Pere Merlier, as soon as the firing had ceased, had quickly descended to the wooden gallery to examine his wheel.  He adored his daughter; he had a solid friendship for Dominique, his future son-in-law, but his wheel also held a large place in his heart.  Since the two young ones, as he called them, had come safe and sound out of the fight, he thought of his other tenderness, which had suffered greatly.  Bent over the huge wooden carcass, he was studying its wounds with a sad air.  Five buckets were shattered to pieces; the central framework was riddled.  He thrust his fingers in the bullet holes to measure their depth; he thought how he could repair all these injuries.  Francoise found him already stopping up the clefts with rubbish and moss.

“Father,” she said, “you are wanted.”

And she wept at last as she told him what she had just heard.  Pere Merlier tossed his head.  People were not shot in such a summary fashion.  The matter must be looked after.  He re-entered the mill with his silent and tranquil air.  When the officer demanded of him provisions for his men he replied that the inhabitants of Rocreuse were not accustomed to be treated roughly and that nothing would be obtained from them if violence were employed.  He would see to everything but on condition that he was not interfered with.  The officer at first seemed irritated by his calm tone; then he gave way before the old man’s short and clear words.  He even called him back and asked him: 

“What is the name of that wood opposite?”

“The forest of Sauval.”

“What is its extent?”

The miller looked at him fixedly.

“I do not know,” he answered.

And he went away.  An hour later the contribution of war in provisions and money, demanded by the officer, was in the courtyard of the mill.  Night came on.  Francoise watched with anxiety the movements of the soldiers.  She hung about the room in which Dominique was imprisoned.  Toward seven o’clock she experienced a poignant emotion.  She saw the officer enter the prisoner’s apartment and for a quarter of an hour heard their voices in loud conversation.  For an instant the officer reappeared upon the threshold to give an order in German, which she did not understand, but when twelve men ranged themselves in the courtyard, their guns on their shoulders, she trembled and felt as if about to faint.  All then was over:  the execution was going to take place.  The twelve men stood there ten minutes, Dominique’s voice continuing to be raised in a tone of violent refusal.  Finally the officer came out, saying, as he roughly shut the door: 

“Very well; reflect.  I give you until tomorrow morning.”

And with a gesture he ordered the twelve men to break ranks.  Francoise was stupefied.  Pere Merlier, who had been smoking his pipe and looking at the platoon simply with an air of curiosity, took her by the arm with paternal gentleness.  He led her to her chamber.