The following year came another misfortune. M. Picot had two sons and a daughter. The eldest of his sons was eight or ten years, the younger only two or three, my senior.
Consequently I had scarcely anything to do with the eldest, who treated me like a little boy, but I was extremely friendly with the younger, whose name was Stanislas.
One day, my mother came into my room, in a great state of mind.
"There, now," she said, "never ask me to let you play with firearms again."
"Why not, mother?"
"Stanislas has just wounded himself, perhaps mortally."
"Oh! my goodness, where is he?"
"At his father's. Go and see him."
I set off running, and covered the quarter of a league in six or seven minutes. When I reached the farm, I saw a long trail of blood.
Everybody was in such a state of consternation that no one asked me where I was going. I crossed the yards, I went through the kitchen and I slipped into the room where Stanislas was. They were just putting the first bandage on the wound; the surgeon was there, with his surgical case open, his hands covered with blood. The poor sufferer was leaning back, clasping his mother's neck with both his arms as she bent over him.