For a month the hot sun has been parching the fields. Nature is
expanding beneath its rays; the fields are green as far as the eye can
see. The big azure dome of the sky is unclouded. The farms of Normandy,
scattered over the plains and surrounded by a belt of tall beeches,
look, from a distance, like little woods. On closer view, after lowering
the worm-eaten wooden bars, you imagine yourself in an immense garden,
for all the ancient apple-trees, as gnarled as the peasants themselves,
are in bloom. The sweet scent of their blossoms mingles with the heavy
smell of the earth and the penetrating odor of the stables. It is noon.
The family 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 to-day 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?”