It was the portrait of the landwehr's wife and children. Sâfel brought it to me at once. I took the poor devil's gift, and looked at it for a long time, very sadly; then I shut it up in the closet with the letter.
It was noon, and, as the gates were about to be opened, and abundance of provisions were to come, we sat down before a large piece of boiled beef, with a dish of potatoes, and opened a good bottle of wine.
We were still eating when we heard shouts in the street. Sâfel got up to look out.
"A wounded soldier that they are carrying to the hospital!" said he.
Then he exclaimed, "It is our sergeant!"
A horrible thought ran through my mind. "Keep still!" I said to Sorlé, who was getting up, and I went down alone.
Four marine gunners were carrying the litter by on their shoulders; children were running behind.
At the first glance I recognized the sergeant; his face perfectly white and his breast covered with blood. He did not move. The poor fellow had gone from our house to the bastion behind the arsenal, to shoot himself through the heart.
I went up so overwhelmed, so sad and sorrowful, that I could scarcely stand.
Sorlé was waiting for me in great agitation.