Then he saw them coming back again. They were walking slowly, hand in hand, as village lovers do. Luc was carrying the pail.
After kissing him again, the girl went on, nodding carelessly to Jean. She did not offer him any milk that day.
The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless as always, silent and quiet, their calm faces in no way betraying the trouble in their hearts. The sun shone down on them. From time to time they could hear the plaintive lowing of the cow. At the usual time they arose to return.
Luc was whittling a stick. Jean carried the empty bottle. He left it at the wine merchant's in Bezons. Then they stopped on the bridge, as they did every Sunday, and watched the water flowing by.
Jean leaned over the railing, farther and farther, as though he had seen something in the stream which hypnotized him. Luc said to him:
“What's the matter? Do you want a drink?”
He had hardly said the last word when Jean's head carried away the rest of his body, and the little blue and red soldier fell like a shot and disappeared in the water.
Luc, paralyzed with horror, tried vainly to shout for help. In the distance he saw something move; then his friend's head bobbed up out of the water only to disappear again.
Farther down he again noticed a hand, just one hand, which appeared and again went out of sight. That was all.
The boatmen who had rushed to the scene found the body that day.