed, and flies buzzed about his head, in itself remarkable in such a severe winter. And that second scout was of no use to Count Lothaire either for he talked only nonsense, like a man in the grip of fever. Then the Count called us all together and asked for three volunteers, saying he would bestow many privileges and favors on anyone managing to find out anything about the Norman army.
A captain, the one who had killed the head cook, and two other soldiers declared themselves willing and left at once. But our spirits did not lift because of that and the first desertions took place that day as soon as the scouts had left. Some said it was twenty men and others that there were many more and that at least a hundred horses had gone missing from the stables.
The captain and his two soldiers took their time returning and some ten days passed before we saw them riding back along the edge of the wood and we were all surprised to see how they laughed and joked and larked about among themselves as if they were children.
“They’ve gone mad, Jean Baptiste,” Pierre whispered in my ear.
“But what is it that the scouts see?” I asked.
“They see the Normans, Jean Baptiste.”
“So it’s true what the women in Aumont told us.”
The women in Aumont had told us that the Normans kept wild animals in cages and tamed them like dogs and that anyone seeing them would never again forget them for they were as big as cows but with the hooves of horses and the heads of wolves, and that if we ever went into battle we would be devoured by those monsters.
“God have mercy on us, Jean Baptiste,” sighed Pierre.
We were just on our way back to the tent to get Pierre’s rebec when a soldier, old and lame, who was always following us around and was angry with us because we never wanted his company, suddenly threw a bird at us just as one might throw a stone and the bird brushed both our chests, first Pierre’s then mine. The bird had yellow wings and was dead from the cold, its eyes tight shut, and the fact that it had touched us seemed to us an omen of great evil.
Count Lothaire shut himself up in his tent to think and all the soldiers prayed to Our Lord God to make him see that the only way open to us now was retreat and that it was time for the sons of Lorraine to return to their beloved land. But the Count was not even considering retreat, he was seeking a new scout. And that was how he came to choose Guillaume, a bastard child from the village of Aumont who was always hanging around the camp, for the Count thought that the Normans would never suspect a nine-year-old child. And Guillaume accepted the order with great joy, because he wanted to be a soldier and because the Count promised him a fistful of silver in exchange for the news that none of his other scouts had yet managed to bring him.
He left laughing and quite without fear, having enjoyed to the full the party some soldiers had insisted on holding in his honor. Pierre and I joined in the party too because we felt that our fate was somehow in his hands. And we prayed to Our Lord God to guide the steps of that child and bring him to the cages where the Normans kept the cows with the heads of wolves and the hooves of horses. Because one thing was certain, no soldier would want to go into battle against such monsters and then the Count would be forced to give in and allow the retreat.
Meanwhile the winter continued. Many soldiers fell ill. Others stole horses and deserted.
Guillaume returned after about a fortnight and did so wearing the same joyful expression he had worn when he left. And when he went over to our master Lothaire’s tent, every soldier in the camp followed behind him.
“This time we will get news of the Normans,” I said to Pierre. But when Guillaume climbed onto a cart and began to shout out tales of what he had seen in the enemy camp, we all looked at each other in amazement, for we understood nothing of what he said. He was not speaking in our language, nor even in Latin. And when our master Lothaire began asking him questions, the child looked as amazed as we did. He did not understand what he was asked.
“Do you know what language he’s speaking, Jean Baptiste?” Pierre asked sadly.
“No, I don’t.”
“He’s speaking in Norman. In a matter of only a fortnight, he’s forgotten his own language and learned theirs. They are much more powerful than we thought, Jean Baptiste. They must have an army of at least twenty thousand men.”
“But Pierre, children are very quick. They have a great capacity for learning new words.”
But we could not continue our conversation because out of the murmuring that followed Guillaume’s words there emerged first one shout, then another and another and very soon there were a thousand soldiers from Lorraine shouting and a thousand running toward the horses, pushing and shoving one another, for there were not enough horses to go around.
“Let us fly too, Pierre,” I said to my friend.
“The rebec, Jean Baptiste, I left it in the tent!” he exclaimed, running off.
“Pierre!” I shouted.
I wanted to tell him to forget about the rebec, to keep out of the way of that crazed mob. Then, right before my eyes, he slipped in the mud and fell beneath the hooves of a horse. Another three horses trampled over him and a few dozen soldiers followed.
“Pierre!” I shouted again. But he was already dead.
I started to cry, unable to move from where I stood, lacking even the will to stop the lame soldier, the one who had always trailed around after us, from coming up to me and throwing me down in the mud. For I, Jean Baptiste Hargous, wanted to die as my friend, Pierre de Broc, had died, with my skull smashed in by a horse.
How to plagiarize
ALLOW ME, dear friends, to begin this explanation with a description of a dream and do not be concerned that, in doing so, I postpone for a while considerations more directly relevant to the exercise of plagiarism, for it will not be an unfruitful digression, indeed it will serve to set us off along the right track and, or at least so I hope, give pleasure to all. You should know, moreover, that this dream was the origin and basis of the change that has taken place in me; it is because of this dream that today I support opinions and tendencies that, until recently, I despised and disapproved of. For, as you know, before today I was always resolutely opposed to plagiarism.
One night I had a bad dream in which I saw myself in the midst of a wild forest, dense and inhospitable. Since the forest was plunged in the most utter darkness and beasts of every kind swarmed on all sides, I believed I would end my days there and I was exceedingly afraid.
Nevertheless, not allowing myself to succumb to despair, I tried to find a way out, and, having walked some distance through the matted undergrowth, I reached the foot of a hill where the valley covered by the forest ended. And truly my efforts were not in vain for at the top of that hill I saw clear signs of the presence of the star that gives us our light, a sight that restored me to calm. My heart told me that if I managed to reach that luminous place I would be safe.