Magda, in her reply to both letters, set about abusing him with the first words that came into her head.
Dearest Bartek (she wrote), married to me before the holy Altar! May God punish you! You yourself are a scoundrel, you heathen, going with those wretches to murder half a nation of Catholics. Do you not understand, then, that those wretches are Lutherans, and that you, a Catholic, are helping them? You like war, you ruffian, because you are able now to do nothing but fight, drink, and illtreat others, and to go without fasting; and you burn churches. But may you burn in Hell for that, because you are even proud of it, and have no thought for old people or children. Remember what has been written in golden letters in the Holy Scriptures about the Polish nation, from the beginning of the world to the Judgment Day,—when God most High will have no regard for sluggards,—and restrain yourself, you Turk, that I may not smash your head to pieces. I have sent you five thalers, although I have need of them here, for I do not know which way to turn, and the household savings are getting short. I embrace you, dearest Bartek.
Magda.
The moral contained in these lines made little impression on Bartek. 'The wife does not remember her vows,' he thought to himself, 'and is meddling.' And he continued to make war on the aged. He distinguished himself in every battle so greatly, that finally he again came under the honoured notice of Steinmetz. Ultimately when the shattered Polish regiment was sent back into the depths of Germany, he took the sergeant's advice of applying for leave to be transferred, and stayed behind. The result of this was that he found himself outside Paris.
His letters were now full of contempt for the French. 'They run away like hares in every battle,' he wrote to Magda, and he wrote the truth. But the siege did not prove to his taste. He had to dig or to lie in the trenches round Paris for whole days, listening to the roar of the guns, and often getting soaked through. Besides, he missed his old regiment. In the one to which he had been transferred as a volunteer, he was surrounded by Germans. He knew some German, having already learnt a little at the factory, but only about five in ten words; now he quickly began to grow familiar with it. The regiment nicknamed him 'the Polish dog,' however, and it was only his decorations and his terrifying fists which shielded him from disagreeable jokes. Nevertheless, he earned the respect of his new comrades, and began little by little to make friends with them. Since he covered the whole regiment with glory, they ultimately came to look upon him as one of themselves. Bartek would always have considered himself insulted if anyone called him German, but in thinking of himself in distinction to the French he called himself 'ein Deutscher.' To himself he appeared entirely distinct, but at the same time he did not wish to pass for worse than others. An incident occurred, nevertheless, which might have given him plenty to reflect upon, had reflection come more easily to this hero's mind. Some Companies of his regiment had been sent out against some volunteer sharpshooters, and laid an ambush for them, into which they fell. But the detachment was composed of veteran soldiers, the remains of some of the foreign regiments, and this time Bartek did not see the dark caps running away after the first shots. They defended themselves stubbornly when surrounded, and rushed forward to force their way through the encircling Prussian soldiery. They fought so desperately that half of them cut their way through, and knowing the fate that awaited captured sharpshooters, few allowed themselves to be taken alive. The Company in which Bartek was serving therefore only took two prisoners. These were lodged overnight in a forester's house, and the next day they were to be shot. A small guard of soldiers stood outside the door, but Bartek was stationed in the room under the open window with the prisoners, who were bound.
One of the prisoners was a man no longer young, with a grey moustache, and a face expressing indifference to everything; the other appeared to be about twenty-two years of age. With his fair moustache yet scarcely showing, his face was more like a woman's that a soldier's.
'Well, this is the end of it,' the young man said after a while, 'a bullet through your head—and it's all over!'
Bartek shuddered until the rifle in his hand rattled; the youth talked Polish.
'It is all the same to me,' the second answered in a gruff voice, 'as I live, all the same! I have lived so long, I have had enough.'
Bartek's heart beat quicker and quicker under his uniform.
'Listen, then,' the older man continued, 'there is no help for it. If you are afraid, think about something else, or go to sleep. Enjoy what you can. As God loves me, I don't care!'