We were silent for a while. I was looking at him, getting up my courage to ask a question. Finally I dared. I simply had to ask it:
“Did you do it, Coco?”
The tears poured into Coco’s eyes now. He shook his head slowly, without a word.
“Do you regret not having—done what he wanted, Coco?”
Coco said simply, “I don’t know. I would have wanted to die quickly. Perhaps as his friend I ought to have done it. But I am a good Catholic, you know, m’sieur; and I was taught that it is a sin to take human life.” Quite naturally he added: “And yet I suppose I have killed a lot of Germans.” He shook his head wearily. “I can’t understand it. I must leave it for the church to decide. I did the best I could....”
VIII
At last he turned and looked at me with an expression that made me feel guilty enough at having asked. “But that isn’t all, m’sieur; I haven’t told you the worst part yet. Last week his father—François’s father—came here to see me. He asked me if I knew anything about François—how he died. What could I say? Of course I couldn’t tell him. I saw him fall—that’s all I said. And I was glad, then, that I hadn’t done it.... No, I can’t talk about it any more, m’sieur. Don’t ask me to, please!”