“I haven’t asked for mercy.”
“Have you been a soldier?”
“Yes, I served my time. And then, you had
killed my father, who was a soldier of the first Emperor.
And last month you killed my youngest son, Francois,
near Evreux. I owed you one for that; I paid.
We are quits.”
The officers were looking at each other.
The old man continued:
“Eight for my father, eight for the boy—we
are quits. I did not seek any quarrel with you.
I don’t know you. I don’t even know
where you come from. And here you are, ordering
me about in my home as though it were your own.
I took my revenge upon the others. I’m not
sorry.”
And, straightening up his bent back, the old man folded
his arms in the attitude of a modest hero.
The Prussians talked in a low tone for a long time.
One of them, a captain, who had also lost his son
the previous month, was defending the poor wretch.
Then the colonel arose and, approaching Father Milon,
said in a low voice:
“Listen, old man, there is perhaps a way of
saving your life, it is to—”
But the man was not listening, and, his eyes fixed
on the hated officer, while the wind played with the
downy hair on his head, he distorted his slashed face,
giving it a truly terrible expression, and, swelling
out his chest, he spat, as hard as he could, right
in the Prussian’s face.
The colonel, furious, raised his hand, and for the
second time the man spat in his face.
All the officers had jumped up and were shrieking
orders at the same time.
In less than a minute the old man, still impassive,
was pushed up against the wall and shot, looking smilingly
the while toward Jean, his eldest son, his daughter-in-law
and his two grandchildren, who witnessed this scene
in dumb terror.
Paris had just heard of the disaster at Sedan.
A republic had been declared. All France was
wavering on the brink of this madness which lasted
until after the Commune. From one end of the country
to the other everybody was playing soldier.
Cap-makers became colonels, fulfilling the duties
of generals; revolvers and swords were displayed around
big, peaceful stomachs wrapped in flaming red belts;
little tradesmen became warriors commanding battalions
of brawling volunteers, and swearing like pirates in
order to give themselves some prestige.
The sole fact of handling firearms crazed these people,
who up to that time had only handled scales, and made
them, without any reason, dangerous to all. Innocent
people were shot to prove that they knew how to kill;
in forests which had never seen a Prussian, stray dogs,
grazing cows and browsing horses were killed.
Each one thought himself called upon to play a great
part in military affairs. The cafes of the smallest
villages, full of uniformed tradesmen, looked like
barracks or hospitals.
