“‘Fusille’!  Bien! so I am to be shot! and wherefore, Monsieur le Capitaine?”

“Some one has fired upon us,” said the officer, “one of your dirty fellows; you must pay for it.”

“And the order?” asked the maire sleepily; “you have the Commandant’s order?”

“Never mind about the order,” said the officer reassuringly, “the order will be forthcoming at eight o’clock.  Oh yes, we shall shoot you most authoritatively—­never fear.”

The officer knew that nothing could be done until eight o’clock, for he dared not wake the Commandant, but he did not see why he should deny himself the pleasure of waking up this pig of a maire to see how he would take it.  The maire divined his thoughts, and without a word turned over on his side and pretended to go to sleep again.  From under his drooping eyelids he saw the officer gazing at him with a look in which dislike, disappointment, and pleasurable expectation seemed to be struggling for mastery.  Then with a click he extinguished his torch and withdrew.

At eight o’clock the maire awoke to learn with mild surprise that he was not to be shot.  Beyond that his guard would tell him nothing.  It was only afterwards he learnt that one of the drunken revellers had been prowling the streets, and, having given the sentries a bad fright by letting off his rifle at a lamp-post, had expiated his adventure at the hands of a firing party in the cemetery outside the town.

For two days the maire was unmolested.  He was allowed to see his adjoint,[25] who came to him with a troubled face.

“The babies are crying for milk,” he said, “the troops have taken it all.  I begged one of the officers to leave a little for the inhabitants, but he said the men did not like their coffee without plenty of hot milk.”  The maire reflected for a moment, and then dictated an avis to the inhabitants enjoining upon them to be as sparing in their consumption of milk as possible for the sake of the “meres de famille” and “les petits enfants.”

“Tell the commissaire de police to have that posted up immediately,” he added.  “We can do no more.”

“They have taken the bread out of our mouths,” resumed the adjoint, “and now they are despoiling us of our goods.  They are like a swarm of bailiffs let loose upon our homes.  Everywhere they levy a distress upon our chattels.  There is an ammunition waggon outside my house; they have put all the furniture of my salon upon it.”

“You should make a protest to the Commandant,” said the maire, but not very hopefully.

“It is no use,” replied the adjoint despondingly.  “I have.  He simply shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘C’est la guerre.’  It is always so.  They have shot Jules Bonnard.”

“Et pourquoi?” asked the maire.