On reaching the old barbican-wall that surrounds the Héberville property, the farmer opened a narrow, massive door, putting the big key back in his pocket after his sons had passed in. And he walked behind them, along the path that led through the orchards. Here and there stood great trees, stripped by the autumn winds, and clumps of pines, the last survivors of the ancient park now covered by old Goussot's farm.
One of the sons said:
"I hope mother has lit a log or two."
"There's smoke coming from the chimney," said the father.
The outhouses and the homestead showed at the end of a lawn; and, above them, the village church, whose steeple seemed to prick the clouds that trailed along the sky.
"All the guns unloaded?" asked old Goussot.
"Mine isn't," said the eldest. "I slipped in a bullet to blow a kestrel's head off...."
He was the one who was proudest of his skill. And he said to his brothers:
"Look at that bough, at the top of the cherry tree. See me snap it off."
On the bough sat a scarecrow, which had been there since spring and which protected the leafless branches with its idiot arms.