Short Fiction

and put on his humble clothes again; but while walking home, he had been overtaken by faintness and had crawled to the stable, unable to reach the house.

He was found there, bleeding, in the straw.

When he had ended his tale, he suddenly raised his head and stared proudly at the Prussian officers.

“Have you nothing more to say?” asked the colonel, pulling his moustache.

“No, nothing more; the score is paid: I’ve killed sixteen of them, not one more and not one less.”

“You know that you are going to die?”

“I never asked you for mercy.”

“Have you been in the army?”

“Yes. I’ve been to the wars, in my time. And besides, it was you that killed my father, who was a soldier under the first Emperor. Not counting that you killed my youngest son, François, last month, near Evreux. I owed you for that, and I’ve paid. We’re quits.”

The officers looked at one another.

The old man continued:

“Eight for my father, eight for my son, we’re quits. I never sought a quarrel with you! I don’t know you! I don’t even know where you come from. And here you are at my house, ordering people about as though you were at home. I had my revenge on the others. I don’t regret it.”

And, drawing up his crippled body, the old man folded his arms in the attitude of a humble hero.

For a long time the Prussians whispered together. A captain, who had also lost his son, the month before, defended the greathearted old peasant.

Then the colonel rose and went up to old Milon, saying, in a low voice:

“Listen, gaffer, there may be a way of saving your life, if you⁠ ⁠…”

But the man was not listening. His eyes were fixed upon the conquering officer, and, while the wind stirred the wisps of hair on his head, he made a frightful grimace which distorted his thin face, all seamed as it was by the sabre-gash, and, swelling his chest, he spat, with all his might, full in the Prussian’s face.

The furious colonel raised his hand, and for a second time the peasant spat in his face.

All the officers had risen and were shouting orders at the same time.

In less than a minute the old man, still quite impassive, was put against the wall and shot, smiling to Jean, his eldest son, his daughter-in-law, and the two little children, who stood watching, distracted with horror.

The Accursed Bread

Old Taille had three daughters: Anna, the eldest, who was scarcely ever mentioned in the family; Rose, the second girl, who was eighteen; and Clara, the youngest, who was a girl of fifteen.

Old Taille was a widower, and a foreman in M. Lebrument’s button-factory. He was a very upright man, very well thought of, abstemious; in fact a sort of model workman. He lived at Havre, in the Rue d’Angoulême.

When Anna ran away the old man flew into a fearful rage. He threatened to kill the seducer, who was head of a department in a large draper’s establishment in that town. Then when he was told by various people that she was keeping very steady and investing money in government securities, that she was no gadabout, but was kept by a Monsieur Dubois, who was a judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, the father was appeased.

He even showed some anxiety as to how she was faring, asked some of her old friends who had been to see her how she was getting on; and when told that she had her own furniture, and that her mantlepiece was covered with vases and the walls with pictures, that there were clocks and carpets everywhere, he gave a broad, contented smile. He had been working for thirty years to get together a wretched five or six thousand francs. His little girl was evidently no fool.

One fine morning the son of Touchard, the cooper at the other end of the street, came and asked him for the hand of Rose, the second girl. The old man’s heart began to beat, for the Touchards were rich and in a good position. He was decidedly lucky with his girls.

The marriage was agreed upon. It was settled that it should be a grand affair, and the wedding dinner was to be held at Sainte-Adresse, at Mother Gusa’s restaurant. It would cost a lot certainly; but never mind, it did not matter just for once in a way.

But one morning, just as the old man was going home to breakfast with his two daughters, the door opened suddenly and Anna appeared. She was loudly dressed, wore rings and a very dressy hat. She looked undeniably pretty and nice. She threw her arms round her father’s neck before he could say a word, then fell into her sisters’ arms with many tears, and then asked for a plate, so that she might share the family soup. Old Taille was moved to tears in his turn and said several times:

“That is right, dear; that is right.”

Then she told them about herself. She did not wish Rose’s wedding to take place at Sainte-Adresse⁠—certainly not. It should take place at her house, and would cost her father nothing. She had settled everything and arranged everything, so it was “no good to say any more about it⁠—there!”

“Very well, my dear! very well!” the old man said, “we will leave it so.” But then he felt some doubt. Would the Touchards consent? But Rose, the bride-elect, was surprised, and asked, “Why should they object, I should like to know? Just leave that to me, I will talk to Philip about it.”

She mentioned it to her intended the very same day, and he declared that it would suit him exactly. Father and Mother Touchard were naturally delighted at the idea of a good dinner which would cost them nothing and said:

“You may be quite sure that everything will be in first-rate style, as M. Dubois is made of money.”

They asked to be allowed to bring a friend, Mme. Florence, the cook