“I contain myself,” he said firmly, clamping both great hands on his knees like thunderclaps.
“No, Papa,” André grasped his arm, “do not contain yourself yet. Tell us what has happened.”
“Marie,” said Mme. Gagnon, “run get some hot water and clean Papa’s cut.”
Marie clattered quickly down the stairs and Mme. Gagnon went on, “Now, Pierre, you get yourself slashed and perhaps poisoned over a cow. I thought you had more sense.”
The farmer stiffened. “It was not about a cow! Raoul sent for me only as an excuse. Ask Victor. He also was there. At once Raoul began to scream so loud, if it were not for the guns booming they could have heard him in Ste. Mère.”
“Then what—?” began Mme. Gagnon impatiently.
“Then,” cried Pierre, “he began to shout charges against me.” He swept out both arms. “Against all of us.”
Pierre swallowed angrily. “He accused me,” he said, “of being a collaborator of the Nazis! He accuses us all—you, Marie, André—of working hand in glove with them. It seems that only this evening he saw André, here, entering the German camp.”
There it was—the black word, collaborator, he who helps the enemy! It meant someone hated by all Frenchmen, more, perhaps, than the enemy.
“But Papa,” André cried angrily, “poor old Schmidt! He is not an enemy.”