“I have nothing, not a crust. Do you suppose that I keep victuals in my house to fill a hundred thousand mouths? Others were here before you; yes, General Ducrot’s men were here this morning, I tell you, and they cleaned me out of everything.”
The soldiers came forward again, one by one.
“Let us in, all the same; we can rest ourselves, and you can hunt up something—”
And they were commencing to hammer at the door again, when the old fellow, placing his candle on the window-sill, raised his gun to his shoulder.
“As true as that candle stands there, I’ll put a hole in the first man that touches that door!”
The prospect looked favorable for a row. Oaths and imprecations resounded, and one of the men was heard to shout that they would settle matters with the pig of a peasant, who was like all the rest of them and would throw his bread in the river rather than give a mouthful to a starving soldier. The light of the candle glinted on the barrels of the chassepots as they were brought to an aim; the angry men were about to shoot him where he stood, while he, headstrong and violent, would not yield an inch.
“Nothing, nothing! Not a crust! I tell you they cleaned me out!”
Maurice rushed in in affright, followed by Jean.
“Comrades, comrades—”
He knocked up the soldiers’ guns, and raising his eyes, said entreatingly: