LITMIR.BIZ

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is eating under the shade of a pear tree planted in front of the door; father, mother, the four children, and the help—two women and three men are all there. All are silent. The soup is eaten and then a dish of potatoes fried with bacon is brought on.

      From time to time one of the women gets up and takes a pitcher down to the cellar to fetch more cider.

      The man, a big fellow about forty years old, is watching a grape vine, still bare, which is winding and twisting like a snake along the side of the house.

      At last he says: “Father’s vine is budding early this year. Perhaps we may get something from it.”

      The woman then turns round and looks, without saying a word.

      This vine is planted on the spot where their father had been shot.

      It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were occupying the whole country. General Faidherbe, with the Northern Division of the army, was opposing them.

      The Prussians had established their headquarters at this farm. The old farmer to whom it belonged, Father Pierre Milon, had received and quartered them to the best of his ability.

      For a month the German vanguard had been in this village. The French remained motionless, ten leagues away; and yet, every night, some of the Uhlans disappeared.

      Of all the isolated scouts, of all those who were sent to the outposts, in groups of not more than three, not one ever returned.

      They were picked up the next morning in a field or in a ditch. Even their horses were found along the roads with their throats cut.

      These murders seemed to be done by the same men, who could never be found.

      The country was terrorized. Farmers were shot on suspicion, women were imprisoned; children were frightened in order to try and obtain information. Nothing could be ascertained.

      But, one morning, Father Milon was found stretched out in the barn, with a sword gash across his face.

      Two Uhlans were found dead about a mile and a half from the farm. One of them was still holding his bloody sword in his hand. He had fought, tried to defend himself. A court-martial was immediately held in the open air, in front of the farm. The old man was brought before it.

      He was sixty-eight years old, small, thin, bent, with two big hands resembling the claws of a crab. His colorless hair was sparse and thin, like the down of a young duck, allowing patches of his scalp to be seen. The brown and wrinkled skin of his neck showed big veins which disappeared behind his jaws and came out again at the temples. He had the reputation of being miserly and hard to deal with.

      They stood him up between four soldiers, in front of the kitchen table, which had been dragged outside. Five officers and the colonel seated themselves opposite him.

      The colonel spoke in French:

      “Father Milon, since we have been here we have only had praise for you. You have always been obliging and even attentive to us. But today a terrible accusation is hanging over you, and you must clear the matter up. How did you receive that wound on your face?”

      The peasant answered nothing.

      The colonel continued:

      “Your silence accuses you, Father Milon. But I want you to answer me! Do you understand? Do you know who killed the two Uhlans who were found this morning near Calvaire?”

      The old man answered clearly

      “I did.”

      The colonel, surprised, was silent for a minute, looking straight at the prisoner. Father Milon stood impassive, with the stupid look of the peasant, his eyes lowered as though he were talking to the priest. Just one thing betrayed an uneasy mind; he was continually swallowing his saliva, with a visible effort, as though his throat were terribly contracted.

      The man’s family, his son Jean, his daughter-in-law and his two grandchildren were standing a few feet behind him, bewildered and affrighted.

      The colonel went on:

      “Do you also know who killed all the scouts who have been found dead, for a month, throughout the country, every morning?”

      The old man answered with the same stupid look:

      “I did.”

      “You killed them all?”

      “Uh huh! I did.”

      “You alone? All alone?”

      “Uh huh!”

      “Tell me how you did it.”

      This time the man seemed moved; the necessity for talking any length of time annoyed him visibly. He stammered:

      “I dunno! I simply did it.”

      The colonel continued:

      “I warn you that you will have to tell me everything. You might as well make up your mind right away. How did you begin?”

      The man cast a troubled look toward his family, standing close behind him. He hesitated a minute longer, and then suddenly made up his mind to obey the order.

      “I was coming home one night at about ten o’clock, the night after you got here. You and your soldiers had taken more than fifty ecus worth of forage from me, as well as a cow and two sheep. I said to myself: ‘As much as they take from you; just so much will you make them pay back.’ And then I had other things on my mind which I will tell you. Just then I noticed one of your soldiers who was smoking his pipe by the ditch behind the barn. I went and got my scythe and crept up slowly behind him, so that he couldn’t hear me. And I cut his head off with one single blow, just as I would a blade of grass, before he could say ‘Booh!’ If you should look at the bottom of the pond, you will find him tied up in a potato-sack, with a stone fastened to it.

      “I got an idea. I took all his clothes, from his boots to his cap, and hid them away in the little wood behind the yard.”

      The old man stopped. The officers remained speechless, looking at each other. The questioning began again, and this is what they learned.

      Once this murder committed, the man had lived with this one thought: “Kill the Prussians!” He hated them with the blind, fierce hate of the greedy yet patriotic peasant. He had his idea, as he said. He waited several days.

      He was allowed to go and come as he pleased, because he had shown himself so humble, submissive and obliging to the invaders. Each night he saw the outposts leave. One night he followed them, having heard the name of the village to which the men were going, and having learned the few words of German which he needed for his plan through associating with the soldiers.

      He left through the back yard, slipped into the woods, found the dead man’s clothes and put them on. Then he began to crawl through the fields, following along the hedges in order to keep out of sight, listening to the slightest noises, as wary as a poacher.

      As soon as he thought the time ripe, he approached the road and hid behind a bush. He waited for a while. Finally, toward midnight, he heard the sound of a galloping horse. The man put his ear to the ground in order to make sure that only one horseman was approaching, then he got ready.

      An Uhlan came galloping along, carrying des patches. As he went, he was all eyes and ears. When he was only a few feet away, Father Milon dragged himself across the road, moaning: “Hilfe! Hilfe!” ( Help! Help!) The horseman stopped, and recognizing a German, he thought he was wounded and dismounted, coming nearer without any suspicion, and just as he was leaning over the unknown man, he received, in the pit of his stomach, a heavy thrust from the long curved blade of the sabre. He dropped without suffering pain, quivering only in the final throes. Then the farmer, radiant with the silent joy of an old peasant, got up again, and, for his own pleasure, cut the dead man’s throat. He then dragged the body to the ditch and threw it in.

      The horse quietly awaited its master. Father Milon mounted him and started galloping across the plains.

      About an hour later he noticed

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