Was that a name or a nickname?

I called to Serval.  He came up with his long strides like a crane.

I asked him: 

“What’s become of those people?”

This was his story: 

When war was declared the son Sauvage, who was then thirty-three years old, enlisted, leaving his mother alone in the house.  People did not pity the old woman very much because she had money; they knew it.

She remained entirely alone in that isolated dwelling, so far from the village, on the edge of the wood.  She was not afraid, however, being of the same strain as the men folk—­a hardy old woman, tall and thin, who seldom laughed and with whom one never jested.  The women of the fields laugh but little in any case, that is men’s business.  But they themselves have sad and narrowed hearts, leading a melancholy, gloomy life.  The peasants imbibe a little noisy merriment at the tavern, but their helpmates always have grave, stern countenances.  The muscles of their faces have never learned the motions of laughter.

Mother Sauvage continued her ordinary existence in her cottage, which was soon covered by the snows.  She came to the village once a week to get bread and a little meat.  Then she returned to her house.  As there was talk of wolves, she went out with a gun upon her shoulder—­her son’s gun, rusty and with the butt worn by the rubbing of the hand—­and she was a strange sight, the tall “Sauvage,” a little bent, going with slow strides over the snow, the muzzle of the piece extending beyond the black headdress, which confined her head and imprisoned her white hair, which no one had ever seen.

One day a Prussian force arrived.  It was billeted upon the inhabitants, according to the property and resources of each.  Four were allotted to the old woman, who was known to be rich.

They were four great fellows with fair complexion, blond beards and blue eyes, who had not grown thin in spite of the fatigue which they had endured already and who also, though in a conquered country, had remained kind and gentle.  Alone with this aged woman, they showed themselves full of consideration, sparing her, as much as they could, all expense and fatigue.  They could be seen, all four of them, making their toilet at the well in their shirt-sleeves in the gray dawn, splashing with great swishes of water their pink-white northern skin, while La Mere Sauvage went and came, preparing their soup.  They would be seen cleaning the kitchen, rubbing the tiles, splitting wood, peeling potatoes, doing up all the housework like four good sons around their mother.

But the old woman thought always of her own son, so tall and thin, with his hooked nose and his brown eyes and his heavy mustache which made a roll of black hair upon his lip.  She asked every day of each of the soldiers who were installed beside her hearth:  “Do you know where the French marching regiment, No. 23, was sent?  My boy is in it.”